proofreading team. three lives _stories of the good anna, melanctha and the gentle lena_ gertrude stein _donc je suis malheureux et ce n'est ni ma faute ni celle de la vie._[ ] jules laforgue [footnote : therefore i am unhappy and it is neither my fault nor that of life.] contents page the good anna melanctha the gentle lena the good anna part i the tradesmen of bridgepoint learned to dread the sound of "miss mathilda", for with that name the good anna always conquered. the strictest of the one price stores found that they could give things for a little less, when the good anna had fully said that "miss mathilda" could not pay so much and that she could buy it cheaper "by lindheims." lindheims was anna's favorite store, for there they had bargain days, when flour and sugar were sold for a quarter of a cent less for a pound, and there the heads of the departments were all her friends and always managed to give her the bargain prices, even on other days. anna led an arduous and troubled life. anna managed the whole little house for miss mathilda. it was a funny little house, one of a whole row of all the same kind that made a close pile like a row of dominoes that a child knocks over, for they were built along a street which at this point came down a steep hill. they were funny little houses, two stories high, with red brick fronts and long white steps. this one little house was always very full with miss mathilda, an under servant, stray dogs and cats and anna's voice that scolded, managed, grumbled all day long. "sallie! can't i leave you alone a minute but you must run to the door to see the butcher boy come down the street and there is miss mathilda calling for her shoes. can i do everything while you go around always thinking about nothing at all? if i ain't after you every minute you would be forgetting all, the time, and i take all this pains, and when you come to me you was as ragged as a buzzard and as dirty as a dog. go and find miss mathilda her shoes where you put them this morning." "peter!",--her voice rose higher,--"peter!",--peter was the youngest and the favorite dog,--"peter, if you don't leave baby alone,"--baby was an old, blind terrier that anna had loved for many years,--"peter if you don't leave baby alone, i take a rawhide to you, you bad dog." the good anna had high ideals for canine chastity and discipline. the three regular dogs, the three that always lived with anna, peter and old baby, and the fluffy little rags, who was always jumping up into the air just to show that he was happy, together with the transients, the many stray ones that anna always kept until she found them homes, were all under strict orders never to be bad one with the other. a sad disgrace did once happen in the family. a little transient terrier for whom anna had found a home suddenly produced a crop of pups. the new owners were certain that this foxy had known no dog since she was in their care. the good anna held to it stoutly that her peter and her rags were guiltless, and she made her statement with so much heat that foxy's owners were at last convinced that these results were due to their neglect. "you bad dog," anna said to peter that night, "you bad dog." "peter was the father of those pups," the good anna explained to miss mathilda, "and they look just like him too, and poor little foxy, they were so big that she could hardly have them, but miss mathilda, i would never let those people know that peter was so bad." periods of evil thinking came very regularly to peter and to rags and to the visitors within their gates. at such times anna would be very busy and scold hard, and then too she always took great care to seclude the bad dogs from each other whenever she had to leave the house. sometimes just to see how good it was that she had made them, anna would leave the room a little while and leave them all together, and then she would suddenly come back. back would slink all the wicked-minded dogs at the sound of her hand upon the knob, and then they would sit desolate in their corners like a lot of disappointed children whose stolen sugar has been taken from them. innocent blind old baby was the only one who preserved the dignity becoming in a dog. you see that anna led an arduous and troubled life. the good anna was a small, spare, german woman, at this time about forty years of age. her face was worn, her cheeks were thin, her mouth drawn and firm, and her light blue eyes were very bright. sometimes they were full of lightning and sometimes full of humor, but they were always sharp and clear. her voice was a pleasant one, when she told the histories of bad peter and of baby and of little rags. her voice was a high and piercing one when she called to the teamsters and to the other wicked men, what she wanted that should come to them, when she saw them beat a horse or kick a dog. she did not belong to any society that could stop them and she told them so most frankly, but her strained voice and her glittering eyes, and her queer piercing german english first made them afraid and then ashamed. they all knew too, that all the policemen on the beat were her friends. these always respected and obeyed miss annie, as they called her, and promptly attended to all of her complaints. for five years anna managed the little house for miss mathilda. in these five years there were four different under servants. the one that came first was a pretty, cheerful irish girl. anna took her with a doubting mind. lizzie was an obedient, happy servant, and anna began to have a little faith. this was not for long. the pretty, cheerful lizzie disappeared one day without her notice and with all her baggage and returned no more. this pretty, cheerful lizzie was succeeded by a melancholy molly. molly was born in america, of german parents. all her people had been long dead or gone away. molly had always been alone. she was a tall, dark, sallow, thin-haired creature, and she was always troubled with a cough, and she had a bad temper, and always said ugly dreadful swear words. anna found all this very hard to bear, but she kept molly a long time out of kindness. the kitchen was constantly a battle-ground. anna scolded and molly swore strange oaths, and then miss mathilda would shut her door hard to show that she could hear it all. at last anna had to give it up. "please miss mathilda won't you speak to molly," anna said, "i can't do a thing with her. i scold her, and she don't seem to hear and then she swears so that she scares me. she loves you miss mathilda, and you scold her please once." "but anna," cried poor miss mathilda, "i don't want to," and that large, cheerful, but faint hearted woman looked all aghast at such a prospect. "but you must, please miss mathilda!" anna said. miss mathilda never wanted to do any scolding. "but you must please miss mathilda," anna said. miss mathilda every day put off the scolding, hoping always that anna would learn to manage molly better. it never did get better and at last miss mathilda saw that the scolding simply had to be. it was agreed between the good anna and her miss mathilda that anna should be away when molly would be scolded. the next evening that it was anna's evening out, miss mathilda faced her task and went down into the kitchen. molly was sitting in the little kitchen leaning her elbows on the table. she was a tall, thin, sallow girl, aged twenty-three, by nature slatternly and careless but trained by anna into superficial neatness. her drab striped cotton dress and gray black checked apron increased the length and sadness of her melancholy figure. "oh, lord!" groaned miss mathilda to herself as she approached her. "molly, i want to speak to you about your behaviour to anna!", here molly dropped her head still lower on her arms and began to cry. "oh! oh!" groaned miss mathilda. "it's all miss annie's fault, all of it," molly said at last, in a trembling voice, "i do my best." "i know anna is often hard to please," began miss mathilda, with a twinge of mischief, and then she sobered herself to her task, "but you must remember, molly, she means it for your good and she is really very kind to you." "i don't want her kindness," molly cried, "i wish you would tell me what to do, miss mathilda, and then i would be all right. i hate miss annie." "this will never do molly," miss mathilda said sternly, in her deepest, firmest tones, "anna is the head of the kitchen and you must either obey her or leave." "i don't want to leave you," whimpered melancholy molly. "well molly then try and do better," answered miss mathilda, keeping a good stern front, and backing quickly from the kitchen. "oh! oh!" groaned miss mathilda, as she went back up the stairs. miss mathilda's attempt to make peace between the constantly contending women in the kitchen had no real effect. they were very soon as bitter as before. at last it was decided that molly was to go away. molly went away to work in a factory in the town, and she went to live with an old woman in the slums, a very bad old woman anna said. anna was never easy in her mind about the fate of molly. sometimes she would see or hear of her. molly was not well, her cough was worse, and the old woman really was a bad one. after a year of this unwholesome life, molly was completely broken down. anna then again took her in charge. she brought her from her work and from the woman where she lived, and put her in a hospital to stay till she was well. she found a place for her as nursemaid to a little girl out in the country, and molly was at last established and content. molly had had, at first, no regular successor. in a few months it was going to be the summer and miss mathilda would be gone away, and old katie would do very well to come in every day and help anna with her work. old katy was a heavy, ugly, short and rough old german woman, with a strange distorted german-english all her own. anna was worn out now with her attempt to make the younger generation do all that it should and rough old katy never answered back, and never wanted her own way. no scolding or abuse could make its mark on her uncouth and aged peasant hide. she said her "yes, miss annie," when an answer had to come, and that was always all that she could say. "old katy is just a rough old woman, miss mathilda," anna said, "but i think i keep her here with me. she can work and she don't give me trouble like i had with molly all the time." anna always had a humorous sense from this old katy's twisted peasant english, from the roughness on her tongue of buzzing s's and from the queer ways of her brutish servile humor. anna could not let old katy serve at table--old katy was too coarsely made from natural earth for that--and so anna had all this to do herself and that she never liked, but even then this simple rough old creature was pleasanter to her than any of the upstart young. life went on very smoothly now in these few months before the summer came. miss mathilda every summer went away across the ocean to be gone for several months. when she went away this summer old katy was so sorry, and on the day that miss mathilda went, old katy cried hard for many hours. an earthy, uncouth, servile peasant creature old katy surely was. she stood there on the white stone steps of the little red brick house, with her bony, square dull head with its thin, tanned, toughened skin and its sparse and kinky grizzled hair, and her strong, squat figure a little overmade on the right side, clothed in her blue striped cotton dress, all clean and always washed but rough and harsh to see--and she stayed there on the steps till anna brought her in, blubbering, her apron to her face, and making queer guttural broken moans. when miss mathilda early in the fall came to her house again old katy was not there. "i never thought old katy would act so miss mathilda," anna said, "when she was so sorry when you went away, and i gave her full wages all the summer, but they are all alike miss mathilda, there isn't one of them that's fit to trust. you know how katy said she liked you, miss mathilda, and went on about it when you went away and then she was so good and worked all right until the middle of the summer, when i got sick, and then she went away and left me all alone and took a place out in the country, where they gave her some more money. she didn't say a word, miss mathilda, she just went off and left me there alone when i was sick after that awful hot summer that we had, and after all we done for her when she had no place to go, and all summer i gave her better things to eat than i had for myself. miss mathilda, there isn't one of them has any sense of what's the right way for a girl to do, not one of them." old katy was never heard from any more. no under servant was decided upon now for several months. many came and many went, and none of them would do. at last anna heard of sallie. sallie was the oldest girl in a family of eleven and sallie was just sixteen years old. from sallie down they came always littler and littler in her family, and all of them were always out at work excepting only the few littlest of them all. sallie was a pretty blonde and smiling german girl, and stupid and a little silly. the littler they came in her family the brighter they all were. the brightest of them all was a little girl of ten. she did a good day's work washing dishes for a man and wife in a saloon, and she earned a fair day's wage, and then there was one littler still. she only worked for half the day. she did the house work for a bachelor doctor. she did it all, all of the housework and received each week her eight cents for her wage. anna was always indignant when she told that story. "i think he ought to give her ten cents miss mathilda any way. eight cents is so mean when she does all his work and she is such a bright little thing too, not stupid like our sallie. sallie would never learn to do a thing if i didn't scold her all the time, but sallie is a good girl, and i take care and she will do all right." sallie was a good, obedient german child. she never answered anna back, no more did peter, old baby and little rags and so though always anna's voice was sharply raised in strong rebuke and worn expostulation, they were a happy family all there together in the kitchen. anna was a mother now to sallie, a good incessant german mother who watched and scolded hard to keep the girl from any evil step. sallie's temptations and transgressions were much like those of naughty peter and jolly little rags, and anna took the same way to keep all three from doing what was bad. sallie's chief badness besides forgetting all the time and never washing her hands clean to serve at table, was the butcher boy. he was an unattractive youth enough, that butcher boy. suspicion began to close in around sallie that she spent the evenings when anna was away, in company with this bad boy. "sallie is such a pretty girl, miss mathilda," anna said, "and she is so dumb and silly, and she puts on that red waist, and she crinkles up her hair with irons so i have to laugh, and then i tell her if she only washed her hands clean it would be better than all that fixing all the time, but you can't do a thing with the young girls nowadays miss mathilda. sallie is a good girl but i got to watch her all the time." suspicion closed in around sallie more and more, that she spent anna's evenings out with this boy sitting in the kitchen. one early morning anna's voice was sharply raised. "sallie this ain't the same banana that i brought home yesterday, for miss mathilda, for her breakfast, and you was out early in the street this morning, what was you doing there?" "nothing, miss annie, i just went out to see, that's all and that's the same banana, 'deed it is miss annie." "sallie, how can you say so and after all i do for you, and miss mathilda is so good to you. i never brought home no bananas yesterday with specks on it like that. i know better, it was that boy was here last night and ate it while i was away, and you was out to get another this morning. i don't want no lying sallie." sallie was stout in her defence but then she gave it up and she said it was the boy who snatched it as he ran away at the sound of anna's key opening the outside door. "but i will never let him in again, miss annie, 'deed i won't," said sallie. and now it was all peaceful for some weeks and then sallie with fatuous simplicity began on certain evenings to resume her bright red waist, her bits of jewels and her crinkly hair. one pleasant evening in the early spring, miss mathilda was standing on the steps beside the open door, feeling cheerful in the pleasant, gentle night. anna came down the street, returning from her evening out. "don't shut the door, please, miss mathilda," anna said in a low voice, "i don't want sallie to know i'm home." anna went softly through the house and reached the kitchen door. at the sound of her hand upon the knob there was a wild scramble and a bang, and then sallie sitting there alone when anna came into the room, but, alas, the butcher boy forgot his overcoat in his escape. you see that anna led an arduous and troubled life. anna had her troubles, too, with miss mathilda. "and i slave and slave to save the money and you go out and spend it all on foolishness," the good anna would complain when her mistress, a large and careless woman, would come home with a bit of porcelain, a new etching and sometimes even an oil painting on her arm. "but anna," argued miss mathilda, "if you didn't save this money, don't you see i could not buy these things," and then anna would soften and look pleased until she learned the price, and then wringing her hands, "oh, miss mathilda, miss mathilda," she would cry, "and you gave all that money out for that, when you need a dress to go out in so bad." "well, perhaps i will get one for myself next year, anna," miss mathilda would cheerfully concede. "if we live till then miss mathilda, i see that you do," anna would then answer darkly. anna had great pride in the knowledge and possessions of her cherished miss mathilda, but she did not like her careless way of wearing always her old clothes. "you can't go out to dinner in that dress, miss mathilda," she would say, standing firmly before the outside door, "you got to go and put on your new dress you always look so nice in." "but anna, there isn't time." "yes there is, i go up and help you fix it, please miss mathilda you can't go out to dinner in that dress and next year if we live till then, i make you get a new hat, too. it's a shame miss mathilda to go out like that." the poor mistress sighed and had to yield. it suited her cheerful, lazy temper to be always without care but sometimes it was a burden to endure, for so often she had it all to do again unless she made a rapid dash out of the door before anna had a chance to see. life was very easy always for this large and lazy miss mathilda, with the good anna to watch and care for her and all her clothes and goods. but, alas, this world of ours is after all much what it should be and cheerful miss mathilda had her troubles too with anna. it was pleasant that everything for one was done, but annoying often that what one wanted most just then, one could not have when one had foolishly demanded and not suggested one's desire. and then miss mathilda loved to go out on joyous, country tramps when, stretching free and far with cheerful comrades, over rolling hills and cornfields, glorious in the setting sun, and dogwood white and shining underneath the moon and clear stars over head, and brilliant air and tingling blood, it was hard to have to think of anna's anger at the late return, though miss mathilda had begged that there might be no hot supper cooked that night. and then when all the happy crew of miss mathilda and her friends, tired with fullness of good health and burning winds and glowing sunshine in the eyes, stiffened and justly worn and wholly ripe for pleasant food and gentle content, were all come together to the little house--it was hard for all that tired crew who loved the good things anna made to eat, to come to the closed door and wonder there if it was anna's evening in or out, and then the others must wait shivering on their tired feet, while miss mathilda softened anna's heart, or if anna was well out, boldly ordered youthful sallie to feed all the hungry lot. such things were sometimes hard to bear and often grievously did miss mathilda feel herself a rebel with the cheerful lizzies, the melancholy mollies, the rough old katies and the stupid sallies. miss mathilda had other troubles too, with the good anna. miss mathilda had to save her anna from the many friends, who in the kindly fashion of the poor, used up her savings and then gave her promises in place of payments. the good anna had many curious friends that she had found in the twenty years that she had lived in bridgepoint, and miss mathilda would often have to save her from them all. part ii the life of the good anna anna federner, this good anna, was of solid lower middle-class south german stock. when she was seventeen years old she went to service in a bourgeois family, in the large city near her native town, but she did not stay there long. one day her mistress offered her maid--that was anna--to a friend, to see her home. anna felt herself to be a servant, not a maid, and so she promptly left the place. anna had always a firm old world sense of what was the right way for a girl to do. no argument could bring her to sit an evening in the empty parlour, although the smell of paint when they were fixing up the kitchen made her very sick, and tired as she always was, she never would sit down during the long talks she held with miss mathilda. a girl was a girl and should act always like a girl, both as to giving all respect and as to what she had to eat. a little time after she left this service, anna and her mother made the voyage to america. they came second-class, but it was for them a long and dreary journey. the mother was already ill with consumption. they landed in a pleasant town in the far south and there the mother slowly died. anna was now alone and she made her way to bridgepoint where an older half brother was already settled. this brother was a heavy, lumbering, good natured german man, full of the infirmity that comes of excess of body. he was a baker and married and fairly well to do. anna liked her brother well enough but was never in any way dependent on him. when she arrived in bridgepoint, she took service with miss mary wadsmith. miss mary wadsmith was a large, fair, helpless woman, burdened with the care of two young children. they had been left her by her brother and his wife who had died within a few months of each other. anna soon had the household altogether in her charge. anna found her place with large, abundant women, for such were always lazy, careless or all helpless, and so the burden of their lives could fall on anna, and give her just content. anna's superiors must be always these large helpless women, or be men, for none others could give themselves to be made so comfortable and free. anna had no strong natural feeling to love children, as she had to love cats and dogs, and a large mistress. she never became deeply fond of edgar and jane wadsmith. she naturally preferred the boy, for boys love always better to be done for and made comfortable and full of eating, while in the little girl she had to meet the feminine, the subtle opposition, showing so early always in a young girl's nature. for the summer, the wadsmiths had a pleasant house out in the country, and the winter months they spent in hotel apartments in the city. gradually it came to anna to take the whole direction of their movements, to make all the decisions as to their journeyings to and fro, and for the arranging of the places where they were to live. anna had been with miss mary for three years, when little jane began to raise her strength in opposition. jane was a neat, pleasant little girl, pretty and sweet with a young girl's charm, and with two blonde braids carefully plaited down her back. miss mary, like her anna, had no strong natural feeling to love children, but she was fond of these two young ones of her blood, and yielded docilely to the stronger power in the really pleasing little girl. anna always preferred the rougher handling of the boy, while miss mary found the gentle force and the sweet domination of the girl to please her better. in a spring when all the preparations for the moving had been made, miss mary and jane went together to the country home, and anna, after finishing up the city matters was to follow them in a few days with edgar, whose vacation had not yet begun. many times during the preparations for this summer, jane had met anna with sharp resistance, in opposition to her ways. it was simple for little jane to give unpleasant orders, not from herself but from miss mary, large, docile, helpless miss mary wadsmith who could never think out any orders to give anna from herself. anna's eyes grew slowly sharper, harder, and her lower teeth thrust a little forward and pressing strongly up, framed always more slowly the "yes, miss jane," to the quick, "oh anna! miss mary says she wants you to do it so!" on the day of their migration, miss mary had been already put into the carriage. "oh, anna!" cried little jane running back into the house, "miss mary says that you are to bring along the blue dressings out of her room and mine." anna's body stiffened, "we never use them in the summer, miss jane," she said thickly. "yes anna, but miss mary thinks it would be nice, and she told me to tell you not to forget, good-by!" and the little girl skipped lightly down the steps into the carriage and they drove away. anna stood still on the steps, her eyes hard and sharp and shining, and her body and her face stiff with resentment. and then she went into the house, giving the door a shattering slam. anna was very hard to live with in those next three days. even baby, the new puppy, the pride of anna's heart, a present from her friend the widow, mrs. lehntman--even this pretty little black and tan felt the heat of anna's scorching flame. and edgar, who had looked forward to these days, to be for him filled full of freedom and of things to eat--he could not rest a moment in anna's bitter sight. on the third day, anna and edgar went to the wadsmith country home. the blue dressings out of the two rooms remained behind. all the way, edgar sat in front with the colored man and drove. it was an early spring day in the south. the fields and woods were heavy from the soaking rains. the horses dragged the carriage slowly over the long road, sticky with brown clay and rough with masses of stones thrown here and there to be broken and trodden into place by passing teams. over and through the soaking earth was the feathery new spring growth of little flowers, of young leaves and of ferns. the tree tops were all bright with reds and yellows, with brilliant gleaming whites and gorgeous greens. all the lower air was full of the damp haze rising from heavy soaking water on the earth, mingled with a warm and pleasant smell from the blue smoke of the spring fires in all the open fields. and above all this was the clear, upper air, and the songs of birds and the joy of sunshine and of lengthening days. the languor and the stir, the warmth and weight and the strong feel of life from the deep centres of the earth that comes always with the early, soaking spring, when it is not answered with an active fervent joy, gives always anger, irritation and unrest. to anna alone there in the carriage, drawing always nearer to the struggle with her mistress, the warmth, the slowness, the jolting over stones, the steaming from the horses, the cries of men and animals and birds, and the new life all round about were simply maddening. "baby! if you don't lie still, i think i kill you. i can't stand it any more like this." at this time anna, about twenty-seven years of age, was not yet all thin and worn. the sharp bony edges and corners of her head and face were still rounded out with flesh, but already the temper and the humor showed sharply in her clean blue eyes, and the thinning was begun about the lower jaw, that was so often strained with the upward pressure of resolve. to-day, alone there in the carriage, she was all stiff and yet all trembling with the sore effort of decision and revolt. as the carriage turned into the wadsmith gate, little jane ran out to see. she just looked at anna's face; she did not say a word about blue dressings. anna got down from the carriage with little baby in her arms. she took out all the goods that she had brought and the carriage drove away. anna left everything on the porch, and went in to where miss mary wadsmith was sitting by the fire. miss mary was sitting in a large armchair by the fire. all the nooks and crannies of the chair were filled full of her soft and spreading body. she was dressed in a black satin morning gown, the sleeves, great monster things, were heavy with the mass of her soft flesh. she sat there always, large, helpless, gentle. she had a fair, soft, regular, good-looking face, with pleasant, empty, grey-blue eyes, and heavy sleepy lids. behind miss mary was the little jane, nervous and jerky with excitement as she saw anna come into the room. "miss mary," anna began. she had stopped just within the door, her body and her face stiff with repression, her teeth closed hard and the white lights flashing sharply in the pale, clean blue of her eyes. her bearing was full of the strange coquetry of anger and of fear, the stiffness, the bridling, the suggestive movement underneath the rigidness of forced control, all the queer ways the passions have to show themselves all one. "miss mary," the words came slowly with thick utterance and with jerks, but always firm and strong. "miss mary, i can't stand it any more like this. when you tell me anything to do, i do it. i do everything i can and you know i work myself sick for you. the blue dressings in your room makes too much work to have for summer. miss jane don't know what work is. if you want to do things like that i go away." anna stopped still. her words had not the strength of meaning they were meant to have, but the power in the mood of anna's soul frightened and awed miss mary through and through. like in all large and helpless women, miss mary's heart beat weakly in the soft and helpless mass it had to govern. little jane's excitements had already tried her strength. now she grew pale and fainted quite away. "miss mary!" cried anna running to her mistress and supporting all her helpless weight back in the chair. little jane, distracted, flew about as anna ordered, bringing smelling salts and brandy and vinegar and water and chafing poor miss mary's wrists. miss mary slowly opened her mild eyes. anna sent the weeping little jane out of the room. she herself managed to get miss mary quiet on the couch. there was never a word more said about blue dressings. anna had conquered, and a few days later little jane gave her a green parrot to make peace. for six more years little jane and anna lived in the same house. they were careful and respectful to each other to the end. anna liked the parrot very well. she was fond of cats too and of horses, but best of all animals she loved the dog and best of all dogs, little baby, the first gift from her friend, the widow mrs. lehntman. the widow mrs. lehntman was the romance in anna's life. anna met her first at the house of her half brother, the baker, who had known the late mr. lehntman, a small grocer, very well. mrs. lehntman had been for many years a midwife. since her husband's death she had herself and two young children to support. mrs. lehntman was a good looking woman. she had a plump well rounded body, clear olive skin, bright dark eyes and crisp black curling hair. she was pleasant, magnetic, efficient and good. she was very attractive, very generous and very amiable. she was a few years older than our good anna, who was soon entirely subdued by her magnetic, sympathetic charm. mrs. lehntman in her work loved best to deliver young girls who were in trouble. she would take these into her own house and care for them in secret, till they could guiltlessly go home or back to work, and then slowly pay her the money for their care. and so through this new friend anna led a wider and more entertaining life, and often she used up her savings in helping mrs. lehntman through those times when she was giving very much more than she got. it was through mrs. lehntman that anna met dr. shonjen who employed her when at last it had to be that she must go away from her miss mary wadsmith. during the last years with her miss mary, anna's health was very bad, as indeed it always was from that time on until the end of her strong life. anna was a medium sized, thin, hard working, worrying woman. she had always had bad headaches and now they came more often and more wearing. her face grew thin, more bony and more worn, her skin stained itself pale yellow, as it does with working sickly women, and the clear blue of her eyes went pale. her back troubled her a good deal, too. she was always tired at her work and her temper grew more difficult and fretful. miss mary wadsmith often tried to make anna see a little to herself, and get a doctor, and the little jane, now blossoming into a pretty, sweet young woman, did her best to make anna do things for her good. anna was stubborn always to miss jane, and fearful of interference in her ways. miss mary wadsmith's mild advice she easily could always turn aside. mrs. lehntman was the only one who had any power over anna. she induced her to let dr. shonjen take her in his care. no one but a dr. shonjen could have brought a good and german anna first to stop her work and then submit herself to operation, but he knew so well how to deal with german and poor people. cheery, jovial, hearty, full of jokes that made much fun and yet were full of simple common sense and reasoning courage, he could persuade even a good anna to do things that were for her own good. edgar had now been for some years away from home, first at a school and then at work to prepare himself to be a civil engineer. miss mary and jane promised to take a trip for all the time that anna was away, and so there would be no need for anna's work, nor for a new girl to take anna's place. anna's mind was thus a little set at rest. she gave herself to mrs. lehntman and the doctor to do what they thought best to make her well and strong. anna endured the operation very well, and was patient, almost docile, in the slow recovery of her working strength. but when she was once more at work for her miss mary wadsmith, all the good effect of these several months of rest were soon worked and worried well away. for all the rest of her strong working life anna was never really well. she had bad headaches all the time and she was always thin and worn. she worked away her appetite, her health and strength, and always for the sake of those who begged her not to work so hard. to her thinking, in her stubborn, faithful, german soul, this was the right way for a girl to do. anna's life with miss mary wadsmith was now drawing to an end. miss jane, now altogether a young lady, had come out into the world. soon she would become engaged and then be married, and then perhaps miss mary wadsmith would make her home with her. in such a household anna was certain that she would never take a place. miss jane was always careful and respectful and very good to anna, but never could anna be a girl in a household where miss jane would be the head. this much was very certain in her mind, and so these last two years with her miss mary were not as happy as before. the change came very soon. miss jane became engaged and in a few months was to marry a man from out of town, from curden, an hour's railway ride from bridgepoint. poor miss mary wadsmith did not know the strong resolve anna had made to live apart from her when this new household should be formed. anna found it very hard to speak to her miss mary of this change. the preparations for the wedding went on day and night. anna worked and sewed hard to make it all go well. miss mary was much fluttered, but content and happy with anna to make everything so easy for them all. anna worked so all the time to drown her sorrow and her conscience too, for somehow it was not right to leave miss mary so. but what else could she do? she could not live as her miss mary's girl, in a house where miss jane would be the head. the wedding day grew always nearer. at last it came and passed. the young people went on their wedding trip, and anna and miss mary were left behind to pack up all the things. even yet poor anna had not had the strength to tell miss mary her resolve, but now it had to be. anna every spare minute ran to her friend mrs. lehntman for comfort and advice. she begged her friend to be with her when she told the news to miss mary. perhaps if mrs. lehntman had not been in bridgepoint, anna would have tried to live in the new house. mrs. lehntman did not urge her to this thing nor even give her this advice, but feeling for mrs. lehntman as she did made even faithful anna not quite so strong in her dependence on miss mary's need as she would otherwise have been. remember, mrs. lehntman was the romance in anna's life. all the packing was now done and in a few days miss mary was to go to the new house, where the young people were ready for her coming. at last anna had to speak. mrs. lehntman agreed to go with her and help to make the matter clear to poor miss mary. the two women came together to miss mary wadsmith sitting placid by the fire in the empty living room. miss mary had seen mrs. lehntman many times before, and so her coming in with anna raised no suspicion in her mind. it was very hard for the two women to begin. it must be very gently done, this telling to miss mary of the change. she must not be shocked by suddenness or with excitement. anna was all stiff, and inside all a quiver with shame, anxiety and grief. even courageous mrs. lehntman, efficient, impulsive and complacent as she was and not deeply concerned in the event, felt awkward, abashed and almost guilty in that large, mild, helpless presence. and at her side to make her feel the power of it all, was the intense conviction of poor anna, struggling to be unfeeling, self righteous and suppressed. "miss mary"--with anna when things had to come they came always sharp and short--"miss mary, mrs. lehntman has come here with me, so i can tell you about not staying with you there in curden. of course i go help you to get settled and then i think i come back and stay right here in bridgepoint. you know my brother he is here and all his family, and i think it would be not right to go away from them so far, and you know you don't want me now so much miss mary when you are all together there in curden." miss mary wadsmith was puzzled. she did not understand what anna meant by what she said. "why anna of course you can come to see your brother whenever you like to, and i will always pay your fare. i thought you understood all about that, and we will be very glad to have your nieces come to stay with you as often as they like. there will always be room enough in a big house like mr. goldthwaite's." it was now for mrs. lehntman to begin her work. "miss wadsmith does not understand just what you mean anna," she began. "miss wadsmith, anna feels how good and kind you are, and she talks about it all the time, and what you do for her in every way you can, and she is very grateful and never would want to go away from you, only she thinks it would be better now that mrs. goldthwaite has this big new house and will want to manage it in her own way, she thinks perhaps it would be better if mrs. goldthwaite had all new servants with her to begin with, and not a girl like anna who knew her when she was a little girl. that is what anna feels about it now, and she asked me and i said to her that i thought it would be better for you all and you knew she liked you so much and that you were so good to her, and you would understand how she thought it would be better in the new house if she stayed on here in bridgepoint, anyway for a little while until mrs. goldthwaite was used to her new house. isn't that it anna that you wanted miss wadsmith to know?" "oh anna," miss mary wadsmith said it slowly and in a grieved tone of surprise that was very hard for the good anna to endure, "oh anna, i didn't think that you would ever want to leave me after all these years." "miss mary!" it came in one tense jerky burst, "miss mary it's only working under miss jane now would make me leave you so. i know how good you are and i work myself sick for you and for mr. edgar and for miss jane too, only miss jane she will want everything different from like the way we always did, and you know miss mary i can't have miss jane watching at me all the time, and every minute something new. miss mary, it would be very bad and miss jane don't really want me to come with you to the new house, i know that all the time. please miss mary don't feel bad about it or think i ever want to go away from you if i could do things right for you the way they ought to be." poor miss mary. struggling was not a thing for her to do. anna would surely yield if she would struggle, but struggling was too much work and too much worry for peaceful miss mary to endure. if anna would do so she must. poor miss mary wadsmith sighed, looked wistfully at anna and then gave it up. "you must do as you think best anna," she said at last letting all of her soft self sink back into the chair. "i am very sorry and so i am sure will be miss jane when she hears what you have thought it best to do. it was very good of mrs. lehntman to come with you and i am sure she does it for your good. i suppose you want to go out a little now. come back in an hour anna and help me go to bed." miss mary closed her eyes and rested still and placid by the fire. the two women went away. this was the end of anna's service with miss mary wadsmith, and soon her new life taking care of dr. shonjen was begun. keeping house for a jovial bachelor doctor gave new elements of understanding to anna's maiden german mind. her habits were as firm fixed as before, but it always was with anna that things that had been done once with her enjoyment and consent could always happen any time again, such as her getting up at any hour of the night to make a supper and cook hot chops and chicken fry for dr. shonjen and his bachelor friends. anna loved to work for men, for they could eat so much and with such joy. and when they were warm and full, they were content, and let her do whatever she thought best. not that anna's conscience ever slept, for neither with interference or without would she strain less to keep on saving every cent and working every hour of the day. but truly she loved it best when she could scold. now it was not only other girls and the colored man, and dogs, and cats, and horses and her parrot, but her cheery master, jolly dr. shonjen, whom she could guide and constantly rebuke to his own good. the doctor really loved her scoldings as she loved his wickednesses and his merry joking ways. these days were happy days with anna. her freakish humor now first showed itself, her sense of fun in the queer ways that people had, that made her later find delight in brutish servile katy, in sally's silly ways and in the badness of peter and of rags. she loved to make sport with the skeletons the doctor had, to make them move and make strange noises till the negro boy shook in his shoes and his eyes rolled white in his agony of fear. then anna would tell these histories to her doctor. her worn, thin, lined, determined face would form for itself new and humorous creases, and her pale blue eyes would kindle with humour and with joy as her doctor burst into his hearty laugh. and the good anna full of the coquetry of pleasing would bridle with her angular, thin, spinster body, straining her stories and herself to please. these early days with jovial dr. shonjen were very happy days with the good anna. all of anna's spare hours in these early days she spent with her friend, the widow mrs. lehntman. mrs. lehntman lived with her two children in a small house in the same part of the town as dr. shonjen. the older of these two children was a girl named julia and was now about thirteen years of age. this julia lehntman was an unattractive girl enough, harsh featured, dull and stubborn as had been her heavy german father. mrs. lehntman did not trouble much with her, but gave her always all she wanted that she had, and let the girl do as she liked. this was not from indifference or dislike on the part of mrs. lehntman, it was just her usual way. her second child was a boy, two years younger than his sister, a bright, pleasant, cheery fellow, who too, did what he liked with his money and his time. all this was so with mrs. lehntman because she had so much in her head and in her house that clamoured for her concentration and her time. this slackness and neglect in the running of the house, and the indifference in this mother for the training of her young was very hard for our good anna to endure. of course she did her best to scold, to save for mrs. lehntman, and to put things in their place the way they ought to be. even in the early days when anna was first won by the glamour of mrs. lehntman's brilliancy and charm, she had been uneasy in mrs. lehntman's house with a need of putting things to rights. now that the two children growing up were of more importance in the house, and now that long acquaintance had brushed the dazzle out of anna's eyes, she began to struggle to make things go here as she thought was right. she watched and scolded hard these days to make young julia do the way she should. not that julia lehntman was pleasant in the good anna's sight, but it must never be that a young girl growing up should have no one to make her learn to do things right. the boy was easier to scold, for scoldings never sank in very deep, and indeed he liked them very well for they brought with them new things to eat, and lively teasing, and good jokes. julia, the girl, grew very sullen with it all, and very often won her point, for after all miss annie was no relative of hers and had no business coming there and making trouble all the time. appealing to the mother was no use. it was wonderful how mrs. lehntman could listen and not hear, could answer and yet not decide, could say and do what she was asked and yet leave things as they were before. one day it got almost too bad for even anna's friendship to bear out. "well, julia, is your mamma out?" anna asked, one sunday summer afternoon, as she came into the lehntman house. anna looked very well this day. she was always careful in her dress and sparing of new clothes. she made herself always fulfill her own ideal of how a girl should look when she took her sundays out. anna knew so well the kind of ugliness appropriate to each rank in life. it was interesting to see how when she bought things for miss wadsmith and later for her cherished miss mathilda and always entirely from her own taste and often as cheaply as she bought things for her friends or for herself, that on the one hand she chose the things having the right air for a member of the upper class, and for the others always the things having the awkward ugliness that we call dutch. she knew the best thing in each kind, and she never in the course of her strong life compromised her sense of what was the right thing for a girl to wear. on this bright summer sunday afternoon she came to the lehntmans', much dressed up in her new, brick red, silk waist trimmed with broad black beaded braid, a dark cloth skirt and a new stiff, shiny, black straw hat, trimmed with colored ribbons and a bird. she had on new gloves, and a feather boa about her neck. her spare, thin, awkward body and her worn, pale yellow face though lit up now with the pleasant summer sun made a queer discord with the brightness of her clothes. she came to the lehntman house, where she had not been for several days, and opening the door that is always left unlatched in the houses of the lower middle class in the pleasant cities of the south, she found julia in the family sitting-room alone. "well, julia, where is your mamma?" anna asked. "ma is out but come in, miss annie, and look at our new brother." "what you talk so foolish for julia," said anna sitting down. "i ain't talkin' foolish, miss annie. didn't you know mamma has just adopted a cute, nice little baby boy?" "you talk so crazy, julia, you ought to know better than to say such things." julia turned sullen. "all right miss annie, you don't need to believe what i say, but the little baby is in the kitchen and ma will tell you herself when she comes in." it sounded most fantastic, but julia had an air of truth and mrs. lehntman was capable of doing stranger things. anna was disturbed. "what you mean julia," she said. "i don't mean nothin' miss annie, you don't believe the baby is in there, well you can go and see it for yourself." anna went into the kitchen. a baby was there all right enough, and a lusty little boy he seemed. he was very tight asleep in a basket that stood in the corner by the open door. "you mean your mamma is just letting him stay here a little while," anna said to julia who had followed her into the kitchen to see miss annie get real mad. "no that ain't it miss annie. the mother was that girl, lily that came from bishop's place out in the country, and she don't want no children, and ma liked the little boy so much, she said she'd keep him here and adopt him for her own child." anna, for once, was fairly dumb with astonishment and rage. the front door slammed. "there's ma now," cried julia in an uneasy triumph, for she was not quite certain in her mind which side of the question she was on. "there's ma now, and you can ask her for yourself if i ain't told you true." mrs. lehntman came into the kitchen where they were. she was bland, impersonal and pleasant, as it was her wont to be. still to-day, through this her usual manner that gave her such success in her practice as a midwife, there shone an uneasy consciousness of guilt, for like all who had to do with the good anna, mrs. lehntman dreaded her firm character, her vigorous judgments and the bitter fervour of her tongue. it had been plain to see in the six years these women were together, how anna gradually had come to lead. not really lead, of course, for mrs. lehntman never could be led, she was so very devious in her ways; but anna had come to have direction whenever she could learn what mrs. lehntman meant to do before the deed was done. now it was hard to tell which would win out. mrs. lehntman had her unhearing mind and her happy way of giving a pleasant well diffused attention, and then she had it on her side that, after all, this thing was already done. anna was, as usual, determined for the right. she was stiff and pale with her anger and her fear, and nervous, and all a tremble as was her usual way when a bitter fight was near. mrs. lehntman was easy and pleasant as she came into the room. anna was stiff and silent and very white. "we haven't seen you for a long time, anna," mrs. lehntman cordially began. "i was just gettin' worried thinking you was sick. my! but it's a hot day to-day. come into the sittin'-room, anna, and julia will make us some ice tea." anna followed mrs. lehntman into the other room in a stiff silence, and when there she did not, as invited, take a chair. as always with anna when a thing had to come it came very short and sharp. she found it hard to breathe just now, and every word came with a jerk. "mrs. lehntman, it ain't true what julia said about your taking that lily's boy to keep. i told julia when she told me she was crazy to talk so." anna's real excitements stopped her breath, and made her words come sharp and with a jerk. mrs. lehntman's feelings spread her breath, and made her words come slow, but more pleasant and more easy even than before. "why anna," she began, "don't you see lily couldn't keep her boy for she is working at the bishops' now, and he is such a cute dear little chap, and you know how fond i am of little fellers, and i thought it would be nice for julia and for willie to have a little brother. you know julia always loves to play with babies, and i have to be away so much, and willie he is running in the streets every minute all the time, and you see a baby would be sort of nice company for julia, and you know you are always saying anna, julia should not be on the streets so much and the baby will be so good to keep her in." anna was every minute paler with indignation and with heat. "mrs. lehntman, i don't see what business it is for you to take another baby for your own, when you can't do what's right by julia and willie you got here already. there's julia, nobody tells her a thing when i ain't here, and who is going to tell her now how to do things for that baby? she ain't got no sense what's the right way to do with children, and you out all the time, and you ain't got no time for your own neither, and now you want to be takin' up with strangers. i know you was careless, mrs. lehntman, but i didn't think that you could do this so. no, mrs. lehntman, it ain't your duty to take up with no others, when you got two children of your own, that got to get along just any way they can, and you know you ain't got any too much money all the time, and you are all so careless here and spend it all the time, and julia and willie growin' big. it ain't right, mrs. lehntman, to do so." this was as bad as it could be. anna had never spoken her mind so to her friend before. now it was too harsh for mrs. lehntman to allow herself to really hear. if she really took the meaning in these words she could never ask anna to come into her house again, and she liked anna very well, and was used to depend on her savings and her strength. and then too mrs. lehntman could not really take in harsh ideas. she was too well diffused to catch the feel of any sharp firm edge. now she managed to understand all this in a way that made it easy for her to say, "why, anna, i think you feel too bad about seeing what the children are doing every minute in the day. julia and willie are real good, and they play with all the nicest children in the square. if you had some, all your own, anna, you'd see it don't do no harm to let them do a little as they like, and julia likes this baby so, and sweet dear little boy, it would be so kind of bad to send him to a 'sylum now, you know it would anna, when you like children so yourself, and are so good to my willie all the time. no indeed anna, it's easy enough to say i should send this poor, cute little boy to a 'sylum when i could keep him here so nice, but you know anna, you wouldn't like to do it yourself, now you really know you wouldn't, anna, though you talk to me so hard.--my, it's hot to-day, what you doin' with that ice tea in there julia, when miss annie is waiting all this time for her drink?" julia brought in the ice tea. she was so excited with the talk she had been hearing from the kitchen, that she slopped it on the plate out of the glasses a good deal. but she was safe, for anna felt this trouble so deep down that she did not even see those awkward, bony hands, adorned today with a new ring, those stupid, foolish hands that always did things the wrong way. "here miss annie," julia said, "here, miss annie, is your glass of tea, i know you like it good and strong." "no, julia, i don't want no ice tea here. your mamma ain't able to afford now using her money upon ice tea for her friends. it ain't right she should now any more. i go out now to see mrs. drehten. she does all she can, and she is sick now working so hard taking care of her own children. i go there now. good by mrs. lehntman, i hope you don't get no bad luck doin' what it ain't right for you to do." "my, miss annie is real mad now," julia said, as the house shook, as the good anna shut the outside door with a concentrated shattering slam. it was some months now that anna had been intimate with mrs. drehten. mrs. drehten had had a tumor and had come to dr. shonjen to be treated. during the course of her visits there, she and anna had learned to like each other very well. there was no fever in this friendship, it was just the interchange of two hard working, worrying women, the one large and motherly, with the pleasant, patient, soft, worn, tolerant face, that comes with a german husband to obey, and seven solid girls and boys to bear and rear, and the other was our good anna with her spinster body, her firm jaw, her humorous, light, clean eyes and her lined, worn, thin, pale yellow face. mrs. drehten lived a patient, homely, hard-working life. her husband an honest, decent man enough, was a brewer, and somewhat given to over drinking, and so he was often surly and stingy and unpleasant. the family of seven children was made up of four stalwart, cheery, filial sons, and three hard working obedient simple daughters. it was a family life the good anna very much approved and also she was much liked by them all. with a german woman's feeling for the masterhood in men, she was docile to the surly father and rarely rubbed him the wrong way. to the large, worn, patient, sickly mother she was a sympathetic listener, wise in council and most efficient in her help. the young ones too, liked her very well. the sons teased her all the time and roared with boisterous pleasure when she gave them back sharp hits. the girls were all so good that her scoldings here were only in the shape of good advice, sweetened with new trimmings for their hats, and ribbons, and sometimes on their birthdays, bits of jewels. it was here that anna came for comfort after her grievous stroke at her friend the widow, mrs. lehntman. not that anna would tell mrs. drehten of this trouble. she could never lay bare the wound that came to her through this idealised affection. her affair with mrs. lehntman was too sacred and too grievous ever to be told. but here in this large household, in busy movement and variety in strife, she could silence the uneasiness and pain of her own wound. the drehtens lived out in the country in one of the wooden, ugly houses that lie in groups outside of our large cities. the father and the sons all had their work here making beer, and the mother and her girls scoured and sewed and cooked. on sundays they were all washed very clean, and smelling of kitchen soap. the sons, in their sunday clothes, loafed around the house or in the village, and on special days went on picnics with their girls. the daughters in their awkward, colored finery went to church most of the day and then walking with their friends. they always came together for their supper, where anna always was most welcome, the jolly sunday evening supper that german people love. here anna and the boys gave it to each other in sharp hits and hearty boisterous laughter, the girls made things for them to eat, and waited on them all, the mother loved all her children all the time, and the father joined in with his occasional unpleasant word that made a bitter feeling but which they had all learned to pass as if it were not said. it was to the comfort of this house that anna came that sunday summer afternoon, after she had left mrs. lehntman and her careless ways. the drehten house was open all about. no one was there but mrs. drehten resting in her rocking chair, out in the pleasant, scented, summer air. anna had had a hot walk from the cars. she went into the kitchen for a cooling drink, and then came out and sat down on the steps near mrs. drehten. anna's anger had changed. a sadness had come to her. now with the patient, friendly, gentle mother talk of mrs. drehten, this sadness changed to resignation and to rest. as the evening came on the young ones dropped in one by one. soon the merry sunday evening supper was begun. it had not been all comfort for our anna, these months of knowing mrs. drehten. it had made trouble for her with the family of her half brother, the fat baker. her half brother, the fat baker, was a queer kind of a man. he was a huge, unwieldy creature, all puffed out all over, and no longer able to walk much, with his enormous body and the big, swollen, bursted veins in his great legs. he did not try to walk much now. he sat around his place, leaning on his great thick stick, and watching his workmen at their work. on holidays, and sometimes of a sunday, he went out in his bakery wagon. he went then to each customer he had and gave them each a large, sweet, raisined loaf of caky bread. at every house with many groans and gasps he would descend his heavy weight out of the wagon, his good featured, black haired, flat, good natured face shining with oily perspiration, with pride in labor and with generous kindness. up each stoop he hobbled with the help of his big stick, and into the nearest chair in the kitchen or in the parlour, as the fashion of the house demanded, and there he sat and puffed, and then presented to the mistress or the cook the raisined german loaf his boy supplied him. anna had never been a customer of his. she had always lived in another part of the town, but he never left her out in these bakery progresses of his, and always with his own hand he gave her her festive loaf. anna liked her half brother well enough. she never knew him really well, for he rarely talked at all and least of all to women, but he seemed to her, honest, and good and kind, and he never tried to interfere in anna's ways. and then anna liked the loaves of raisined bread, for in the summer she and the second girl could live on them, and not be buying bread with the household money all the time. but things were not so simple with our anna, with the other members of her half brother's house. her half brother's family was made up of himself, his wife, and their two daughters. anna never liked her brother's wife. the youngest of the two daughters was named after her aunt anna. anna never liked her half brother's wife. this woman had been very good to anna, never interfering in her ways, always glad to see her and to make her visits pleasant, but she had not found favour in our good anna's sight. anna had too, no real affection for her nieces. she never scolded them or tried to guide them for their good. anna never criticised or interfered in the running of her half brother's house. mrs. federner was a good looking, prosperous woman, a little harsh and cold within her soul perhaps, but trying always to be pleasant, good and kind. her daughters were well trained, quiet, obedient, well dressed girls, and yet our good anna loved them not, nor their mother, nor any of their ways. it was in this house that anna had first met her friend, the widow, mrs. lehntman. the federners had never seemed to feel it wrong in anna, her devotion to this friend and her care of her and of her children. mrs. lehntman and anna and her feelings were all somehow too big for their attack. but mrs. federner had the mind and tongue that blacken things. not really to blacken black, of course, but just to roughen and to rub on a little smut. she could somehow make even the face of the almighty seem pimply and a little coarse, and so she always did this with her friends, though not with the intent to interfere. this was really true with mrs. lehntman that mrs. federner did not mean to interfere, but anna's friendship with the drehtens was a very different matter. why should mrs. drehten, that poor common working wife of a man who worked for others in a brewery and who always drank too much, and was not like a thrifty, decent german man, why should that mrs. drehten and her ugly, awkward daughters be getting presents from her husband's sister all the time, and her husband always so good to anna, and one of the girls having her name too, and those drehtens all strangers to her and never going to come to any good? it was not right for anna to do so. mrs. federner knew better than to say such things straight out to her husband's fiery, stubborn sister, but she lost no chance to let anna feel and see what they all thought. it was easy to blacken all the drehtens, their poverty, the husband's drinking, the four big sons carrying on and always lazy, the awkward, ugly daughters dressing up with anna's help and trying to look so fine, and the poor, weak, hard-working sickly mother, so easy to degrade with large dosings of contemptuous pity. anna could not do much with these attacks for mrs. federner always ended with, "and you so good to them anna all the time. i don't see how they could get along at all if you didn't help them all the time, but you are so good anna, and got such a feeling heart, just like your brother, that you give anything away you got to anybody that will ask you for it, and that's shameless enough to take it when they ain't no relatives of yours. poor mrs. drehten, she is a good woman. poor thing it must be awful hard for her to have to take things from strangers all the time, and her husband spending it on drink. i was saying to mrs. lehntman, anna, only yesterday, how i never was so sorry for any one as mrs. drehten, and how good it was for you to help them all the time." all this meant a gold watch and chain to her god daughter for her birthday, the next month, and a new silk umbrella for the elder sister. poor anna, and she did not love them very much, these relatives of hers, and they were the only kin she had. mrs. lehntman never joined in, in these attacks. mrs. lehntman was diffuse and careless in her ways, but she never worked such things for her own ends, and she was too sure of anna to be jealous of her other friends. all this time anna was leading her happy life with dr. shonjen. she had every day her busy time. she cooked and saved and sewed and scrubbed and scolded. and every night she had her happy time, in seeing her doctor like the fine things she bought so cheap and cooked so good for him to eat. and then he would listen and laugh so loud, as she told him stories of what had happened on that day. the doctor, too, liked it better all the time and several times in these five years he had of his own motion raised her wages. anna was content with what she had and grateful for all her doctor did for her. so anna's serving and her giving life went on, each with its varied pleasures and its pains. the adopting of the little boy did not put an end to anna's friendship for the widow mrs. lehntman. neither the good anna nor the careless mrs. lehntman would give each other up excepting for the gravest cause. mrs. lehntman was the only romance anna ever knew. a certain magnetic brilliancy in person and in manner made mrs. lehntman a woman other women loved. then, too, she was generous and good and honest, though she was so careless always in her ways. and then she trusted anna and liked her better than any of her other friends, and anna always felt this very much. no, anna could not give up mrs. lehntman, and soon she was busier than before making julia do things right for little johnny. and now new schemes were working strong in mrs. lehntman's head, and anna must listen to her plans and help her make them work. mrs. lehntman always loved best in her work to deliver young girls who were in trouble. she would keep these in her house until they could go to their homes or to their work, and slowly pay her back the money for their care. anna had always helped her friend to do this thing, for like all the good women of the decent poor, she felt it hard that girls should not be helped, not girls that were really bad of course, these she condemned and hated in her heart and with her tongue, but honest, decent, good, hard working, foolish girls who were in trouble. for such as these anna always liked to give her money and her strength. now mrs. lehntman thought that it would pay to take a big house for herself to take in girls and to do everything in a big way. anna did not like this plan. anna was never daring in her ways. save and you will have the money you have saved, was all that she could know. not that the good anna had it so. she saved and saved and always saved, and then here and there, to this friend and to that, to one in her trouble and to the other in her joy, in sickness, death, and weddings, or to make young people happy, it always went, the hard earned money she had saved. anna could not clearly see how mrs. lehntman could make a big house pay. in the small house where she had these girls, it did not pay, and in a big house there was so much more that she would spend. such things were hard for the good anna to very clearly see. one day she came into the lehntman house. "anna," mrs. lehntman said, "you know that nice big house on the next corner that we saw to rent. i took it for a year just yesterday. i paid a little down you know so i could have it sure all right and now you fix it up just like you want. i let you do just what you like with it." anna knew that it was now too late. however, "but mrs. lehntman you said you would not take another house, you said so just last week. oh, mrs. lehntman i didn't think that you would do this so!" anna knew so well it was too late. "i know, anna, but it was such a good house, just right you know and someone else was there to see, and you know you said it suited very well, and if i didn't take it the others said they would, and i wanted to ask you only there wasn't time, and really anna, i don't need much help, it will go so well i know. i just need a little to begin and to fix up with and that's all anna that i need, and i know it will go awful well. you wait anna and you'll see, and i let you fix it up just like you want, and you will make it look so nice, you got such sense in all these things. it will be a good place. you see anna if i ain't right in what i say." of course anna gave the money for this thing though she could not believe that it was best. no, it was very bad. mrs. lehntman could never make it pay and it would cost so much to keep. but what could our poor anna do? remember mrs. lehntman was the only romance anna ever knew. anna's strength in her control of what was done in mrs. lehntman's house, was not now what it had been before that lily's little johnny came. that thing had been for anna a defeat. there had been no fighting to a finish but mrs. lehntman had very surely won. mrs. lehntman needed anna just as much as anna needed mrs. lehntman, but mrs. lehntman was more ready to risk anna's loss, and so the good anna grew always weaker in her power to control. in friendship, power always has its downward curve. one's strength to manage rises always higher until there comes a time one does not win, and though one may not really lose, still from the time that victory is not sure, one's power slowly ceases to be strong. it is only in a close tie such as marriage, that influence can mount and grow always stronger with the years and never meet with a decline. it can only happen so when there is no way to escape. friendship goes by favour. there is always danger of a break or of a stronger power coming in between. influence can only be a steady march when one can surely never break away. anna wanted mrs. lehntman very much and mrs. lehntman needed anna, but there were always other ways to do and if anna had once given up she might do so again, so why should mrs. lehntman have real fear? no, while the good anna did not come to open fight she had been stronger. now mrs. lehntman could always hold out longer. she knew too, that anna had a feeling heart. anna could never stop doing all she could for any one that really needed help. poor anna had no power to say no. and then, too, mrs. lehntman was the only romance anna ever knew. romance is the ideal in one's life and it is very lonely living with it lost. so the good anna gave all her savings for this place, although she knew that this was not the right way for her friend to do. for some time now they were all very busy fixing up the house. it swallowed all anna's savings fixing up this house, for when anna once began to make it nice, she could not leave it be until it was as good as for the purpose it should be. somehow it was anna now that really took the interest in the house. mrs. lehntman, now the thing was done seemed very lifeless, without interest in the house, uneasy in her mind and restless in her ways, and more diffuse even than before in her attention. she was good and kind to all the people in her house, and let them do whatever they thought best. anna did not fail to see that mrs. lehntman had something on her mind that was all new. what was it that disturbed mrs. lehntman so? she kept on saying it was all in anna's head. she had no trouble now at all. everybody was so good and it was all so nice in the new house. but surely there was something here that was all wrong. anna heard a good deal of all this from her half brother's wife, the hard speaking mrs. federner. through the fog of dust and work and furnishing in the new house, and through the disturbed mind of mrs. lehntman, and with the dark hints of mrs. federner, there loomed up to anna's sight a man, a new doctor that mrs. lehntman knew. anna had never met the man but she heard of him very often now. not from her friend, the widow mrs. lehntman. anna knew that mrs. lehntman made of him a mystery that anna had not the strength just then to vigorously break down. mrs. federner gave always dark suggestions and unpleasant hints. even good mrs. drehten talked of it. mrs. lehntman never spoke of the new doctor more than she could help. this was most mysterious and unpleasant and very hard for our good anna to endure. anna's troubles came all of them at once. here in mrs. lehntman's house loomed up dismal and forbidding, a mysterious, perhaps an evil man. in dr. shonjen's house were beginning signs of interest in the doctor in a woman. this, too, mrs. federner often told to the poor anna. the doctor surely would be married soon, he liked so much now to go to mr. weingartner's house where there was a daughter who loved doctor, everybody knew. in these days the living room in her half brother's house was anna's torture chamber. and worst of all there was so much reason for her half sister's words. the doctor certainly did look like marriage and mrs. lehntman acted very queer. poor anna. dark were these days and much she had to suffer. the doctor's trouble came to a head the first. it was true doctor was engaged and to be married soon. he told anna so himself. what was the good anna now to do? dr. shonjen wanted her of course to stay. anna was so sad with all these troubles. she knew here in the doctor's house it would be bad when he was married, but she had not the strength now to be firm and go away. she said at last that she would try and stay. doctor got married now very soon. anna made the house all beautiful and clean and she really hoped that she might stay. but this was not for long. mrs. shonjen was a proud, unpleasant woman. she wanted constant service and attention and never even a thank you to a servant. soon all doctor's old people went away. anna went to doctor and explained. she told him what all the servants thought of his new wife. anna bade him a sad farewell and went away. anna was now most uncertain what to do. she could go to curden to her miss mary wadsmith who always wrote how much she needed anna, but anna still dreaded miss jane's interfering ways. then too, she could not yet go away from bridgepoint and from mrs. lehntman, unpleasant as it always was now over there. through one of doctor's friends anna heard of miss mathilda. anna was very doubtful about working for a miss mathilda. she did not think it would be good working for a woman anymore. she had found it very good with miss mary but she did not think that many women would be so. most women were interfering in their ways. anna heard that miss mathilda was a great big woman, not so big perhaps as her miss mary, still she was big, and the good anna liked them better so. she did not like them thin and small and active and always looking in and always prying. anna could not make up her mind what was the best thing now for her to do. she could sew and this way make a living, but she did not like such business very well. mrs. lehntman urged the place with miss mathilda. she was sure anna would find it better so. the good anna did not know. "well anna," mrs. lehntman said, "i tell you what we do. i go with you to that woman that tells fortunes, perhaps she tell us something that will show us what is the best way for you now to do." it was very bad to go to a woman who tells fortunes. anna was of strong south german catholic religion and the german priests in the churches always said that it was very bad to do things so. but what else now could the good anna do? she was so mixed and bothered in her mind, and troubled with this life that was all wrong, though she did try so hard to do the best she knew. "all right, mrs. lehntman," anna said at last, "i think i go there now with you." this woman who told fortunes was a medium. she had a house in the lower quarter of the town. mrs. lehntman and the good anna went to her. the medium opened the door for them herself. she was a loose made, dusty, dowdy woman with a persuading, conscious and embracing manner and very greasy hair. the woman let them come into the house. the street door opened straight into the parlor, as is the way in the small houses of the south. the parlor had a thick and flowered carpet on the floor. the room was full of dirty things all made by hand. some hung upon the wall, some were on the seats and over backs of chairs and some on tables and on those what-nots that poor people love. and everywhere were little things that break. many of these little things were broken and the place was stuffy and not clean. no medium uses her parlor for her work. it is always in her eating room that she has her trances. the eating room in all these houses is the living room in winter. it has a round table in the centre covered with a decorated woolen cloth, that has soaked in the grease of many dinners, for though it should be always taken off, it is easier to spread the cloth upon it than change it for the blanket deadener that one owns. the upholstered chairs are dark and worn, and dirty. the carpet has grown dingy with the food that's fallen from the table, the dirt that's scraped from off the shoes, and the dust that settles with the ages. the sombre greenish colored paper on the walls has been smoked a dismal dirty grey, and all pervading is the smell of soup made out of onions and fat chunks of meat. the medium brought mrs. lehntman and our anna into this eating room, after she had found out what it was they wanted. they all three sat around the table and then the medium went into her trance. the medium first closed her eyes and then they opened very wide and lifeless. she took a number of deep breaths, choked several times and swallowed very hard. she waved her hand back every now and then, and she began to speak in a monotonous slow, even tone. "i see--i see--don't crowd so on me,--i see--i see--too many forms--don't crowd so on me--i see--i see--you are thinking of something--you don't know whether you want to do it now. i see--i see--don't crowd so on me--i see--i see--you are not sure,--i see--i see--a house with trees around it,--it is dark--it is evening--i see--i see--you go in the house--i see--i see you come out--it will be all right--you go and do it--do what you are not certain about--it will come out all right--it is best and you should do it now." she stopped, she made deep gulps, her eyes rolled back into her head, she swallowed hard and then she was her former dingy and bland self again. "did you get what you wanted that the spirit should tell you?" the woman asked. mrs. lehntman answered yes, it was just what her friend had wanted so bad to know. anna was uneasy in this house with superstition, with fear of her good priest, and with disgust at all the dirt and grease, but she was most content for now she knew what it was best for her to do. anna paid the woman for her work and then they came away. "there anna didn't i tell you how it would all be? you see the spirit says so too. you must take the place with miss mathilda, that is what i told you was the best thing for you to do. we go out and see her where she lives to-night. ain't you glad, anna, that i took you to this place, so you know now what you will do?" mrs. lehntman and anna went that evening to see miss mathilda. miss mathilda was staying with a friend who lived in a house that did have trees about. miss mathilda was not there herself to talk with anna. if it had not been that it was evening, and so dark, and that this house had trees all round about, and that anna found herself going in and coming out just as the woman that day said that she would do, had it not all been just as the medium said, the good anna would never have taken the place with miss mathilda. anna did not see miss mathilda and she did not like the friend who acted in her place. this friend was a dark, sweet, gentle little mother woman, very easy to be pleased in her own work and very good to servants, but she felt that acting for her young friend, the careless miss mathilda, she must be very careful to examine well and see that all was right and that anna would surely do the best she knew. she asked anna all about her ways and her intentions and how much she would spend, and how often she went out and whether she could wash and cook and sew. the good anna set her teeth fast to endure and would hardly answer anything at all. mrs. lehntman made it all go fairly well. the good anna was all worked up with her resentment, and miss mathilda's friend did not think that she would do. however, miss mathilda was willing to begin and as for anna, she knew that the medium said it must be so. mrs. lehntman, too, was sure, and said she knew that this was the best thing for anna now to do. so anna sent word at last to miss mathilda, that if she wanted her, she would try if it would do. so anna began a new life taking care of miss mathilda. anna fixed up the little red brick house where miss mathilda was going to live and made it very pleasant, clean and nice. she brought over her dog, baby, and her parrot. she hired lizzie for a second girl to be with her and soon they were all content. all except the parrot, for miss mathilda did not like its scream. baby was all right but not the parrot. but then anna never really loved the parrot, and so she gave it to the drehten girls to keep. before anna could really rest content with miss mathilda, she had to tell her good german priest what it was that she had done, and how very bad it was that she had been and how she would never do so again. anna really did believe with all her might. it was her fortune never to live with people who had any faith, but then that never worried anna. she prayed for them always as she should, and she was very sure that they were good. the doctor loved to tease her with his doubts and miss mathilda liked to do so too, but with the tolerant spirit of her church, anna never thought that such things were bad for them to do. anna found it hard to always know just why it was that things went wrong. sometimes her glasses broke and then she knew that she had not done her duty by the church, just in the way that she should do. sometimes she was so hard at work that she would not go to mass. something always happened then. anna's temper grew irritable and her ways uncertain and distraught. everybody suffered and then her glasses broke. that was always very bad because they cost so much to fix. still in a way it always ended anna's troubles, because she knew then that all this was because she had been bad. as long as she could scold it might be just the bad ways of all the thoughtless careless world, but when her glasses broke that made it clear. that meant that it was she herself who had been bad. no, it was no use for anna not to do the way she should, for things always then went wrong and finally cost money to make whole, and this was the hardest thing for the good anna to endure. anna almost always did her duty. she made confession and her mission whenever it was right. of course she did not tell the father when she deceived people for their good, or when she wanted them to give something for a little less. when anna told such histories to her doctor and later to her cherished miss mathilda, her eyes were always full of humor and enjoyment as she explained that she had said it so, and now she would not have to tell the father for she had not really made a sin. but going to a fortune teller anna knew was really bad. that had to be told to the father just as it was and penance had then to be done. anna did this and now her new life was well begun, making miss mathilda and the rest do just the way they should. yes, taking care of miss mathilda were the happiest days of all the good anna's strong hard working life. with miss mathilda anna did it all. the clothes, the house, the hats, what she should wear and when and what was always best for her to do. there was nothing miss mathilda would not let anna manage, and only be too glad if she would do. anna scolded and cooked and sewed and saved so well, that miss mathilda had so much to spend, that it kept anna still busier scolding all the time about the things she bought, that made so much work for anna and the other girl to do. but for all the scolding, anna was proud almost to bursting of her cherished miss mathilda with all her knowledge and her great possessions, and the good anna was always telling of it all to everybody that she knew. yes these were the happiest days of all her life with anna, even though with her friends there were great sorrows. but these sorrows did not hurt the good anna now, as they had done in the years that went before. miss mathilda was not a romance in the good anna's life, but anna gave her so much strong affection that it almost filled her life as full. it was well for the good anna that her life with miss mathilda was so happy, for now in these days, mrs. lehntman went altogether bad. the doctor she had learned to know, was too certainly an evil as well as a mysterious man, and he had power over the widow and midwife, mrs. lehntman. anna never saw mrs. lehntman at all now any more. mrs. lehntman had borrowed some more money and had given anna a note then for it all, and after that anna never saw her any more. anna now stopped altogether going to the lehntmans'. julia, the tall, gawky, good, blonde, stupid daughter, came often to see anna, but she could tell little of her mother. it certainly did look very much as if mrs. lehntman had now gone altogether bad. this was a great grief to the good anna, but not so great a grief as it would have been had not miss mathilda meant so much to her now. mrs. lehntman went from bad to worse. the doctor, the mysterious and evil man, got into trouble doing things that were not right to do. mrs. lehntman was mixed up in this affair. it was just as bad as it could be, but they managed, both the doctor and mrs. lehntman, finally to come out safe. everybody was so sorry about mrs. lehntman. she had been really a good woman before she met this doctor, and even now she certainly had not been really bad. for several years now anna never even saw her friend. but anna always found new people to befriend, people who, in the kindly fashion of the poor, used up her savings and then gave promises in place of payments. anna never really thought that these people would be good, but when they did not do the way they should, and when they did not pay her back the money she had loaned, and never seemed the better for her care, then anna would grow bitter with the world. no, none of them had any sense of what was the right way for them to do. so anna would repeat in her despair. the poor are generous with their things. they give always what they have, but with them to give or to receive brings with it no feeling that they owe the giver for the gift. even a thrifty german anna was ready to give all that she had saved, and so not be sure that she would have enough to take care of herself if she fell sick, or for old age, when she could not work. save and you will have the money you have saved was true only for the day of saving, even for a thrifty german anna. there was no certain way to have it for old age, for the taking care of what is saved can never be relied on, for it must always be in strangers' hands in a bank or in investments by a friend. and so when any day one might need life and help from others of the working poor, there was no way a woman who had a little saved could say them no. so the good anna gave her all to friends and strangers, to children, dogs and cats, to anything that asked or seemed to need her care. it was in this way that anna came to help the barber and his wife who lived around the corner, and who somehow could never make ends meet. they worked hard, were thrifty, had no vices, but the barber was one of them who never can make money. whoever owed him money did not pay. whenever he had a chance at a good job he fell sick and could not take it. it was never his own fault that he had trouble, but he never seemed to make things come out right. his wife was a blonde, thin, pale, german little woman, who bore her children very hard, and worked too soon, and then till she was sick. she too, always had things that went wrong. they both needed constant help and patience, and the good anna gave both to them all the time. another woman who needed help from the good anna, was one who was in trouble from being good to others. this woman's husband's brother, who was very good, worked in a shop where there was a bohemian, who was getting sick with consumption. this man got so much worse he could not do his work, but he was not so sick that he could stay in a hospital. so this woman had him living there with her. he was not a nice man, nor was he thankful for all the woman did for him. he was cross to her two children and made a great mess always in her house. the doctor said he must have many things to eat, and the woman and the brother of the husband got them for him. there was no friendship, no affection, no liking even for the man this woman cared for, no claim of common country or of kin, but in the kindly fashion of the poor this woman gave her all and made her house a nasty place, and for a man who was not even grateful for the gift. then, of course, the woman herself got into trouble. her husband's brother was now married. her husband lost his job. she did not have the money for the rent. it was the good anna's savings that were handy. so it went on. sometimes a little girl, sometimes a big one was in trouble and anna heard of them and helped them to find places. stray dogs and cats anna always kept until she found them homes. she was always careful to learn whether these people would be good to animals. out of the whole collection of stray creatures, it was the young peter and the jolly little rags, anna could not find it in her heart to part with. these became part of the household of the good anna's miss mathilda. peter was a very useless creature, a foolish, silly, cherished, coward male. it was wild to see him rush up and down in the back yard, barking and bouncing at the wall, when there was some dog out beyond, but when the very littlest one there was got inside of the fence and only looked at peter, peter would retire to his anna and blot himself out between her skirts. when peter was left downstairs alone, he howled. "i am all alone," he wailed, and then the good anna would have to come and fetch him up. once when anna stayed a few nights in a house not far away, she had to carry peter all the way, for peter was afraid when he found himself on the street outside his house. peter was a good sized creature and he sat there and he howled, and the good anna carried him all the way in her own arms. he was a coward was this peter, but he had kindly, gentle eyes and a pretty collie head, and his fur was very thick and white and nice when he was washed. and then peter never strayed away, and he looked out of his nice eyes and he liked it when you rubbed him down, and he forgot you when you went away, and he barked whenever there was any noise. when he was a little pup he had one night been put into the yard and that was all of his origin she knew. the good anna loved him well and spoiled him as a good german mother always does her son. little rags was very different in his nature. he was a lively creature made out of ends of things, all fluffy and dust color, and he was always bounding up into the air and darting all about over and then under silly peter and often straight into solemn fat, blind, sleepy baby, and then in a wild rush after some stray cat. rags was a pleasant, jolly little fellow. the good anna liked him very well, but never with her strength as she loved her good looking coward, foolish young man, peter. baby was the dog of her past life and she held anna with old ties of past affection. peter was the spoiled, good looking young man, of her middle age, and rags was always something of a toy. she liked him but he never struck in very deep. rags had strayed in somehow one day and then when no home for him was quickly found, he had just stayed right there. it was a very happy family there all together in the kitchen, the good anna and sally and old baby and young peter and the jolly little rags. the parrot had passed out of anna's life. she had really never loved the parrot and now she hardly thought to ask for him, even when she visited the drehtens. mrs. drehten was the friend anna always went to, for her sundays. she did not get advice from mrs. drehten as she used to from the widow, mrs. lehntman, for mrs. drehten was a mild, worn, unaggressive nature that never cared to influence or to lead. but they could mourn together for the world these two worn, working german women, for its sadness and its wicked ways of doing. mrs. drehten knew so well what one could suffer. things did not go well in these days with the drehtens. the children were all good, but the father with his temper and his spending kept everything from being what it should. poor mrs. drehten still had trouble with her tumor. she could hardly do any work now any more. mrs. drehten was a large, worn, patient german woman, with a soft face, lined, yellow brown in color and the look that comes from a german husband to obey, and many solid girls and boys to bear and rear, and from being always on one's feet and never having any troubles cured. mrs. drehten was always getting worse, and now the doctor thought it would be best to take the tumor out. it was no longer dr. shonjen who treated mrs. drehten. they all went now to a good old german doctor they all knew. "you see, miss mathilda," anna said, "all the old german patients don't go no more now to doctor. i stayed with him just so long as i could stand it, but now he is moved away up town too far for poor people, and his wife, she holds her head up so and always is spending so much money just for show, and so he can't take right care of us poor people any more. poor man, he has got always to be thinking about making money now. i am awful sorry about doctor, miss mathilda, but he neglected mrs. drehten shameful when she had her trouble, so now i never see him any more. doctor herman is a good, plain, german doctor and he would never do things so, and miss mathilda, mrs. drehten is coming in to-morrow to see you before she goes to the hospital for her operation. she could not go comfortable till she had seen you first to see what you would say." all anna's friends reverenced the good anna's cherished miss mathilda. how could they not do so and still remain friends with the good anna? miss mathilda rarely really saw them but they were always sending flowers and words of admiration through her anna. every now and then anna would bring one of them to miss mathilda for advice. it is wonderful how poor people love to take advice from people who are friendly and above them, from people who read in books and who are good. miss mathilda saw mrs. drehten and told her she was glad that she was going to the hospital for operation for that surely would be best, and so good mrs. drehten's mind was set at rest. mrs. drehten's tumor came out very well. mrs. drehten was afterwards never really well, but she could do her work a little better, and be on her feet and yet not get so tired. and so anna's life went on, taking care of miss mathilda and all her clothes and goods, and being good to every one that asked or seemed to need her help. now, slowly, anna began to make it up with mrs. lehntman. they could never be as they had been before. mrs, lehntman could never be again the romance in the good anna's life, but they could be friends again, and anna could help all the lehntmans in their need. this slowly came about. mrs. lehntman had now left the evil and mysterious man who had been the cause of all her trouble. she had given up, too, the new big house that she had taken. since her trouble her practice had been very quiet. still she managed to do fairly well. she began to talk of paying the good anna. this, however, had not gotten very far. anna saw mrs. lehntman a good deal now. mrs. lehntman's crisp, black, curly hair had gotten streaked with gray. her dark, full, good looking face had lost its firm outline, gone flabby and a little worn. she had grown stouter and her clothes did not look very nice. she was as bland as ever in her ways, and as diffuse as always in her attention, but through it all there was uneasiness and fear and uncertainty lest some danger might be near. she never said a word of her past life to the good anna, but it was very plain to see that her experience had not left her easy, nor yet altogether free. it had been hard for this good woman, for mrs. lehntman was really a good woman, it had been a very hard thing for this german woman to do what everybody knew and thought was wrong. mrs. lehntman was strong and she had courage, but it had been very hard to bear. even the good anna did not speak to her with freedom. there always remained a mystery and a depression in mrs. lehntman's affair. and now the blonde, foolish, awkward daughter, julia was in trouble. during the years the mother gave her no attention, julia kept company with a young fellow who was a clerk somewhere in a store down in the city. he was a decent, dull young fellow, who did not make much money and could never save it for he had an old mother he supported. he and julia had been keeping company for several years and now it was needful that they should be married. but then how could they marry? he did not make enough to start them and to keep on supporting his old mother too. julia was not used to working much and she said, and she was stubborn, that she would not live with charley's dirty, cross, old mother. mrs. lehntman had no money. she was just beginning to get on her feet. it was of course, the good anna's savings that were handy. however it paid anna to bring about this marriage, paid her in scoldings and in managing the dull, long, awkward julia, and her good, patient, stupid charley. anna loved to buy things cheap, and fix up a new place. julia and charley were soon married and things went pretty well with them. anna did not approve their slack, expensive ways of doing. "no miss mathilda," she would say, "the young people nowadays have no sense for saving and putting money by so they will have something to use when they need it. there's julia and her charley. i went in there the other day, miss mathilda, and they had a new table with a marble top and on it they had a grand new plush album. 'where you get that album?' i asked julia. 'oh, charley he gave it to me for my birthday,' she said, and i asked her if it was paid for and she said not all yet but it would be soon. now i ask you what business have they miss mathilda, when they ain't paid for anything they got already, what business have they to be buying new things for her birthdays. julia she don't do no work, she just sits around and thinks how she can spend the money, and charley he never puts one cent by. i never see anything like the people nowadays miss mathilda, they don't seem to have any sense of being careful about money. julia and charley when they have any children they won't have nothing to bring them up with right. i said that to julia, miss mathilda, when she showed me those silly things that charley bought her, and she just said in her silly, giggling way, perhaps they won't have any children. i told her she ought to be ashamed of talking so, but i don't know, miss mathilda, the young people nowadays have no sense at all of what's the right way for them to do, and perhaps its better if they don't have any children, and then miss mathilda you know there is mrs. lehntman. you know she regular adopted little johnny just so she could pay out some more money just as if she didn't have trouble enough taking care of her own children. no miss mathilda, i never see how people can do things so. people don't seem to have no sense of right or wrong or anything these days miss mathilda, they are just careless and thinking always of themselves and how they can always have a happy time. no, miss mathilda i don't see how people can go on and do things so." the good anna could not understand the careless and bad ways of all the world and always she grew bitter with it all. no, not one of them had any sense of what was the right way for them to do. anna's past life was now drawing to an end. her old blind dog, baby, was sick and like to die. baby had been the first gift from her friend the widow, mrs. lehntman in the old days when anna had been with miss mary wadsmith, and when these two women had first come together. through all the years of change, baby had stayed with the good anna, growing old and fat and blind and lazy. baby had been active and a ratter when she was young, but that was so long ago it was forgotten, and for many years now baby had wanted only her warm basket and her dinner. anna in her active life found need of others, of peter and the funny little rags, but always baby was the eldest and held her with the ties of old affection. anna was harsh when the young ones tried to keep poor baby out and use her basket. baby had been blind now for some years as dogs get, when they are no longer active. she got weak and fat and breathless and she could not even stand long any more. anna had always to see that she got her dinner and that the young active ones did not deprive her. baby did not die with a real sickness. she just got older and more blind and coughed and then more quiet, and then slowly one bright summer's day she died. there is nothing more dreary than old age in animals. somehow it is all wrong that they should have grey hair and withered skin, and blind old eyes, and decayed and useless teeth. an old man or an old woman almost always has some tie that seems to bind them to the younger, realer life. they have children or the remembrance of old duties, but a dog that's old and so cut off from all its world of struggle, is like a dreary, deathless struldbrug, the dreary dragger on of death through life. and so one day old baby died. it was dreary, more than sad, for the good anna. she did not want the poor old beast to linger with its weary age, and blind old eyes and dismal shaking cough, but this death left anna very empty. she had the foolish young man peter, and the jolly little rags for comfort, but baby had been the only one that could remember. the good anna wanted a real graveyard for her baby, but this could not be in a christian country, and so anna all alone took her old friend done up in decent wrappings and put her into the ground in some quiet place that anna knew of. the good anna did not weep for poor old baby. nay, she had not time even to feel lonely, for with the good anna it was sorrow upon sorrow. she was now no longer to keep house for miss mathilda. when anna had first come to miss mathilda she had known that it might only be for a few years, for miss mathilda was given to much wandering and often changed her home, and found new places where she went to live. the good anna did not then think much about this, for when she first went to miss mathilda she had not thought that she would like it and so she had not worried about staying. then in those happy years that they had been together, anna had made herself forget it. this last year when she knew that it was coming she had tried hard to think it would not happen. "we won't talk about it now miss mathilda, perhaps we all be dead by then," she would say when miss mathilda tried to talk it over. or, "if we live till then miss mathilda, perhaps you will be staying on right here." no, the good anna could not talk as if this thing were real, it was too weary to be once more left with strangers. both the good anna and her cherished miss mathilda tried hard to think that this would not really happen. anna made missions and all kinds of things to keep her miss mathilda and miss mathilda thought out all the ways to see if the good anna could not go with her, but neither the missions nor the plans had much success. miss mathilda would go, and she was going far away to a new country where anna could not live, for she would be too lonesome. there was nothing that these two could do but part. perhaps we all be dead by then, the good anna would repeat, but even that did not really happen. if we all live till then miss mathilda, came out truer. they all did live till then, all except poor old blind baby, and they simply had to part. poor anna and poor miss mathilda. they could not look at each other that last day. anna could not keep herself busy working. she just went in and out and sometimes scolded. anna could not make up her mind what she should do now for her future. she said that she would for a while keep this little red brick house that they had lived in. perhaps she might just take in a few boarders. she did not know, she would write about it later and tell it all to miss mathilda. the dreary day dragged out and then all was ready and miss mathilda left to take her train. anna stood strained and pale and dry eyed on the white stone steps of the little red brick house that they had lived in. the last thing miss mathilda heard was the good anna bidding foolish peter say good bye and be sure to remember miss mathilda. part iii the death of the good anna every one who had known of miss mathilda wanted the good anna now to take a place with them, for they all knew how well anna could take care of people and all their clothes and goods. anna too could always go to curden to miss mary wadsmith, but none of all these ways seemed very good to anna. it was not now any longer that she wanted to stay near mrs. lehntman. there was no one now that made anything important, but anna was certain that she did not want to take a place where she would be under some new people. no one could ever be for anna as had been her cherished miss mathilda. no one could ever again so freely let her do it all. it would be better anna thought in her strong strained weary body, it would be better just to keep on there in the little red brick house that was all furnished, and make a living taking in some boarders. miss mathilda had let her have the things, so it would not cost any money to begin. she could perhaps manage to live on so. she could do all the work and do everything as she thought best, and she was too weary with the changes to do more than she just had to, to keep living. so she stayed on in the house where they had lived, and she found some men, she would not take in women, who took her rooms and who were her boarders. things soon with anna began to be less dreary. she was very popular with her few boarders. they loved her scoldings and the good things she made for them to eat. they made good jokes and laughed loud and always did whatever anna wanted, and soon the good anna got so that she liked it very well. not that she did not always long for miss mathilda. she hoped and waited and was very certain that sometime, in one year or in another miss mathilda would come back, and then of course would want her, and then she could take all good care of her again. anna kept all miss mathilda's things in the best order. the boarders were well scolded if they ever made a scratch on miss mathilda's table. some of the boarders were hearty good south german fellows and anna always made them go to mass. one boarder was a lusty german student who was studying in bridgepoint to be a doctor. he was anna's special favourite and she scolded him as she used to her old doctor so that he always would be good. then, too, this cheery fellow always sang when he was washing, and that was what miss mathilda always used to do. anna's heart grew warm again with this young fellow who seemed to bring back to her everything she needed. and so anna's life in these days was not all unhappy. she worked and scolded, she had her stray dogs and cats and people, who all asked and seemed to need her care, and she had hearty german fellows who loved her scoldings and ate so much of the good things that she knew so well the way to make. no, the good anna's life in these days was not all unhappy. she did not see her old friends much, she was too busy, but once in a great while she took a sunday afternoon and went to see good mrs. drehten. the only trouble was that anna hardly made a living. she charged so little for her board and gave her people such good things to eat, that she could only just make both ends meet. the good german priest to whom she always told her troubles tried to make her have the boarders pay a little higher, and miss mathilda always in her letters urged her to this thing, but the good anna somehow could not do it. her boarders were nice men but she knew they did not have much money, and then she could not raise on those who had been with her and she could not ask the new ones to pay higher, when those who were already there were paying just what they had paid before. so anna let it go just as she had begun it. she worked and worked all day and thought all night how she could save, and with all the work she just managed to keep living. she could not make enough to lay any money by. anna got so little money that she had all the work to do herself. she could not pay even the little sally enough to keep her with her. not having little sally nor having any one else working with her, made it very hard for anna ever to go out, for she never thought that it was right to leave a house all empty. once in a great while of a sunday, sally who was now working in a factory would come and stay in the house for the good anna, who would then go out and spend the afternoon with mrs. drehten. no, anna did not see her old friends much any more. she went sometimes to see her half brother and his wife and her nieces, and they always came to her on her birthdays to give presents, and her half brother never left her out of his festive raisined bread giving progresses. but these relatives of hers had never meant very much to the good anna. anna always did her duty by them all, and she liked her half brother very well and the loaves of raisined bread that he supplied her were most welcome now, and anna always gave her god daughter and her sister handsome presents, but no one in this family had ever made a way inside to anna's feelings. mrs. lehntman she saw very rarely. it is hard to build up new on an old friendship when in that friendship there has been bitter disillusion. they did their best, both these women to be friends, but they were never able to again touch one another nearly. there were too many things between them that they could not speak of, things that had never been explained nor yet forgiven. the good anna still did her best for foolish julia and still every now and then saw mrs. lehntman, but this family had now lost all its real hold on anna. mrs. drehten was now the best friend that anna knew. here there was never any more than the mingling of their sorrows. they talked over all the time the best way for mrs. drehten now to do; poor mrs. drehten who with her chief trouble, her bad husband, had really now no way that she could do. she just had to work and to be patient and to love her children and be very quiet. she always had a soothing mother influence on the good anna who with her irritable, strained, worn-out body would come and sit by mrs. drehten and talk all her troubles over. of all the friends that the good anna had had in these twenty years in bridgepoint, the good father and patient mrs. drehten were the only ones that were now near to anna and with whom she could talk her troubles over. anna worked, and thought, and saved, and scolded, and took care of all the boarders, and of peter and of rags, and all the others. there was never any end to anna's effort and she grew always more tired, more pale yellow, and in her face more thin and worn and worried. sometimes she went farther in not being well, and then she went to see dr. herman who had operated on good mrs. drehten. the things that anna really needed were to rest sometimes and eat more so that she could get stronger, but these were the last things that anna could bring herself to do. anna could never take a rest. she must work hard through the summer as well as through the winter, else she could never make both ends meet. the doctor gave her medicines to make her stronger but these did not seem to do much good. anna grew always more tired, her headaches came oftener and harder, and she was now almost always feeling very sick. she could not sleep much in the night. the dogs with their noises disturbed her and everything in her body seemed to pain her. the doctor and the good father tried often to make her give herself more care. mrs. drehten told her that she surely would not get well unless for a little while she would stop working. anna would then promise to take care, to rest in bed a little longer and to eat more so that she would get stronger, but really how could anna eat when she always did the cooking and was so tired of it all, before it was half ready for the table? anna's only friendship now was with good mrs. drehten who was too gentle and too patient to make a stubborn faithful german anna ever do the way she should, in the things that were for her own good. anna grew worse all through this second winter. when the summer came the doctor said that she simply could not live on so. he said she must go to his hospital and there he would operate upon her. she would then be well and strong and able to work hard all next winter. anna for some time would not listen. she could not do this so, for she had her house all furnished and she simply could not let it go. at last a woman came and said she would take care of anna's boarders and then anna said that she was prepared to go. anna went to the hospital for her operation. mrs. drehten was herself not well but she came into the city, so that some friend would be with the good anna. together, then, they went to this place where the doctor had done so well by mrs. drehten. in a few days they had anna ready. then they did the operation, and then the good anna with her strong, strained, worn-out body died. mrs. drehten sent word of her death to miss mathilda. "dear miss mathilda," wrote mrs. drehten, "miss annie died in the hospital yesterday after a hard operation. she was talking about you and doctor and miss mary wadsmith all the time. she said she hoped you would take peter and the little rags to keep when you came back to america to live. i will keep them for you here miss mathilda. miss annie died easy, miss mathilda, and sent you her love." finis melanctha each one as she may rose johnson made it very hard to bring her baby to its birth. melanctha herbert who was rose johnson's friend, did everything that any woman could. she tended rose, and she was patient, submissive, soothing, and untiring, while the sullen, childish, cowardly, black rosie grumbled and fussed and howled and made herself to be an abomination and like a simple beast. the child though it was healthy after it was born, did not live long. rose johnson was careless and negligent and selfish, and when melanctha had to leave for a few days, the baby died. rose johnson had liked the baby well enough and perhaps she just forgot it for awhile, anyway the child was dead and rose and sam her husband were very sorry but then these things came so often in the negro world in bridgepoint, that they neither of them thought about it very long. rose johnson and melanctha herbert had been friends now for some years. rose had lately married sam johnson a decent honest kindly fellow, a deck hand on a coasting steamer. melanctha herbert had not yet been really married. rose johnson was a real black, tall, well built, sullen, stupid, childlike, good looking negress. she laughed when she was happy and grumbled and was sullen with everything that troubled. rose johnson was a real black negress but she had been brought up quite like their own child by white folks. rose laughed when she was happy but she had not the wide, abandoned laughter that makes the warm broad glow of negro sunshine. rose was never joyous with the earth-born, boundless joy of negroes. hers was just ordinary, any sort of woman laughter. rose johnson was careless and was lazy, but she had been brought up by white folks and she needed decent comfort. her white training had only made for habits, not for nature. rose had the simple, promiscuous immorality of the black people. rose johnson and melanctha herbert like many of the twos with women were a curious pair to be such friends. melanctha herbert was a graceful, pale yellow, intelligent, attractive negress. she had not been raised like rose by white folks but then she had been half made with real white blood. she and rose johnson were both of the better sort of negroes, there, in bridgepoint. "no, i ain't no common nigger," said rose johnson, "for i was raised by white folks, and melanctha she is so bright and learned so much in school, she ain't no common nigger either, though she ain't got no husband to be married to like i am to sam johnson." why did the subtle, intelligent, attractive, half white girl melanctha herbert love and do for and demean herself in service to this coarse, decent, sullen, ordinary, black childish rose, and why was this unmoral, promiscuous, shiftless rose married, and that's not so common either, to a good man of the negroes, while melanctha with her white blood and attraction and her desire for a right position had not yet been really married. sometimes the thought of how all her world was made, filled the complex, desiring melanctha with despair. she wondered, often, how she could go on living when she was so blue. melanctha told rose one day how a woman whom she knew had killed herself because she was so blue. melanctha said, sometimes, she thought this was the best thing for her herself to do. rose johnson did not see it the least bit that way. "i don't see melanctha why you should talk like you would kill yourself just because you're blue. i'd never kill myself melanctha just 'cause i was blue. i'd maybe kill somebody else melanctha 'cause i was blue, but i'd never kill myself. if i ever killed myself melanctha it'd be by accident, and if i ever killed myself by accident melanctha, i'd be awful sorry." rose johnson and melanctha herbert had first met, one night, at church. rose johnson did not care much for religion. she had not enough emotion to be really roused by a revival. melanctha herbert had not come yet to know how to use religion. she was still too complex with desire. however, the two of them in negro fashion went very often to the negro church, along with all their friends, and they slowly came to know each other very well. rose johnson had been raised not as a servant but quite like their own child by white folks. her mother who had died when rose was still a baby, had been a trusted servant in the family. rose was a cute, attractive, good looking little black girl and these people had no children of their own and so they kept rose in their house. as rose grew older she drifted from her white folks back to the colored people, and she gradually no longer lived in the old house. then it happened that these people went away to some other town to live, and somehow rose stayed behind in bridgepoint. her white folks left a little money to take care of rose, and this money she got every little while. rose now in the easy fashion of the poor lived with one woman in her house, and then for no reason went and lived with some other woman in her house. all this time, too, rose kept company, and was engaged, first to this colored man and then to that, and always she made sure she was engaged, for rose had strong the sense of proper conduct. "no, i ain't no common nigger just to go around with any man, nor you melanctha shouldn't neither," she said one day when she was telling the complex and less sure melanctha what was the right way for her to do. "no melanctha, i ain't no common nigger to do so, for i was raised by white folks. you know very well melanctha that i'se always been engaged to them." and so rose lived on, always comfortable and rather decent and very lazy and very well content. after she had lived some time this way, rose thought it would be nice and very good in her position to get regularly really married. she had lately met sam johnson somewhere, and she liked him and she knew he was a good man, and then he had a place where he worked every day and got good wages. sam johnson liked rose very well and he was quite ready to be married. one day they had a grand real wedding and were married. then with melanctha herbert's help to do the sewing and the nicer work, they furnished comfortably a little red brick house. sam then went back to his work as deck hand on a coasting steamer, and rose stayed home in her house and sat and bragged to all her friends how nice it was to be married really to a husband. life went on very smoothly with them all the year. rose was lazy but not dirty and sam was careful but not fussy, and then there was melanctha to come in every day and help to keep things neat. when rose's baby was coming to be born, rose came to stay in the house where melanctha herbert lived just then, with a big good natured colored woman who did washing. rose went there to stay, so that she might have the doctor from the hospital near by to help her have the baby, and then, too, melanctha could attend to her while she was sick. here the baby was born, and here it died, and then rose went back to her house again with sam. melanctha herbert had not made her life all simple like rose johnson. melanctha had not found it easy with herself to make her wants and what she had, agree. melanctha herbert was always losing what she had in wanting all the things she saw. melanctha was always being left when she was not leaving others. melanctha herbert always loved too hard and much too often. she was always full with mystery and subtle movements and denials and vague distrusts and complicated disillusions. then melanctha would be sudden and impulsive and unbounded in some faith, and then she would suffer and be strong in her repression. melanctha herbert was always seeking rest and quiet, and always she could only find new ways to be in trouble. melanctha wondered often how it was she did not kill herself when she was so blue. often she thought this would be really the best way for her to do. melanctha herbert had been raised to be religious, by her mother. melanctha had not liked her mother very well. this mother, 'mis' herbert, as her neighbors called her, had been a sweet appearing and dignified and pleasant, pale yellow, colored woman. 'mis' herbert had always been a little wandering and mysterious and uncertain in her ways. melanctha was pale yellow and mysterious and a little pleasant like her mother, but the real power in melanctha's nature came through her robust and unpleasant and very unendurable black father. melanctha's father only used to come to where melanctha and her mother lived, once in a while. it was many years now that melanctha had not heard or seen or known of anything her father did. melanctha herbert almost always hated her black father, but she loved very well the power in herself that came through him. and so her feeling was really closer to her black coarse father, than her feeling had ever been toward her pale yellow, sweet-appearing mother. the things she had in her of her mother never made her feel respect. melanctha herbert had not loved herself in childhood. all of her youth was bitter to remember. melanctha had not loved her father and her mother and they had found it very troublesome to have her. melanctha's mother and her father had been regularly married. melanctha's father was a big black virile negro. he only came once in a while to where melanctha and her mother lived, but always that pleasant, sweet-appearing, pale yellow woman, mysterious and uncertain and wandering in her ways, was close in sympathy and thinking to her big black virile husband. james herbert was a common, decent enough, colored workman, brutal and rough to his one daughter, but then she was a most disturbing child to manage. the young melanctha did not love her father and her mother, and she had a break neck courage, and a tongue that could be very nasty. then, too, melanctha went to school and was very quick in all the learning, and she knew very well how to use this knowledge to annoy her parents who knew nothing. melanctha herbert had always had a break neck courage. melanctha always loved to be with horses; she loved to do wild things, to ride the horses and to break and tame them. melanctha, when she was a little girl, had had a good chance to live with horses. near where melanctha and her mother lived was the stable of the bishops, a rich family who always had fine horses. john, the bishops' coachman, liked melanctha very well and he always let her do anything she wanted with the horses. john was a decent, vigorous mulatto with a prosperous house and wife and children. melanctha herbert was older than any of his children. she was now a well grown girl of twelve and just beginning as a woman. james herbert, melanctha's father, knew this john, the bishops' coachman very well. one day james herbert came to where his wife and daughter lived, and he was furious. "where's that melanctha girl of yours," he said fiercely, "if she is to the bishops' stables again, with that man john, i swear i kill her. why don't you see to that girl better you, you're her mother." james herbert was a powerful, loose built, hard handed, black, angry negro. herbert never was a joyous negro. even when he drank with other men, and he did that very, often, he was never really joyous. in the days when he had been most young and free and open, he had never had the wide abandoned laughter that gives the broad glow to negro sunshine. his daughter, melanctha herbert, later always made a hard forced laughter. she was only strong and sweet and in her nature when she was really deep in trouble, when she was fighting so with all she really had, that she did not use her laughter. this was always true of poor melanctha who was always so certain that she hated trouble. melanctha herbert was always seeking peace and quiet, and she could always only find new ways to get excited. james herbert was often a very angry negro. he was fierce and serious, and he was very certain that he often had good reason to be angry with melanctha, who knew so well how to be nasty, and to use her learning with a father who knew nothing. james herbert often drank with john, the bishops' coachman. john in his good nature sometimes tried to soften herbert's feeling toward melanctha. not that melanctha ever complained to john of her home life or her father. it was never melanctha's way, even in the midst of her worst trouble to complain to any one of what happened to her, but nevertheless somehow every one who knew melanctha always knew how much she suffered. it was only while one really loved melanctha that one understood how to forgive her, that she never once complained nor looked unhappy, and was always handsome and in spirits, and yet one always knew how much she suffered. the father, james herbert, never told his troubles either, and he was so fierce and serious that no one ever thought of asking. 'mis' herbert as her neighbors called her was never heard even to speak of her husband or her daughter. she was always pleasant, sweet-appearing, mysterious and uncertain, and a little wandering in her ways. the herberts were a silent family with their troubles, but somehow every one who knew them always knew everything that happened. the morning of one day when in the evening herbert and the coachman john were to meet to drink together, melanctha had to come to the stable joyous and in the very best of humors. her good friend john on this morning felt very firmly how good and sweet she was and how very much she suffered. john was a very decent colored coachman. when he thought about melanctha it was as if she were the eldest of his children. really he felt very strongly the power in her of a woman. john's wife always liked melanctha and she always did all she could to make things pleasant. and melanctha all her life loved and respected kind and good and considerate people. melanctha always loved and wanted peace and gentleness and goodness and all her life for herself poor melanctha could only find new ways to be in trouble. this evening after john and herbert had drunk awhile together, the good john began to tell the father what a fine girl he had for a daughter. perhaps the good john had been drinking a good deal of liquor, perhaps there was a gleam of something softer than the feeling of a friendly elder in the way john then spoke of melanctha. there had been a good deal of drinking and john certainly that very morning had felt strongly melanctha's power as a woman. james herbert was always a fierce, suspicious, serious negro, and drinking never made him feel more open. he looked very black and evil as he sat and listened while john grew more and more admiring as he talked half to himself, half to the father, of the virtues and the sweetness of melanctha. suddenly between them there came a moment filled full with strong black curses, and then sharp razors flashed in the black hands, that held them flung backward in the negro fashion, and then for some minutes there was fierce slashing. john was a decent, pleasant, good natured, light brown negro, but he knew how to use a razor to do bloody slashing. when the two men were pulled apart by the other negroes who were in the room drinking, john had not been much wounded but james herbert had gotten one good strong cut that went from-his right shoulder down across the front of his whole body. razor fighting does not wound very deeply, but it makes a cut that looks most nasty, for it is so very bloody. herbert was held by the other negroes until he was cleaned and plastered, and then he was put to bed to sleep off his drink and fighting. the next day he came to where his wife and daughter lived and he was furious. "where's that melanctha, of yours?" he said to his wife, when he saw her. "if she is to the bishops' stables now with that yellow john, i swear i kill her. a nice way she is going for a decent daughter. why don't you see to that girl better you, ain't you her mother!" melanctha herbert had always been old in all her ways and she knew very early how to use her power as a woman, and yet melanctha with all her inborn intense wisdom was really very ignorant of evil. melanctha had not yet come to understand what they meant, the things she so often heard around her, and which were just beginning to stir strongly in her. now when her father began fiercely to assail her, she did not really know what it was that he was so furious to force from her. in every way that he could think of in his anger, he tried to make her say a thing she did not really know. she held out and never answered anything he asked her, for melanctha had a breakneck courage and she just then badly hated her black father. when the excitement was all over, melanctha began to know her power, the power she had so often felt stirring within her and which she now knew she could use to make her stronger. james herbert did not win this fight with his daughter. after awhile he forgot it as he soon forgot john and the cut of his sharp razor. melanctha almost forgot to hate her father, in her strong interest in the power she now knew she had within her. melanctha did not care much now, any longer, to see john or his wife or even the fine horses. this life was too quiet and accustomed and no longer stirred her to any interest or excitement. melanctha now really was beginning as a woman. she was ready, and she began to search in the streets and in dark corners to discover men and to learn their natures and their various ways of working. in these next years melanctha learned many ways that lead to wisdom. she learned the ways, and dimly in the distance she saw wisdom. these years of learning led very straight to trouble for melanctha, though in these years melanctha never did or meant anything that was really wrong. girls who are brought up with care and watching can always find moments to escape into the world, where they may learn the ways that lead to wisdom. for a girl raised like melanctha herbert, such escape was always very simple. often she was alone, sometimes she was with a fellow seeker, and she strayed and stood, sometimes by railroad yards, sometimes on the docks or around new buildings where many men were working. then when the darkness covered everything all over, she would begin to learn to know this man or that. she would advance, they would respond, and then she would withdraw a little, dimly, and always she did not know what it was that really held her. sometimes she would almost go over, and then the strength in her of not really knowing, would stop the average man in his endeavor. it was a strange experience of ignorance and power and desire. melanctha did not know what it was that she so badly wanted. she was afraid, and yet she did not understand that here she really was a coward. boys had never meant much to melanctha. they had always been too young to content her. melanctha had a strong respect for any kind of successful power. it was this that always kept melanctha nearer, in her feeling toward her virile and unendurable black father, than she ever was in her feeling for her pale yellow, sweet-appearing mother. the things she had in her of her mother, never made her feel respect. in these young days, it was only men that for melanctha held anything there was of knowledge and power. it was not from men however that melanctha learned to really understand this power. from the time that melanctha was twelve until she was sixteen she wandered, always seeking but never more than very dimly seeing wisdom. all this time melanctha went on with her school learning; she went to school rather longer than do most of the colored children. melanctha's wanderings after wisdom she always had to do in secret and by snatches, for her mother was then still living and 'mis' herbert always did some watching, and melanctha with all her hard courage dreaded that there should be much telling to her father, who came now quite often to where melanctha lived with her mother. in these days melanctha talked and stood and walked with many kinds of men, but she did not learn to know any of them very deeply. they all supposed her to have world knowledge and experience. they, believing that she knew all, told her nothing, and thinking that she was deciding with them, asked for nothing, and so though melanctha wandered widely, she was really very safe with all the wandering. it was a very wonderful experience this safety of melanctha in these days of her attempted learning. melanctha herself did not feel the wonder, she only knew that for her it all had no real value. melanctha all her life was very keen in her sense for real experience. she knew she was not getting what she so badly wanted, but with all her break neck courage melanctha here was a coward, and so she could not learn to really understand. melanctha liked to wander, and to stand by the railroad yard, and watch the men and the engines and the switches and everything that was busy there, working. railroad yards are a ceaseless fascination. they satisfy every kind of nature. for the lazy man whose blood flows very slowly, it is a steady soothing world of motion which supplies him with the sense of a strong moving power. he need not work and yet he has it very deeply; he has it even better than the man who works in it or owns it. then for natures that like to feel emotion without the trouble of having any suffering, it is very nice to get the swelling in the throat, and the fullness, and the heart beats, and all the flutter of excitement that comes as one watches the people come and go, and hears the engine pound and give a long drawn whistle. for a child watching through a hole in the fence above the yard, it is a wonder world of mystery and movement. the child loves all the noise, and then it loves the silence of the wind that comes before the full rush of the pounding train, that bursts out from the tunnel where it lost itself and all its noise in darkness, and the child loves all the smoke, that sometimes comes in rings, and always puffs with fire and blue color. for melanctha the yard was full of the excitement of many men, and perhaps a free and whirling future. melanctha came here very often and watched the men and all the things that were so busy working. the men always had time for, "hullo sis, do you want to sit on my engine," and, "hullo, that's a pretty lookin' yaller girl, do you want to come and see him cookin." all the colored porters liked melanctha. they often told her exciting things that had happened; how in the west they went through big tunnels where there was no air to breathe, and then out and winding around edges of great canyons on thin high spindling trestles, and sometimes cars, and sometimes whole trains fell from the narrow bridges, and always up from the dark places death and all kinds of queer devils looked up and laughed in their faces. and then they would tell how sometimes when the train went pounding down steep slippery mountains, great rocks would racket and roll down around them, and sometimes would smash in the car and kill men; and as the porters told these stories their round, black, shining faces would grow solemn, and their color would go grey beneath the greasy black, and their eyes would roll white in the fear and wonder of the things they could scare themselves by telling. there was one, big, serious, melancholy, light brown porter who often told melanctha stories, for he liked the way she had of listening with intelligence and sympathetic feeling, when he told how the white men in the far south tried to kill him because he made one of them who was drunk and called him a damned nigger, and who refused to pay money for his chair to a nigger, get off the train between stations. and then this porter had to give up going to that part of the southern country, for all the white men swore that if he ever came there again they would surely kill him. melanctha liked this serious, melancholy light brown negro very well, and all her life melanctha wanted and respected gentleness and goodness, and this man always gave her good advice and serious kindness, and melanctha felt such things very deeply, but she could never let them help her or affect her to change the ways that always made her keep herself in trouble. melanctha spent many of the last hours of the daylight with the porters and with other men who worked hard, but when darkness came it was always different. then melanctha would find herself with the, for her, gentlemanly classes. a clerk, or a young express agent would begin to know her, and they would stand, or perhaps, walk a little while together. melanctha always made herself escape but often it was with an effort. she did not know what it was that she so badly wanted, but with all her courage melanctha here was a coward, and so she could not learn to understand. melanctha and some man would stand in the evening and would talk together. sometimes melanctha would be with another girl and then it was much easier to stay or to escape, for then they could make way for themselves together, and by throwing words and laughter to each other, could keep a man from getting too strong in his attention. but when melanctha was alone, and she was so, very often, she would sometimes come very near to making a long step on the road that leads to wisdom. some man would learn a good deal about her in the talk, never altogether truly, for melanctha all her life did not know how to tell a story wholly. she always, and yet not with intention, managed to leave out big pieces which make a story very different, for when it came to what had happened and what she had said and what it was that she had really done, melanctha never could remember right. the man would sometimes come a little nearer, would detain her, would hold her arm or make his jokes a little clearer, and then melanctha would always make herself escape. the man thinking that she really had world wisdom would not make his meaning clear, and believing that she was deciding with him he never went so fast that he could stop her when at last she made herself escape. and so melanctha wandered on the edge of wisdom. "say, sis, why don't you when you come here stay a little longer?" they would all ask her, and they would hold her for an answer, and she would laugh, and sometimes she did stay longer, but always just in time she made herself escape. melanctha herbert wanted very much to know and yet she feared the knowledge. as she grew older she often stayed a good deal longer, and sometimes it was almost a balanced struggle, but she always made herself escape. next to the railroad yard it was the shipping docks that melanctha loved best when she wandered. often she was alone, sometimes she was with some better kind of black girl, and she would stand a long time and watch the men working at unloading, and see the steamers do their coaling, and she would listen with full feeling to the yowling of the free swinging negroes, as they ran, with their powerful loose jointed bodies and their childish savage yelling, pushing, carrying, pulling great loads from the ships to the warehouses. the men would call out, "say, sis, look out or we'll come and catch yer," or "hi, there, you yaller girl, come here and we'll take you sailin'." and then, too, melanctha would learn to know some of the serious foreign sailors who told her all sorts of wonders, and a cook would sometimes take her and her friends over a ship and show where he made his messes and where the men slept, and where the shops were, and how everything was made by themselves, right there, on ship board. melanctha loved to see these dark and smelly places. she always loved to watch and talk and listen with men who worked hard. but it was never from these rougher people that melanctha tried to learn the ways that lead to wisdom. in the daylight she always liked to talk with rough men and to listen to their lives and about their work and their various ways of doing, but when the darkness covered everything all over, melanctha would meet, and stand, and talk with a clerk or a young shipping agent who had seen her watching, and so it was that she would try to learn to understand. and then melanctha was fond of watching men work on new buildings. she loved to see them hoisting, digging, sawing and stone cutting. here, too, in the daylight, she always learned to know the common workmen. "heh, sis, look out or that rock will fall on you and smash you all up into little pieces. do you think you would make a nice jelly?" and then they would all laugh and feel that their jokes were very funny. and "say, you pretty yaller girl, would it scare you bad to stand up here on top where i be? see if you've got grit and come up here where i can hold you. all you got to do is to sit still on that there rock that they're just hoistin', and then when you get here i'll hold you tight, don't you be scared sis." sometimes melanctha would do some of these things that had much danger, and always with such men, she showed her power and her break neck courage. once she slipped and fell from a high place. a workman caught her and so she was not killed, but her left arm was badly broken. all the men crowded around her. they admired her boldness in doing and in bearing pain when her arm was broken. they all went along with her with great respect to the doctor, and then they took her home in triumph and all of them were bragging about her not squealing. james herbert was home where his wife lived, that day. he was furious when he saw the workmen and melanctha. he drove the men away with curses so that they were all very nearly fighting, and he would not let a doctor come in to attend melanctha. "why don't you see to that girl better, you, you're her mother." james herbert did not fight things out now any more with his daughter. he feared her tongue, and her school learning, and the way she had of saying things that were very nasty to a brutal black man who knew nothing. and melanctha just then hated him very badly in her suffering. and so this was the way melanctha lived the four years of her beginning as a woman. and many things happened to melanctha, but she knew very well that none of them had led her on to the right way, that certain way that was to lead her to world wisdom. melanctha herbert was sixteen when she first met jane harden. jane was a negress, but she was so white that hardly any one could guess it. jane had had a good deal of education. she had been two years at a colored college. she had had to leave because of her bad conduct. she taught melanctha many things. she taught her how to go the ways that lead to wisdom. jane harden was at this time twenty-three years old and she had had much experience. she was very much attracted by melanctha, and melanctha was very proud that this jane would let her know her. jane harden was not afraid to understand. melanctha who had strong the sense for real experience, knew that here was a woman who had learned to understand. jane harden had many bad habits. she drank a great deal, and she wandered widely. she was safe though now, when she wanted to be safe, in this wandering. melanctha herbert soon always wandered with her. melanctha tried the drinking and some of the other habits, but she did not find that she cared very much to do them. but every day she grew stronger in her desire to really understand. it was now no longer, even in the daylight, the rougher men that these two learned to know in their wanderings, and for melanctha the better classes were now a little higher. it was no longer express agents and clerks that she learned to know, but men in business, commercial travelers, and even men above these, and jane and she would talk and walk and laugh and escape from them all very often. it was still the same, the knowing of them and the always just escaping, only now for melanctha somehow it was different, for though it was always the same thing that happened it had a different flavor, for now melanctha was with a woman who had wisdom, and dimly she began to see what it was that she should understand. it was not from the men that melanctha learned her wisdom. it was always jane harden herself who was making melanctha begin to understand. jane was a roughened woman. she had power and she liked to use it, she had much white blood and that made her see clear, she liked drinking and that made her reckless. her white blood was strong in her and she had grit and endurance and a vital courage. she was always game, however much she was in trouble. she liked melanctha herbert for the things that she had like her, and then melanctha was young, and she had sweetness, and a way of listening with intelligence and sympathetic interest, to the stories that jane harden often told out of her experience. jane grew always fonder of melanctha. soon they began to wander, more to be together than to see men and learn their various ways of working. then they began not to wander, and melanctha would spend long hours with jane in her room, sitting at her feet and listening to her stories, and feeling her strength and the power of her affection, and slowly she began to see clear before her one certain way that would be sure to lead to wisdom. before the end came, the end of the two years in which melanctha spent all her time when she was not at school or in her home, with jane harden, before these two years were finished, melanctha had come to see very clear, and she had come to be very certain, what it is that gives the world its wisdom. jane harden always had a little money and she had a room in the lower part of the town. jane had once taught in a colored school. she had had to leave that too on account of her bad conduct. it was her drinking that always made all the trouble for her, for that can never be really covered over. jane's drinking was always growing worse upon her. melanctha had tried to do the drinking but it had no real attraction for her. in the first year, between jane harden and melanctha herbert, jane had been much the stronger. jane loved melanctha and she found her always intelligent and brave and sweet and docile, and jane meant to, and before the year was over she had taught melanctha what it is that gives many people in the world their wisdom. jane had many ways in which to do this teaching. she told melanctha many things. she loved melanctha hard and made melanctha feel it very deeply. she would be with other people and with men and with melanctha, and she would make melanctha understand what everybody wanted, and what one did with power when one had it. melanctha sat at jane's feet for many hours in these days and felt jane's wisdom. she learned to love jane and to have this feeling very deeply. she learned a little in these days to know joy, and she was taught too how very keenly she could suffer. it was very different this suffering from that melanctha sometimes had from her mother and from her very unendurable black father. then she was fighting and she could be strong and valiant in her suffering, but here with jane harden she was longing and she bent and pleaded with her suffering. it was a very tumultuous, very mingled year, this time for melanctha, but she certainly did begin to really understand. in every way she got it from jane harden. there was nothing good or bad in doing, feeling, thinking or in talking, that jane spared her. sometimes the lesson came almost too strong for melanctha, but somehow she always managed to endure it and so slowly, but always with increasing strength and feeling, melanctha began to really understand. then slowly, between them, it began to be all different. slowly now between them, it was melanctha herbert, who was stronger. slowly now they began to drift apart from one another. melanctha herbert never really lost her sense that it was jane harden who had taught her, but jane did many things that melanctha now no longer needed. and then, too, melanctha never could remember right when it came to what she had done and what had happened. melanctha now sometimes quarreled with jane, and they no longer went about together, and sometimes melanctha really forgot how much she owed to jane harden's teaching. melanctha began now to feel that she had always had world wisdom. she really knew of course, that it was jane who had taught her, but all that began to be covered over by the trouble between them, that was now always getting stronger. jane harden was a roughened woman. once she had been very strong, but now she was weakened in all her kinds of strength by her drinking. melanctha had tried the drinking but it had had no real attraction for her. jane's strong and roughened nature and her drinking made it always harder for her to forgive melanctha, that now melanctha did not really need her any longer. now it was melanctha who was stronger and it was jane who was dependent on her. melanctha was now come to be about eighteen years old. she was a graceful, pale yellow, good looking, intelligent, attractive negress, a little mysterious sometimes in her ways, and always good and pleasant, and always ready to do things for people. melanctha from now on saw very little of jane harden. jane did not like that very well and sometimes she abused melanctha, but her drinking soon covered everything all over. it was not in melanctha's nature to really lose her sense for jane harden. melanctha all her life was ready to help jane out in any of her trouble, and later, when jane really went to pieces, melanctha always did all that she could to help her. but melanctha herbert was ready now herself to do teaching. melanctha could do anything now that she wanted. melanctha knew now what everybody wanted. melanctha had learned how she might stay a little longer; she had learned that she must decide when she wanted really to stay longer, and she had learned how when she wanted to, she could escape. and so melanctha began once more to wander. it was all now for her very different. it was never rougher men now that she talked to, and she did not care much now to know white men of the, for her, very better classes. it was now something realler that melanctha wanted, something that would move her very deeply, something that would fill her fully with the wisdom that was planted now within her, and that she wanted badly, should really wholly fill her. melanctha these days wandered very widely. she was always alone now when she wandered. melanctha did not need help now to know, or to stay longer, or when she wanted, to escape. melanctha tried a great many men, in these days before she was really suited. it was almost a year that she wandered and then she met with a young mulatto. he was a doctor who had just begun to practice. he would most likely do well in the future, but it was not this that concerned melanctha. she found him good and strong and gentle and very intellectual, and all her life melanctha liked and wanted good and considerate people, and then too he did not at first believe in melanctha. he held off and did not know what it was that melanctha wanted. melanctha came to want him very badly. they began to know each other better. things began to be very strong between them. melanctha wanted him so badly that now she never wandered. she just gave herself to this experience. melanctha herbert was now, all alone, in bridgepoint. she lived now with this colored woman and now with that one, and she sewed, and sometimes she taught a little in a colored school as substitute for some teacher. melanctha had now no home nor any regular employment. life was just commencing for melanctha. she had youth and had learned wisdom, and she was graceful and pale yellow and very pleasant, and always ready to do things for people, and she was mysterious in her ways and that only made belief in her more fervent. during the year before she met jefferson campbell, melanctha had tried many kinds of men but they had none of them interested melanctha very deeply. she met them, she was much with them, she left them, she would think perhaps this next time it would be more exciting, and always she found that for her it all had no real meaning. she could now do everything she wanted, she knew now everything that everybody wanted, and yet it all had no excitement for her. with these men, she knew she could learn nothing. she wanted some one that could teach her very deeply and now at last she was sure that she had found him, yes she really had it, before she had thought to look if in this man she would find it. during this year 'mis' herbert as her neighbors called her, melanctha's pale yellow mother was very sick, and in this year she died. melanctha's father during these last years did not come very often to the house where his wife lived and melanctha. melanctha was not sure that her father was now any longer here in bridgepoint. it was melanctha who was very good now to her mother. it was always melanctha's way to be good to any one in trouble. melanctha took good care of her mother. she did everything that any woman could, she tended and soothed and helped her pale yellow mother, and she worked hard in every way to take care of her, and make her dying easy. but melanctha did not in these days like her mother any better, and her mother never cared much for this daughter who was always a hard child to manage, and who had a tongue that always could be very nasty. melanctha did everything that any woman could, and at last her mother died, and melanctha had her buried. melanctha's father was not heard from, and melanctha in all her life after, never saw or heard or knew of anything that her father did. it was the young doctor, jefferson campbell, who helped melanctha toward the end, to take care of her sick mother. jefferson campbell had often before seen melanctha herbert, but he had never liked her very well, and he had never believed that she was any good. he had heard something about how she wandered. he knew a little too of jane harden, and he was sure that this melanctha herbert, who was her friend and who wandered, would never come to any good. dr. jefferson campbell was a serious, earnest, good young joyous doctor. he liked to take care of everybody and he loved his own colored people. he always found life very easy did jeff campbell, and everybody liked to have him with them. he was so good and sympathetic, and he was so earnest and so joyous. he sang when he was happy, and he laughed, and his was the free abandoned laughter that gives the warm broad glow to negro sunshine. jeff campbell had never yet in his life had real trouble. jefferson's father was a good, kind, serious, religious man. he was a very steady, very intelligent, and very dignified, light brown, grey haired negro. he was a butler and he had worked for the campbell family many years, and his father and his mother before him had been in the service of this family as free people. jefferson campbell's father and his mother had of course been regularly married. jefferson's mother was a sweet, little, pale brown, gentle woman who reverenced and obeyed her good husband, and who worshipped and admired and loved hard her-good, earnest, cheery, hard working doctor boy who was her only child. jeff campbell had been raised religious by his people but religion had never interested jeff very much. jefferson was very good. he loved his people and he never hurt them, and he always did everything they wanted and that he could to please them, but he really loved best science and experimenting and to learn things, and he early wanted to be a doctor, and he was always very interested in the life of the colored people. the campbell family had been very good to him and had helped him on with his ambition. jefferson studied hard, he went to a colored college, and then he learnt to be a doctor. it was now two or three years, that he had started in to practice. everybody liked jeff campbell, he was so strong and kindly and cheerful and understanding, and he laughed so with pure joy, and he always liked to help all his own colored people. dr. jeff knew all about jane harden. he had taken care of her in some of her bad trouble. he knew about melanctha too, though until her mother was taken sick he had never met her. then he was called in to help melanctha to take care of her sick mother. dr. campbell did not like melanctha's ways and he did not think that she would ever come to any good. dr. campbell had taken care of jane harden in some of her bad trouble. jane sometimes had abused melanctha to him. what right had that melanctha herbert who owed everything to her, jane harden, what right had a girl like that to go away to other men and leave her, but melanctha herbert never had any sense of how to act to anybody. melanctha had a good mind, jane never denied her that, but she never used it to do anything decent with it. but what could you expect when melanctha had such a brute of a black nigger father, and melanctha was always abusing her father and yet she was just like him, and really she admired him so much and he never had any sense of what he owed to anybody, and melanctha was just like him and she was proud of it too, and it made jane so tired to hear melanctha talk all the time as if she wasn't. jane harden hated people who had good minds and didn't use them, and melanctha always had that weakness, and wanting to keep in with people, and never really saying that she wanted to be like her father, and it was so silly of melanctha to abuse her father, when she was so much like him and she really liked it. no, jane harden had no use for melanctha. oh yes, melanctha always came around to be good to her. melanctha was always sure to do that. she never really went away and left one. she didn't use her mind enough to do things straight out like that. melanctha herbert had a good mind, jane never denied that to her, but she never wanted to see or hear about melanctha herbert any more, and she wished melanctha wouldn't come in any more to see her. she didn't hate her, but she didn't want to hear about her father and all that talk melanctha always made, and that just meant nothing to her. jane harden was very tired of all that now. she didn't have any use now any more for melanctha, and if dr. campbell saw her he better tell her jane didn't want to see her, and she could take her talk to somebody else, who was ready to believe her. and then jane harden would drop away and forget melanctha and all her life before, and then she would begin to drink and so she would cover everything all over. jeff campbell heard all this very often, but it did not interest him very deeply. he felt no desire to know more of this melanctha. he heard her, once, talking to another girl outside of the house, when he was paying a visit to jane harden. he did not see much in the talk that he heard her do. he did not see much in the things jane harden said when she abused melanctha to him. he was more interested in jane herself than in anything he heard about melanctha. he knew jane harden had a good mind, and she had had power, and she could really have done things, and now this drinking covered everything all over. jeff campbell was always very sorry when he had to see it. jane harden was a roughened woman, and yet jeff found a great many strong good things in her, that still made him like her. jeff campbell did everything he could for jane harden. he did not care much to hear about melanctha. he had no feeling, much, about her. he did not find that he took any interest in her. jane harden was so much a stronger woman, and jane really had had a good mind, and she had used it to do things with it, before this drinking business had taken such a hold upon her. dr. campbell was helping melanctha herbert to take care of her sick mother. he saw melanctha now for long times and very often, and they sometimes talked a good deal together, but melanctha never said anything to him about jane harden. she never talked to him about anything that was not just general matters, or about medicine, or to tell him funny stories. she asked him many questions and always listened very well to all he told her, and she always remembered everything she heard him say about doctoring, and she always remembered everything that she had learned from all the others. jeff campbell never found that all this talk interested him very deeply. he did not find that he liked melanctha when he saw her so much, any better. he never found that he thought much about melanctha. he never found that he believed much in her having a good mind, like jane harden. he found he liked jane harden always better, and that he wished very much that she had never begun that bad drinking. melanctha herbert's mother was now always getting sicker. melanctha really did everything that any woman could. melanctha's mother never liked her daughter any better. she never said much, did 'mis' herbert, but anybody could see that she did not think much of this daughter. dr. campbell now often had to stay a long time to take care of 'mis' herbert. one day 'mis' herbert was much sicker and dr. campbell thought that this night, she would surely die. he came back late to the house, as he had said he would, to sit up and watch 'mis' herbert, and to help melanctha, if she should need anybody to be with her. melanctha herbert and jeff campbell sat up all that night together. 'mis' herbert did not die. the next day she was a little better. this house where melanctha had always lived with her mother was a little red brick, two story house. they had not much furniture to fill it and some of the windows were broken and not mended. melanctha did not have much money to use now on the house, but with a colored woman, who was their neighbor and good natured and who had always helped them, melanctha managed to take care of her mother and to keep the house fairly clean and neat. melanctha's mother was in bed in a room upstairs, and the steps from below led right up into it. there were just two rooms on this upstairs floor. melanctha and dr. campbell sat down on the steps, that night they watched together, so that they could hear and see melanctha's mother and yet the light would be shaded, and they could sit and read, if they wanted to, and talk low some, and yet not disturb 'mis' herbert. dr. campbell was always very fond of reading. dr. campbell had not brought a book with him that night. he had just forgotten it. he had meant to put something in his pocket to read, so that he could amuse himself, while he was sitting there and watching. when he was through with taking care of 'mis' herbert, he came and sat down on the steps just above where melanctha was sitting. he spoke about how he had forgotten to bring his book with him. melanctha said there were some old papers in the house, perhaps dr. campbell could find something in them that would help pass the time for a while for him. all right, dr. campbell said, that would be better than just sitting there with nothing. dr. campbell began to read through the old papers that melanctha gave him. when anything amused him in them, he read it out to melanctha. melanctha was now pretty silent, with him. dr. campbell began to feel a little, about how she responded to him. dr. campbell began to see a little that perhaps melanctha had a good mind. dr. campbell was not sure yet that she had a good mind, but he began to think a little that perhaps she might have one. jefferson campbell always liked to talk to everybody about the things he worked at and about his thinking about what he could do for the colored people. melanctha herbert never thought about these things the way that he did. melanctha had never said much to dr. campbell about what she thought about them. melanctha did not feel the same as he did about being good and regular in life, and not having excitements all the time, which was the way that jefferson campbell wanted that everybody should be, so that everybody would be wise and yet be happy. melanctha always had strong the sense for real experience. melanctha herbert did not think much of this way of coming to real wisdom. dr. campbell soon got through with his reading, in the old newspapers, and then somehow he began to talk along about the things he was always thinking. dr. campbell said he wanted to work so that he could understand what troubled people, and not to just have excitements, and he believed you ought to love your father and your mother and to be regular in all your life, and not to be always wanting new things and excitements, and to always know where you were, and what you wanted, and to always tell everything just as you meant it. that's the only kind of life he knew or believed in, jeff campbell repeated. "no i ain't got any use for all the time being in excitements and wanting to have all kinds of experience all the time. i got plenty of experience just living regular and quiet and with my family, and doing my work, and taking care of people, and trying to understand it. i don't believe much in this running around business and i don't want to see the colored people do it. i am a colored man and i ain't sorry, and i want to see the colored people like what is good and what i want them to have, and that's to live regular and work hard and understand things, and that's enough to keep any decent man excited." jeff campbell spoke now with some anger. not to melanctha, he did not think of her at all when he was talking. it was the life he wanted that he spoke to, and the way he wanted things to be with the colored people. but melanctha herbert had listened to him say all this. she knew he meant it, but it did not mean much to her, and she was sure some day he would find out, that it was not all, of real wisdom. melanctha knew very well what it was to have real wisdom. "but how about jane harden?" said melanctha to jeff campbell, "seems to me dr. campbell you find her to have something in her, and you go there very often, and you talk to her much more than you do to the nice girls that stay at home with their people, the kind you say you are really wanting. it don't seem to me dr. campbell, that what you say and what you do seem to have much to do with each other. and about your being so good dr. campbell," went on melanctha, "you don't care about going to church much yourself, and yet you always are saying you believe so much in things like that, for people. it seems to me, dr. campbell you want to have a good time just like all us others, and then you just keep on saying that it's right to be good and you ought not to have excitements, and yet you really don't want to do it dr. campbell, no more than me or jane harden. no, dr. campbell, it certainly does seem to me you don't know very well yourself, what you mean, when you are talking." jefferson had been talking right along, the way he always did when he got started, and now melanctha's answer only made him talk a little harder. he laughed a little, too, but very low, so as not to disturb 'mis' herbert who was sleeping very nicely, and he looked brightly at melanctha to enjoy her, and then he settled himself down to answer. "yes," he began, "it certainly does sound a little like i didn't know very well what i do mean, when you put it like that to me, miss melanctha, but that's just because you don't understand enough about what i meant, by what i was just saying to you. i don't say, never, i don't want to know all kinds of people, miss melanctha, and i don't say there ain't many kinds of people, and i don't say ever, that i don't find some like jane harden very good to know and talk to, but it's the strong things i like in jane harden, not all her excitements. i don't admire the bad things she does, miss melanctha, but jane harden is a strong woman and i always respect that in her. no i know you don't believe what i say, miss melanctha, but i mean it, and it's all just because you don't understand it when i say it. and as for religion, that just ain't my way of being good, miss melanctha, but it's a good way for many people to be good and regular in their way of living, and if they believe it, it helps them to be good, and if they're honest in it, i like to see them have it. no, what i don't like, miss melanctha, is this what i see so much with the colored people, their always wanting new things just to get excited." jefferson campbell here stopped himself in this talking. melanctha herbert did not make any answer. they both sat there very quiet. jeff campbell then began again on the old papers. he sat there on the steps just above where melanctha was sitting, and he went on with his reading, and his head went moving up and down, and sometimes he was reading, and sometimes he was thinking about all the things he wanted to be doing, and then he would rub the back of his dark hand over his mouth, and in between he would be frowning with his thinking, and sometimes he would be rubbing his head hard to help his thinking. and melanctha just sat still and watched the lamp burning, and sometimes she turned it down a little, when the wind caught it and it would begin to get to smoking. and so jeff campbell and melanctha herbert sat there on the steps, very quiet, a long time, and they didn't seem to think much, that they were together. they sat there so, for about an hour, and then it came to jefferson very slowly and as a strong feeling that he was sitting there on the steps, alone, with melanctha. he did not know if melanctha herbert was feeling very much about their being there alone together. jefferson began to wonder about it a little. slowly he felt that surely they must both have this feeling. it was so important that he knew that she must have it. they both sat there, very quiet, a long time. at last jefferson began to talk about how the lamp was smelling. jefferson began to explain what it is that makes a lamp get to smelling. melanctha let him talk. she did not answer, and then he stopped in his talking. soon melanctha began to sit up straighter and then she started in to question. "about what you was just saying dr. campbell about living regular and all that, i certainly don't understand what you meant by what you was just saying. you ain't a bit like good people dr. campbell, like the good people you are always saying are just like you. i know good people dr. campbell, and you ain't a bit like men who are good and got religion. you are just as free and easy as any man can be dr. campbell, and you always like to be with jane harden, and she is a pretty bad one and you don't look down on her and you never tell her she is a bad one. i know you like her just like a friend dr. campbell, and so i certainly don't understand just what it is you mean by all that you was just saying to me. i know you mean honest dr. campbell, and i am always trying to believe you, but i can't say as i see just what you mean when you say you want to be good and real pious, because i am very certain dr. campbell that you ain't that kind of a man at all, and you ain't never ashamed to be with queer folks dr. campbell, and you seem to be thinking what you are doing is just like what you are always saying, and dr. campbell, i certainly don't just see what you mean by what you say." dr. campbell almost laughed loud enough to wake 'mis' herbert. he did enjoy the way melanctha said these things to him. he began to feel very strongly about it that perhaps melanctha really had a good mind. he was very free now in his laughing, but not so as to make melanctha angry. he was very friendly with her in his laughing, and then he made his face get serious, and he rubbed his head to help him in his thinking. "i know miss melanctha" he began, "it ain't very easy for you to understand what i was meaning by what i was just saying to you, and perhaps some of the good people i like so wouldn't think very much, any more than you do, miss melanctha, about the ways i have to be good. but that's no matter miss melanctha. what i mean miss melanctha by what i was just saying to you is, that i don't, no, never, believe in doing things just to get excited. you see miss melanctha i mean the way so many of the colored people do it. instead of just working hard and caring about their working and living regular with their families and saving up all their money, so they will have some to bring up their children better, instead of living regular and doing like that and getting all their new ways from just decent living, the colored people just keep running around and perhaps drinking and doing everything bad they can ever think of, and not just because they like all those bad things that they are always doing, but only just because they want to get excited. no miss melanctha, you see i am a colored man myself and i ain't sorry, and i want to see the colored people being good and careful and always honest and living always just as regular as can be, and i am sure miss melanctha, that that way everybody can have a good time, and be happy and keep right and be busy, and not always have to be doing bad things for new ways to get excited. yes miss melanctha, i certainly do like everything to be good, and quiet, and i certainly do think that is the best way for all us colored people. no, miss melanctha too, i don't mean this except only just the way i say it. i ain't got any other meaning miss melanctha, and it's that what i mean when i am saying about being really good. it ain't miss melanctha to be pious and not liking every kind of people, and i don't say ever miss melanctha that when other kind of people come regular into your life you shouldn't want to know them always. what i mean miss melanctha by what i am always saying is, you shouldn't try to know everybody just to run around and get excited. it's that kind of way of doing that i hate so always miss melanctha, and that is so bad for all us colored people. i don't know as you understand now any better what i mean by what i was just saying to you. but you certainly do know now miss melanctha, that i always mean it what i say when i am talking." "yes i certainly do understand you when you talk so dr. campbell. i certainly do understand now what you mean by what you was always saying to me. i certainly do understand dr. campbell that you mean you don't believe it's right to love anybody." "why sure no, yes i do miss melanctha, i certainly do believe strong in loving, and in being good to everybody, and trying to understand what they all need, to help them." "oh i know all about that way of doing dr. campbell, but that certainly ain't the kind of love i mean when i am talking. i mean real, strong, hot love dr. campbell, that makes you do anything for somebody that loves you." "i don't know much about that kind of love yet miss melanctha. you see it's this way with me always miss melanctha. i am always so busy with my thinking about my work i am doing and so i don't have time for just fooling, and then too, you see miss melanctha, i really certainly don't ever like to get excited, and that kind of loving hard does seem always to mean just getting all the time excited. that certainly is what i always think from what i see of them that have it bad miss melanctha, and that certainly would never suit a man like me. you see miss melanctha i am a very quiet kind of fellow, and i believe in a quiet life for all the colored people. no miss melanctha i certainly never have mixed myself up in that kind of trouble." "yes i certainly do see that very clear dr. campbell," said melanctha, "i see that's certainly what it is always made me not know right about you and that's certainly what it is that makes you really mean what you was always saying. you certainly are just too scared dr. campbell to really feel things way down in you. all you are always wanting dr. campbell, is just to talk about being good, and to play with people just to have a good time, and yet always to certainly keep yourself out of trouble. it don't seem to me dr. campbell that i admire that way to do things very much. it certainly ain't really to me being very good. it certainly ain't any more to me dr. campbell, but that you certainly are awful scared about really feeling things way down in you, and that's certainly the only way dr. campbell i can see that you can mean, by what it is that you are always saying to me." "i don't know about that miss melanctha, i certainly don't think i can't feel things very deep in me, though i do say i certainly do like to have things nice and quiet, but i don't see harm in keeping out of danger miss melanctha, when a man knows he certainly don't want to get killed in it, and i don't know anything that's more awful dangerous miss melanctha than being strong in love with somebody. i don't mind sickness or real trouble miss melanctha, and i don't want to be talking about what i can do in real trouble, but you know something about that miss melanctha, but i certainly don't see much in mixing up just to get excited, in that awful kind of danger. no miss melanctha i certainly do only know just two kinds of ways of loving. one kind of loving seems to me, is like one has a good quiet feeling in a family when one does his work, and is always living good and being regular, and then the other way of loving is just like having it like any animal that's low in the streets together, and that don't seem to me very good miss melanctha, though i don't say ever that it's not all right when anybody likes it, and that's all the kinds of love i know miss melanctha, and i certainly don't care very much to get mixed up in that kind of a way just to be in trouble." jefferson stopped and melanctha thought a little. "that certainly does explain to me dr. campbell what i been thinking about you this long time. i certainly did wonder how you could be so live, and knowing everything, and everybody, and talking so big always about everything, and everybody always liking you so much, and you always looking as if you was thinking, and yet you really was never knowing about anybody and certainly not being really very understanding. it certainly is all dr. campbell because you is so afraid you will be losing being good so easy, and it certainly do seem to me dr. campbell that it certainly don't amount to very much that kind of goodness." "perhaps you are right miss melanctha," jefferson answered. "i don't say never, perhaps you ain't right miss melanctha. perhaps i ought to know more about such ways miss melanctha. perhaps it would help me some, taking care of the colored people, miss melanctha. i don't say, no, never, but perhaps i could learn a whole lot about women the right way, if i had a real good teacher." 'mis' herbert just then stirred a little in her sleep. melanctha went up the steps to the bed to attend her. dr. campbell got up too and went to help her. 'mis' herbert woke up and was a little better. now it was morning and dr. campbell gave his directions to melanctha, and then left her. melanctha herbert all her life long, loved and wanted good, kind and considerate people. jefferson campbell was all the things that melanctha had ever wanted. jefferson was a strong, well built, good looking, cheery, intelligent and good mulatto. and then at first he had not cared to know melanctha, and when he did begin to know her he had not liked her very well, and he had not thought that she would ever come to any good. and then jefferson campbell was so very gentle. jefferson never did some things like other men, things that now were beginning to be ugly, for melanctha. and then too jefferson campbell did not seem to know very well what it was that melanctha really wanted, and all this was making melanctha feel his power with her always getting stronger. dr. campbell came in every day to see 'mis' herbert. 'mis' herbert, after that night they watched together, did get a little better, but 'mis' herbert was really very sick, and soon it was pretty sure that she would have to die. melanctha certainly did everything, all the time, that any woman could. jefferson never thought much better of melanctha while she did it. it was not her being good, he wanted to find in her. he knew very well jane harden was right, when she said melanctha was always being good to everybody but that that did not make melanctha any better for her. then too, 'mis' herbert never liked melanctha any better, even on the last day of her living, and so jefferson really never thought much of melanctha's always being good to her mother. jefferson and melanctha now saw each other, very often. they now always liked to be with each other, and they always now had a good time when they talked to one another. they, mostly in their talking to each other, still just talked about outside things and what they were thinking. except just in little moments, and not those very often, they never said anything about their feeling. sometimes melanctha would tease jefferson a little just to show she had not forgotten, but mostly she listened to his talking, for jefferson still always liked to talk along about the things he believed in. melanctha was liking jefferson campbell better every day, and jefferson was beginning to know that melanctha certainly had a good mind, and he was beginning to feel a little her real sweetness. not in her being good to 'mis' herbert, that never seemed to jefferson to mean much in her, but there was a strong kind of sweetness in melanctha's nature that jefferson began now to feel when he was with her. 'mis' herbert was now always getting sicker. one night again dr. campbell felt very certain that before it was morning she would surely die. dr. campbell said he would come back to help melanctha watch her, and to do anything he could to make 'mis' herbert's dying more easy for her. dr. campbell came back that evening, after he was through with his other patients, and then he made 'mis' herbert easy, and then he came and sat down on the steps just above where melanctha was sitting with the lamp, and looking very tired. dr. campbell was pretty tired too, and they both sat there very quiet. "you look awful tired to-night, dr. campbell," melanctha said at last, with her voice low and very gentle, "don't you want to go lie down and sleep a little? you're always being much too good to everybody, dr. campbell. i like to have you stay here watching to-night with me, but it don't seem right you ought to stay here when you got so much always to do for everybody. you are certainly very kind to come back, dr. campbell, but i can certainly get along to-night without you. i can get help next door sure if i need it. you just go 'long home to bed, dr. campbell. you certainly do look as if you need it." jefferson was silent for some time, and always he was looking very gently at melanctha. "i certainly never did think, miss melanctha, i would find you to be so sweet and thinking, with me." "dr. campbell" said melanctha, still more gentle, "i certainly never did think that you would ever feel it good to like me. i certainly never did think you would want to see for yourself if i had sweet ways in me." they both sat there very tired, very gentle, very quiet, a long time. at last melanctha in a low, even tone began to talk to jefferson campbell. "you are certainly a very good man, dr. campbell, i certainly do feel that more every day i see you. dr. campbell, i sure do want to be friends with a good man like you, now i know you. you certainly, dr. campbell, never do things like other men, that's always ugly for me. tell me true, dr. campbell, how you feel about being always friends with me. i certainly do know, dr. campbell, you are a good man, and if you say you will be friends with me, you certainly never will go back on me, the way so many kinds of them do to every girl they ever get to like them. tell me for true, dr. campbell, will you be friends with me." "why, miss melanctha," said campbell slowly, "why you see i just can't say that right out that way to you. why sure you know miss melanctha, i will be very glad if it comes by and by that we are always friends together, but you see, miss melanctha, i certainly am a very slow-minded quiet kind of fellow though i do say quick things all the time to everybody, and when i certainly do want to mean it what i am saying to you, i can't say things like that right out to everybody till i know really more for certain all about you, and how i like you, and what i really mean to do better for you. you certainly do see what i mean, miss melanctha." "i certainly do admire you for talking honest to me, jeff campbell," said melanctha. "oh, i am always honest, miss melanctha. it's easy enough for me always to be honest, miss melanctha. all i got to do is always just to say right out what i am thinking. i certainly never have got any real reason for not saying it right out like that to anybody." they sat together, very silent. "i certainly do wonder, miss melanctha," at last began jeff campbell, "i certainly do wonder, if we know very right, you and me, what each other is really thinking. i certainly do wonder, miss melanctha, if we know at all really what each other means by what we are always saying." "that certainly do mean, by what you say, that you think i am a bad one, jeff campbell," flashed out melanctha. "why no, miss melanctha, why sure i don't mean any thing like that at all, by what i am saying to you. you know well as i do, miss melanctha, i think better of you every day i see you, and i like to talk with you all the time now, miss melanctha, and i certainly do think we both like it very well when we are together, and it seems to me always more, you are very good and sweet always to everybody. it only is, i am really so slow-minded in my ways, miss melanctha, for all i talk so quick to everybody, and i don't like to say to you what i don't know for very sure, and i certainly don't know for sure i know just all what you mean by what you are always saying to me. and you see, miss melanctha, that's what makes me say what i was just saying to you when you asked me." "i certainly do thank you again for being honest to me, dr. campbell," said melanctha. "i guess i leave you now, dr. campbell. i think i go in the other room and rest a little. i leave you here, so perhaps if i ain't here you will maybe sleep and rest yourself a little. good night now, dr. campbell, i call you if i need you later to help me, dr. campbell, i hope you rest well, dr. campbell." jeff campbell, when melanctha left him, sat there and he was very quiet and just wondered. he did not know very well just what melanctha meant by what she was always saying to him. he did not know very well how much he really knew about melanctha herbert. he wondered if he should go on being so much all the time with her. he began to think about what he should do now with her. jefferson campbell was a man who liked everybody and many people liked very much to be with him. women liked him, he was so strong, and good, and understanding, and innocent, and firm, and gentle. sometimes they seemed to want very much he should be with them. when they got so, they always had made campbell very tired. sometimes he would play a little with them, but he never had had any strong feeling for them. now with melanctha herbert everything seemed different. jefferson was not sure that he knew here just what he wanted. he was not sure he knew just what it was that melanctha wanted. he knew if it was only play, with melanctha, that he did not want to do it. but he remembered always how she had told him he never knew how to feel things very deeply. he remembered how she told him he was afraid to let himself ever know real feeling, and then too, most of all to him, she had told him he was not very understanding. that always troubled jefferson very keenly, he wanted very badly to be really understanding. if jefferson only knew better just what melanctha meant by what she said. jefferson always had thought he knew something about women. now he found that really he knew nothing. he did not know the least bit about melanctha. he did not know what it was right that he should do about it. he wondered if it was just a little play that they were doing. if it was a play he did not want to go on playing, but if it was really that he was not very understanding, and that with melanctha herbert he could learn to really understand, then he was very certain he did not want to be a coward. it was very hard for him to know what he wanted. he thought and thought, and always he did not seem to know any better what he wanted. at last he gave up this thinking. he felt sure it was only play with melanctha. "no, i certainly won't go on fooling with her any more this way," he said at last out loud to himself, when he was through with this thinking. "i certainly will stop fooling, and begin to go on with my thinking about my work and what's the matter with people like 'mis' herbert," and jefferson took out his book from his pocket, and drew near to the lamp, and began with some hard scientific reading. jefferson sat there for about an hour reading, and he had really forgotten all about his trouble with melanctha's meaning. then 'mis' herbert had some trouble with her breathing. she woke up and was gasping. dr. campbell went to her and gave her something that would help her. melanctha came out from the other room and did things as he told her. they together made 'mis' herbert more comfortable and easy, and soon she was again in her deep sleep. dr. campbell went back to the steps where he had been sitting. melanctha came and stood a little while beside him, and then she sat down and watched him reading. by and by they began with their talking. jeff campbell began to feel that perhaps it was all different. perhaps it was not just play, with melanctha. anyway he liked it very well that she was with him. he began to tell her about the book he was just reading. melanctha was very intelligent always in her questions. jefferson knew now very well that she had a good mind. they were having a very good time, talking there together. and then they began again to get quiet. "it certainly was very good in you to come back and talk to me miss melanctha," jefferson said at last to her, for now he was almost certain, it was no game she was playing. melanctha really was a good woman, and she had a good mind, and she had a real, strong sweetness, and she could surely really teach him. "oh i always like to talk to you dr. campbell" said melanctha, "and then you was only just honest to me, and i always like it when a man is really honest to me." then they were again very silent, sitting there together, with the lamp between them, that was always smoking. melanctha began to lean a little more toward dr. campbell, where he was sitting, and then she took his hand between her two and pressed it hard, but she said nothing to him. she let it go then and leaned a little nearer to him. jefferson moved a little but did not do anything in answer. at last, "well," said melanctha sharply to him. "i was just thinking" began dr. campbell slowly, "i was just wondering," he was beginning to get ready to go on with his talking. "don't you ever stop with your thinking long enough ever to have any feeling jeff campbell," said melanctha a little sadly. "i don't know," said jeff campbell slowly, "i don't know miss melanctha much about that. no, i don't stop thinking much miss melanctha and if i can't ever feel without stopping thinking, i certainly am very much afraid miss melanctha that i never will do much with that kind of feeling. sure you ain't worried miss melanctha, about my really not feeling very much all the time. i certainly do think i feel some, miss melanctha, even though i always do it without ever knowing how to stop with my thinking." "i am certainly afraid i don't think much of your kind of feeling dr. campbell." "why i think you certainly are wrong miss melanctha i certainly do think i feel as much for you miss melanctha, as you ever feel about me, sure i do. i don't think you know me right when you talk like that to me. tell me just straight out how much do you care about me, miss melanctha." "care about you jeff campbell," said melanctha slowly. "i certainly do care for you jeff campbell less than you are always thinking and much more than you are ever knowing." jeff campbell paused on this, and he was silent with the power of melanctha's meaning. they sat there together very silent, a long time. "well jeff campbell," said melanctha. "oh," said dr. campbell and he moved himself a little, and then they were very silent a long time. "haven't you got nothing to say to me jeff campbell?" said melanctha. "why yes, what was it we were just saying about to one another. you see miss melanctha i am a very quiet, slow minded kind of fellow, and i am never sure i know just exactly what you mean by all that you are always saying to me. but i do like you very much miss melanctha and i am very sure you got very good things in you all the time. you sure do believe what i am saying to you miss melanctha." "yes i believe it when you say it to me, jeff campbell," said melanctha, and then she was silent and there was much sadness in it. "i guess i go in and lie down again dr. campbell," said melanctha. "don't go leave me miss melanctha," said jeff campbell quickly. "why not, what you want of me jeff campbell?" said melanctha. "why," said jeff campbell slowly, "i just want to go on talking with you. i certainly do like talking about all kinds of things with you. you certainly know that all right, miss melanctha." "i guess i go lie down again and leave you here with your thinking," said melanctha gently. "i certainly am very tired to night dr. campbell. good night i hope you rest well dr. campbell." melanctha stooped over him, where he was sitting, to say this good night, and then, very quick and sudden, she kissed him and then, very quick again, she went away and left him. dr. campbell sat there very quiet, with only a little thinking and sometimes a beginning feeling, and he was alone until it began to be morning, and then he went, and melanctha helped him, and he made 'mis' herbert more easy in her dying. 'mis' herbert lingered on till about ten o'clock the next morning, and then slowly and without much pain she died away. jeff campbell staid till the last moment, with melanctha, to make her mother's dying easy for her. when it was over he sent in the colored woman from next door to help melanctha fix things, and then he went away to take care of his other patients. he came back very soon to melanctha. he helped her to have a funeral for her mother. melanctha then went to live with the good natured woman, who had been her neighbor. melanctha still saw jeff campbell very often. things began to be very strong between them. melanctha now never wandered, unless she was with jeff campbell. sometimes she and he wandered a good deal together. jeff campbell had not got over his way of talking to her all the time about all the things he was always thinking. melanctha never talked much, now, when they were together. sometimes jeff campbell teased her about her not talking to him. "i certainly did think melanctha you was a great talker from the way jane harden and everybody said things to me, and from the way i heard you talk so much when i first met you. tell me true melanctha, why don't you talk more now to me, perhaps it is i talk so much i don't give you any chance to say things to me, or perhaps it is you hear me talk so much you don't think so much now of a whole lot of talking. tell me honest melanctha, why don't you talk more to me." "you know very well jeff campbell," said melanctha "you certainly do know very well jeff, you don't think really much, of my talking. you think a whole lot more about everything than i do jeff, and you don't care much what i got to say about it. you know that's true what i am saying jeff, if you want to be real honest, the way you always are when i like you so much." jeff laughed and looked fondly at her. "i don't say ever i know, you ain't right, when you say things like that to me, melanctha. you see you always like to be talking just what you think everybody wants to be hearing from you, and when you are like that, melanctha, honest, i certainly don't care very much to hear you, but sometimes you say something that is what you are really thinking, and then i like a whole lot to hear you talking." melanctha smiled, with her strong sweetness, on him, and she felt her power very deeply. "i certainly never do talk very much when i like anybody really, jeff. you see, jeff, it ain't much use to talk about what a woman is really feeling in her. you see all that, jeff, better, by and by, when you get to really feeling. you won't be so ready then always with your talking. you see, jeff, if it don't come true what i am saying." "i don't ever say you ain't always right, melanctha," said jeff campbell. "perhaps what i call my thinking ain't really so very understanding. i don't say, no never now any more, you ain't right, melanctha, when you really say things to me. perhaps i see it all to be very different when i come to really see what you mean by what you are always saying to me." "you is very sweet and good to me always, jeff campbell," said melanctha. "'deed i certainly am not good to you, melanctha. don't i bother you all the time with my talking, but i really do like you a whole lot, melanctha." "and i like you, jeff campbell, and you certainly are mother, and father, and brother, and sister, and child and everything, always to me. i can't say much about how good you been to me, jeff campbell, i never knew any man who was good and didn't do things ugly, before i met you to take care of me, jeff campbell. good-by, jeff, come see me to-morrow, when you get through with your working." "sure melanctha, you know that already," said jeff campbell, and then he went away and left her. these months had been an uncertain time for jeff campbell. he never knew how much he really knew about melanctha. he saw her now for long times and very often. he was beginning always more and more to like her. but he did not seem to himself to know very much about her. he was beginning to feel he could almost trust the goodness in her. but then, always, really, he was not very sure about her. melanctha always had ways that made him feel uncertain with her, and yet he was so near, in his feeling for her. he now never thought about all this in real words any more. he was always letting it fight itself out in him. he was now never taking any part in this fighting that was always going on inside him. jeff always loved now to be with melanctha and yet he always hated to go to her. somehow he was always afraid when he was to go to her, and yet he had made himself very certain that here he would not be a coward. he never felt any of this being afraid, when he was with her. then they always were very true, and near to one another. but always when he was going to her, jeff would like anything that could happen that would keep him a little longer from her. it was a very uncertain time, all these months, for jeff campbell. he did not know very well what it was that he really wanted. he was very certain that he did not know very well what it was that melanctha wanted. jeff campbell had always all his life loved to be with people, and he had loved all his life always to be thinking, but he was still only a great boy, was jeff campbell, and he had never before had any of this funny kind of feeling. now, this evening, when he was free to go and see melanctha, he talked to anybody he could find who would detain him, and so it was very late when at last he came to the house where melanctha was waiting to receive him. jeff came in to where melanctha was waiting for him, and he took off his hat and heavy coat, and then drew up a chair and sat down by the fire. it was very cold that night, and jeff sat there, and rubbed his hands and tried to warm them. he had only said "how do you do" to melanctha, he had not yet begun to talk to her. melanctha sat there, by the fire, very quiet. the heat gave a pretty pink glow to her pale yellow and attractive face. melanctha sat in a low chair, her hands, with their long, fluttering fingers, always ready to show her strong feeling, were lying quiet in her lap. melanctha was very tired with her waiting for jeff campbell. she sat there very quiet and just watching. jeff was a robust, dark, healthy, cheery negro. his hands were firm and kindly and unimpassioned. he touched women always with his big hands, like a brother. he always had a warm broad glow, like southern sunshine. he never had anything mysterious in him. he was open, he was pleasant, he was cheery, and always he wanted, as melanctha once had wanted, always now he too wanted really to understand. jeff sat there this evening in his chair and was silent a long time, warming himself with the pleasant fire. he did not look at melanctha who was watching. he sat there and just looked into the fire. at first his dark, open face was smiling, and he was rubbing the back of his black-brown hand over his mouth to help him in his smiling. then he was thinking, and he frowned and rubbed his head hard, to help him in his thinking. then he smiled again, but now his smiling was not very pleasant. his smile was now wavering on the edge of scorning. his smile changed more and more, and then he had a look as if he were deeply down, all disgusted. now his face was darker, and he was bitter in his smiling, and he began, without looking from the fire, to talk to melanctha, who was now very tense with her watching. "melanctha herbert", began jeff campbell, "i certainly after all this time i know you, i certainly do know little, real about you. you see, melanctha, it's like this way with me"; jeff was frowning, with his thinking and looking very hard into the fire, "you see it's just this way, with me now, melanctha. sometimes you seem like one kind of a girl to me, and sometimes you are like a girl that is all different to me, and the two kinds of girls is certainly very different to each other, and i can't see any way they seem to have much to do, to be together in you. they certainly don't seem to be made much like as if they could have anything really to do with each other. sometimes you are a girl to me i certainly never would be trusting, and you got a laugh then so hard, it just rattles, and you got ways so bad, i can't believe you mean them hardly, and yet all that i just been saying is certainly you one way i often see you, and it's what your mother and jane harden always found you, and it's what makes me hate so, to come near you. and then certainly sometimes, melanctha, you certainly is all a different creature, and sometimes then there comes out in you what is certainly a thing, like a real beauty. i certainly, melanctha, never can tell just how it is that it comes so lovely. seems to me when it comes it's got a real sweetness, that is more wonderful than a pure flower, and a gentleness, that is more tender than the sunshine, and a kindness, that makes one feel like summer, and then a way to know, that makes everything all over, and all that, and it does certainly seem to be real for the little while it's lasting, for the little while that i can surely see it, and it gives me to feel like i certainly had got real religion. and then when i got rich with such a feeling, comes all that other girl, and then that seems more likely that that is really you what's honest, and then i certainly do get awful afraid to come to you, and i certainly never do feel i could be very trusting with you. and then i certainly don't know anything at all about you, and i certainly don't know which is a real melanctha herbert, and i certainly don't feel no longer, i ever want to talk to you. tell me honest, melanctha, which is the way that is you really, when you are alone, and real, and all honest. tell me, melanctha, for i certainly do want to know it." melanctha did not make him any answer, and jeff, without looking at her, after a little while, went on with his talking. "and then, melanctha, sometimes you certainly do seem sort of cruel, and not to care about people being hurt or in trouble, something so hard about you it makes me sometimes real nervous, sometimes somehow like you always, like your being, with 'mis' herbert. you sure did do everything that any woman could, melanctha, i certainly never did see anybody do things any better, and yet, i don't know how to say just what i mean, melanctha, but there was something awful hard about your feeling, so different from the way i'm always used to see good people feeling, and so it was the way jane harden and 'mis' herbert talked when they felt strong to talk about you, and yet, melanctha, somehow i feel so really near to you, and you certainly have got an awful wonderful, strong kind of sweetness. i certainly would like to know for sure, melanctha, whether i got really anything to be afraid for. i certainly did think once, melanctha, i knew something about all kinds of women. i certainly know now really, how i don't know anything sure at all about you, melanctha, though i been with you so long, and so many times for whole hours with you, and i like so awful much to be with you, and i can always say anything i am thinking to you. i certainly do awful wish, melanctha, i really was more understanding. i certainly do that same, melanctha." jeff stopped now and looked harder than before into the fire. his face changed from his thinking back into that look that was so like as if he was all through and through him, disgusted with what he had been thinking. he sat there a long time, very quiet, and then slowly, somehow, it came strongly to him that melanctha herbert, there beside him, was trembling and feeling it all to be very bitter. "why, melanctha," cried jeff campbell, and he got up and put his arm around her like a brother. "i stood it just so long as i could bear it, jeff," sobbed melanctha, and then she gave herself away, to her misery, "i was awful ready, jeff, to let you say anything you liked that gave you any pleasure. you could say all about me what you wanted, jeff, and i would try to stand it, so as you would be sure to be liking it, jeff, but you was too cruel to me. when you do that kind of seeing how much you can make a woman suffer, you ought to give her a little rest, once sometimes, jeff. they can't any of us stand it so for always, jeff. i certainly did stand it just as long as i could, so you would like it, but i,--oh jeff, you went on too long to-night jeff. i couldn't stand it not a minute longer the way you was doing of it, jeff. when you want to be seeing how the way a woman is really made of, jeff, you shouldn't never be so cruel, never to be thinking how much she can stand, the strong way you always do it, jeff." "why, melanctha," cried jeff campbell, in his horror, and then he was very tender to her, and like a good, strong, gentle brother in his soothing of her, "why melanctha dear, i certainly don't now see what it is you mean by what you was just saying to me. why melanctha, you poor little girl, you certainly never did believe i ever knew i was giving you real suffering. why, melanctha, how could you ever like me if you thought i ever could be so like a red indian?" "i didn't just know, jeff," and melanctha nestled to him, "i certainly never did know just what it was you wanted to be doing with me, but i certainly wanted you should do anything you liked, you wanted, to make me more understanding for you. i tried awful hard to stand it, jeff, so as you could do anything you wanted with me." "good lord and jesus christ, melanctha!" cried jeff campbell. "i certainly never can know anything about you real, melanctha, you poor little girl," and jeff drew her closer to him, "but i certainly do admire and trust you a whole lot now, melanctha. i certainly do, for i certainly never did think i was hurting you at all, melanctha, by the things i always been saying to you. melanctha, you poor little, sweet, trembling baby now, be good, melanctha. i certainly can't ever tell you how awful sorry i am to hurt you so, melanctha. i do anything i can to show you how i never did mean to hurt you, melanctha." "i know, i know," murmured melanctha, clinging to him. "i know you are a good man, jeff. i always know that, no matter how much you can hurt me." "i sure don't see how you can think so, melanctha, if you certainly did think i was trying so hard just to hurt you." "hush, you are only a great big boy, jeff campbell, and you don't know nothing yet about real hurting," said melanctha, smiling up through her crying, at him. "you see, jeff, i never knew anybody i could know real well and yet keep on always respecting, till i came to know you real well, jeff." "i sure don't understand that very well, melanctha. i ain't a bit better than just lots of others of the colored people. you certainly have been unlucky with the kind you met before me, that's all, melanctha. i certainly ain't very good, melanctha." "hush, jeff, you don't know nothing at all about what you are," said melanctha. "perhaps you are right, melanctha. i don't say ever any more, you ain't right, when you say things to me, melanctha," and jefferson sighed, and then he smiled, and then they were quiet a long time together, and then after some more kindness, it was late, and then jeff left her. jeff campbell, all these months, had never told his good mother anything about melanctha herbert. somehow he always kept his seeing her so much now, to himself. melanctha too had never had any of her other friends meet him. they always acted together, these two, as if their being so much together was a secret, but really there was no one who would have made it any harder for them. jeff campbell did not really know how it had happened that they were so secret. he did not know if it was what melanctha wanted. jeff had never spoken to her at all about it. it just seemed as if it were well understood between them that nobody should know that they were so much together. it was as if it were agreed between them, that they should be alone by themselves always, and so they would work out together what they meant by what they were always saying to each other. jefferson often spoke to melanctha about his good mother. he never said anything about whether melanctha would want to meet her. jefferson never quite understood why all this had happened so, in secret. he never really knew what it was that melanctha really wanted. in all these ways he just, by his nature, did, what he sort of felt melanctha wanted. and so they continued to be alone and much together, and now it had come to be the spring time, and now they had all out-doors to wander. they had many days now when they were very happy. jeff every day found that he really liked melanctha better. now surely he was beginning to have real, deep feeling in him. and still he loved to talk himself out to melanctha, and he loved to tell her how good it all was to him, and how he always loved to be with her, and to tell her always all about it. one day, now jeff arranged, that sunday they would go out and have a happy, long day in the bright fields, and they would be all day just alone together. the day before, jeff was called in to see jane harden. jane harden was very sick almost all day and jeff campbell did everything he could to make her better. after a while jane became more easy and then she began to talk to jeff about melanctha. jane did not know how much jeff was now seeing of melanctha. jane these days never saw melanctha. jane began to talk of the time when she first knew melanctha. jane began to tell how in these days melanctha had very little understanding. she was young then and she had a good mind. jane harden never would say melanctha never had a good mind, but in those days melanctha certainly had not been very understanding. jane began to explain to jeff campbell how in every way, she jane, had taught melanctha. jane then began to explain how eager melanctha always had been for all that kind of learning. jane harden began to tell how they had wandered. jane began to tell how melanctha once had loved her, jane harden. jane began to tell jeff of all the bad ways melanctha had used with her. jane began to tell all she knew of the way melanctha had gone on, after she had left her. jane began to tell all about the different men, white ones and blacks, melanctha never was particular about things like that, jane harden said in passing, not that melanctha was a bad one, and she had a good mind, jane harden never would say that she hadn't, but melanctha always liked to use all the understanding ways that jane had taught her, and so she wanted to know everything, always, that they knew how to teach her. jane was beginning to make jeff campbell see much clearer. jane harden did not know what it was that she was really doing with all this talking. jane did not know what jeff was feeling. jane was always honest when she was talking, and now it just happened she had started talking about her old times with melanctha herbert. jeff understood very well that it was all true what jane was saying. jeff campbell was beginning now to see very clearly. he was beginning to feel very sick inside him. he knew now many things melanctha had not yet taught him. he felt very sick and his heart was very heavy, and melanctha certainly did seem very ugly to him. jeff was at last beginning to know what it was to have deep feeling. he took care a little longer of jane harden, and then he went to his other patients, and then he went home to his room, and he sat down and at last he had stopped thinking. he was very sick and his heart was very heavy in him. he was very tired and all the world was very dreary to him, and he knew very well now at last, he was really feeling. he knew it now from the way it hurt him. he knew very well that now at last he was beginning to really have understanding. the next day he had arranged to spend, long and happy, all alone in the spring fields with melanctha, wandering. he wrote her a note and said he could not go, he had a sick patient and would have to stay home with him. for three days after, he made no sign to melanctha. he was very sick all these days, and his heart was very heavy in him, and he knew very well that now at last he had learned what it was to have deep feeling. at last one day he got a letter from melanctha. "i certainly don't rightly understand what you are doing now to me jeff campbell," wrote melanctha herbert. "i certainly don't rightly understand jeff campbell why you ain't all these days been near me, but i certainly do suppose it's just another one of the queer kind of ways you have to be good, and repenting of yourself all of a sudden. i certainly don't say to you jeff campbell i admire very much the way you take to be good jeff campbell. i am sorry dr. campbell, but i certainly am afraid i can't stand it no more from you the way you have been just acting. i certainly can't stand it any more the way you act when you have been as if you thought i was always good enough for anybody to have with them, and then you act as if i was a bad one and you always just despise me. i certainly am afraid dr. campbell i can't stand it any more like that. i certainly can't stand it any more the way you are always changing. i certainly am afraid dr. campbell you ain't man enough to deserve to have anybody care so much to be always with you. i certainly am awful afraid dr. campbell i don't ever any more want to really see you. good-by dr. campbell i wish you always to be real happy." jeff campbell sat in his room, very quiet, a long time, after he got through reading this letter. he sat very still and first he was very angry. as if he, too, did not know very badly what it was to suffer keenly. as if he had not been very strong to stay with melanctha when he never knew what it was that she really wanted. he knew he was very right to be angry, he knew he really had not been a coward. he knew melanctha had done many things it was very hard for him to forgive her. he knew very well he had done his best to be kind, and to trust her, and to be loyal to her, and now;--and then jeff suddenly remembered how one night melanctha had been so strong to suffer, and he felt come back to him the sweetness in her, and then jeff knew that really, he always forgave her, and that really, it all was that he was so sorry he had hurt her, and he wanted to go straight away and be a comfort to her. jeff knew very well, that what jane harden had told him about melanctha and her bad ways, had been a true story, and yet he wanted very badly to be with melanctha. perhaps she could teach him to really understand it better. perhaps she could teach him how it could be all true, and yet how he could be right to believe in her and to trust her. jeff sat down and began his answer to her. "dear melanctha," jeff wrote to her. "i certainly don't think you got it all just right in the letter, i just been reading, that you just wrote me. i certainly don't think you are just fair or very understanding to all i have to suffer to keep straight on to really always to believe in you and trust you. i certainly don't think you always are fair to remember right how hard it is for a man, who thinks like i was always thinking, not to think you do things very bad very often. i certainly don't think, melanctha, i ain't right when i was so angry when i got your letter to me. i know very well, melanctha, that with you, i never have been a coward. i find it very hard, and i never said it any different, it is hard to me to be understanding, and to know really what it is you wanted, and what it is you are meaning by what you are always saying to me. i don't say ever, it ain't very hard for you to be standing that i ain't very quick to be following whichever way that you are always leading. you know very well, melanctha, it hurts me very bad and way inside me when i have to hurt you, but i always got to be real honest with you. there ain't no other way for me to be, with you, and i know very well it hurts me too, a whole lot, when i can't follow so quick as you would have me. i don't like to be a coward to you, melanctha, and i don't like to say what i ain't meaning to you. and if you don't want me to do things honest, melanctha, why i can't ever talk to you, and you are right when you say, you never again want to see me, but if you got any real sense of what i always been feeling with you, and if you got any right sense, melanctha, of how hard i been trying to think and to feel right for you, i will be very glad to come and see you, and to begin again with you. i don't say anything now, melanctha, about how bad i been this week, since i saw you, melanctha. it don't ever do any good to talk such things over. all i know is i do my best, melanctha, to you, and i don't say, no, never, i can do any different than just to be honest and come as fast as i think it's right for me to be going in the ways you teach me to be really understanding. so don't talk any more foolishness, melanctha, about my always changing. i don't change, never, and i got to do what i think is right and honest to me, and i never told you any different, and you always knew it very well that i always would do just so. if you like me to come and see you to-morrow, and go out with you, i will be very glad to, melanctha. let me know right away, what it is you want me to be doing for you, melanctha. very truly yours, jefferson campbell "please come to me, jeff." melanctha wrote back for her answer. jeff went very slowly to melanctha, glad as he was, still to be going to her. melanctha came, very quick, to meet him, when she saw him from where she had been watching for him. they went into the house together. they were very glad to be together. they were very good to one another. "i certainly did think, melanctha, this time almost really, you never did want me to come to you at all any more to see you," said jeff campbell to her, when they had begun again with their talking to each other. "you certainly did make me think, perhaps really this time, melanctha, it was all over, my being with you ever, and i was very mad, and very sorry, too, melanctha." "well you certainly was very bad to me, jeff campbell," said melanctha, fondly. "i certainly never do say any more you ain't always right, melanctha," jeff answered and he was very ready now with cheerful laughing, "i certainly never do say that any more, melanctha, if i know it, but still, really, melanctha, honest, i think perhaps i wasn't real bad to you any more than you just needed from me." jeff held melanctha in his arms and kissed her. he sighed then and was very silent with her. "well, melanctha," he said at last, with some more laughing, "well, melanctha, any way you can't say ever it ain't, if we are ever friends good and really, you can't say, no, never, but that we certainly have worked right hard to get both of us together for it, so we shall sure deserve it then, if we can ever really get it." "we certainly have worked real hard, jeff, i can't say that ain't all right the way you say it," said melanctha. "i certainly never can deny it, jeff, when i feel so worn with all the trouble you been making for me, you bad boy, jeff," and then melanctha smiled and then she sighed, and then she was very silent with him. at last jeff was to go away. they stood there on the steps for a long time trying to say good-by to each other. at last jeff made himself really say it. at last he made himself, that he went down the steps and went away. on the next sunday they arranged, they were to have the long happy day of wandering that they had lost last time by jane harden's talking. not that melanctha herbert had heard yet of jane harden's talking. jeff saw melanctha every day now. jeff was a little uncertain all this time inside him, for he had never yet told to melanctha what it was that had so nearly made him really want to leave her. jeff knew that for him, it was not right he should not tell her. he knew they could only have real peace between them when he had been honest, and had really told her. on this long sunday jeff was certain that he would really tell her. they were very happy all that day in their wandering. they had taken things along to eat together. they sat in the bright fields and they were happy, they wandered in the woods and they were happy. jeff always loved in this way to wander. jeff always loved to watch everything as it was growing, and he loved all the colors in the trees and on the ground, and the little, new, bright colored bugs he found in the moist ground and in the grass he loved to lie on and in which he was always so busy searching. jeff loved everything that moved and that was still, and that had color, and beauty, and real being. jeff loved very much this day while they were wandering. he almost forgot that he had any trouble with him still inside him. jeff loved to be there with melanctha herbert. she was always so sympathetic to him for the way she listened to everything he found and told her, the way she felt his joy in all this being, the way she never said she wanted anything different from the way they had it. it was certainly a busy and a happy day, this their first long day of really wandering. later they were tired, and melanctha sat down on the ground, and jeff threw himself his full length beside her. jeff lay there, very quiet, and then he pressed her hand and kissed it and murmured to her, "you certainly are very good to me, melanctha." melanctha felt it very deep and did not answer. jeff lay there a long time, looking up above him. he was counting all the little leaves he saw above him. he was following all the little clouds with his eyes as they sailed past him. he watched all the birds that flew high beyond him, and all the time jeff knew he must tell to melanctha what it was he knew now, that which jane harden, just a week ago, had told him. he knew very well that for him it was certain that he had to say it. it was hard, but for jeff campbell the only way to lose it was to say it, the only way to know melanctha really, was to tell her all the struggle he had made to know her, to tell her so she could help him to understand his trouble better, to help him so that never again he could have any way to doubt her. jeff lay there a long time, very quiet, always looking up above him, and yet feeling very close now to melanctha. at last he turned a little toward her, took her hands closer in his to make him feel it stronger, and then very slowly, for the words came very hard for him, slowly he began his talk to her. "melanctha," began jeff, very slowly, "melanctha, it ain't right i shouldn't tell you why i went away last week and almost never got the chance again to see you. jane harden was sick, and i went in to take care of her. she began to tell everything she ever knew about you. she didn't know how well now i know you. i didn't tell her not to go on talking. i listened while she told me everything about you. i certainly found it very hard with what she told me. i know she was talking truth in everything she said about you. i knew you had been free in your ways, melanctha, i knew you liked to get excitement the way i always hate to see the colored people take it. i didn't know, till i heard jane harden say it, you had done things so bad, melanctha. when jane harden told me, i got very sick, melanctha. i couldn't bear hardly, to think, perhaps i was just another like them to you, melanctha. i was wrong not to trust you perhaps, melanctha, but it did make things very ugly to me. i try to be honest to you, melanctha, the way you say you really want it from me." melanctha drew her hands from jeff campbell. she sat there, and there was deep scorn in her anger. "if you wasn't all through just selfish and nothing else, jeff campbell, you would take care you wouldn't have to tell me things like this, jeff campbell." jeff was silent a little, and he waited before he gave his answer. it was not the power of melanctha's words that held him, for, for them, he had his answer, it was the power of the mood that filled melanctha, and for that he had no answer. at last he broke through this awe, with his slow fighting resolution, and he began to give his answer. "i don't say ever, melanctha," he began, "it wouldn't have been more right for me to stop jane harden in her talking and to come to you to have you tell me what you were when i never knew you. i don't say it, no never to you, that that would not have been the right way for me to do, melanctha. but i certainly am without any kind of doubting, i certainly do know for sure, i had a good right to know about what you were and your ways and your trying to use your understanding, every kind of way you could to get your learning. i certainly did have a right to know things like that about you, melanctha. i don't say it ever, melanctha, and i say it very often, i don't say ever i shouldn't have stopped jane harden in her talking and come to you and asked you yourself to tell me all about it, but i guess i wanted to keep myself from how much it would hurt me more, to have you yourself say it to me. perhaps it was i wanted to keep you from having it hurt you so much more, having you to have to tell it to me. i don't know, i don't say it was to help you from being hurt most, or to help me. perhaps i was a coward to let jane harden tell me 'stead of coming straight to you, to have you tell me, but i certainly am sure, melanctha, i certainly had a right to know such things about you. i don't say it ever, ever, melanctha, i hadn't the just right to know those things about you." melanctha laughed her harsh laugh. "you needn't have been under no kind of worry, jeff campbell, about whether you should have asked me. you could have asked, it wouldn't have hurt nothing. i certainly never would have told you nothing." "i am not so sure of that, melanctha," said jeff campbell. "i certainly do think you would have told me. i certainly do think i could make you feel it right to tell me. i certainly do think all i did wrong was to let jane harden tell me. i certainly do know i never did wrong, to learn what she told me. i certainly know very well, melanctha, if i had come here to you, you would have told it all to me, melanctha." he was silent, and this struggle lay there, strong, between them. it was a struggle, sure to be going on always between them. it was a struggle that was as sure always to be going on between them, as their minds and hearts always were to have different ways of working. at last melanctha took his hand, leaned over him and kissed him. "i sure am very fond of you, jeff campbell," melanctha whispered to him. now for a little time there was not any kind of trouble between jeff campbell and melanctha herbert. they were always together now for long times, and very often. they got much joy now, both of them, from being all the time together. it was summer now, and they had warm sunshine to wander. it was summer now, and jeff campbell had more time to wander, for colored people never get sick so much in the summer. it was summer now, and there was a lovely silence everywhere, and all the noises, too, that they heard around them were lovely ones, and added to the joy, in these warm days, they loved so much to be together. they talked some to each other in these days, did jeff campbell and melanctha herbert, but always in these days their talking more and more was like it always is with real lovers. jeff did not talk so much now about what he before always had been thinking. sometimes jeff would be, as if he was just waking from himself to be with melanctha, and then he would find he had been really all the long time with her, and he had really never needed to be doing any thinking. it was sometimes pure joy jeff would be talking to melanctha, in these warm days he loved so much to wander with her. sometimes jeff would lose all himself in a strong feeling. very often now, and always with more joy in his feeling, he would find himself, he did not know how or what it was he had been thinking. and melanctha always loved very well to make him feel it. she always now laughed a little at him, and went back a little in him to his before, always thinking, and she teased him with his always now being so good with her in his feeling, and then she would so well and freely, and with her pure, strong ways of reaching, she would give him all the love she knew now very well, how much he always wanted to be sure he really had it. and jeff took it straight now, and he loved it, and he felt, strong, the joy of all this being, and it swelled out full inside him, and he poured it all out back to her in freedom, in tender kindness, and in joy, and in gentle brother fondling. and melanctha loved him for it always, her jeff campbell now, who never did things ugly, for her, like all the men she always knew before always had been doing to her. and they loved it always, more and more, together, with this new feeling they had now, in these long summer days so warm; they, always together now, just these two so dear, more and more to each other always, and the summer evenings when they wandered, and the noises in the full streets, and the music of the organs, and the dancing, and the warm smell of the people, and of dogs and of the horses, and all the joy of the strong, sweet pungent, dirty, moist, warm negro southern summer. every day now, jeff seemed to be coming nearer, to be really loving. every day now, melanctha poured it all out to him, with more freedom. every day now, they seemed to be having more and more, both together, of this strong, right feeling. more and more every day now they seemed to know more really, what it was each other one was always feeling. more and more now every day jeff found in himself, he felt more trusting. more and more every day now, he did not think anything in words about what he was always doing. every day now more and more melanctha would let out to jeff her real, strong feeling. one day there had been much joy between them, more than they ever yet had had with their new feeling. all the day they had lost themselves in warm wandering. now they were lying there and resting, with a green, bright, light-flecked world around them. what was it that now really happened to them? what was it that melanctha did, that made everything get all ugly for them? what was it that melanctha felt then, that made jeff remember all the feeling he had had in him when jane harden told him how melanctha had learned to be so very understanding? jeff did not know how it was that it had happened to him. it was all green, and warm, and very lovely to him, and now melanctha somehow had made it all so ugly for him. what was it melanctha was now doing with him? what was it he used to be thinking was the right way for him and all the colored people to be always trying to make it right, the way they should be always living? why was melanctha herbert now all so ugly for him? melanctha herbert somehow had made him feel deeply just then, what very more it was that she wanted from him. jeff campbell now felt in him what everybody always had needed to make them really understanding, to him. jeff felt a strong disgust inside him; not for melanctha herself, to him, not for himself really, in him, not for what it was that everybody wanted, in them; he only had disgust because he never could know really in him, what it was he wanted, to be really right in understanding, for him, he only had disgust because he never could know really what it was really right to him to be always doing, in the things he had before believed in, the things he before had believed in for himself and for all the colored people, the living regular, and the never wanting to be always having new things, just to keep on, always being in excitements. all the old thinking now came up very strong inside him. he sort of turned away then, and threw melanctha from him. jeff never, even now, knew what it was that moved him. he never, even now, was ever sure, he really knew what melanctha was, when she was real herself, and honest. he thought he knew, and then there came to him some moment, just like this one, when she really woke him up to be strong in him. then he really knew he could know nothing. he knew then, he never could know what it was she really wanted with him. he knew then he never could know really what it was he felt inside him. it was all so mixed up inside him. all he knew was he wanted very badly melanctha should be there beside him, and he wanted very badly, too, always to throw her from him. what was it really that melanctha wanted with him? what was it really, he, jeff campbell, wanted she should give him? "i certainly did think now," jeff campbell groaned inside him, "i certainly did think now i really was knowing all right, what i wanted. i certainly did really think now i was knowing how to be trusting with melanctha. i certainly did think it was like that now with me sure, after all i've been through all this time with her. and now i certainly do know i don't know anything that's very real about her. oh the good lord help and keep me!" and jeff groaned hard inside him, and he buried his face deep in the green grass underneath him, and melanctha herbert was very silent there beside him. then jeff turned to look and see her. she was lying very still there by him, and the bitter water on her face was biting. jeff was so very sorry then, all over and inside him, the way he always was when melanctha had been deep hurt by him. "i didn't mean to be so bad again to you, melanctha, dear one," and he was very tender to her. "i certainly didn't never mean to go to be so bad to you, melanctha, darling. i certainly don't know, melanctha, darling, what it is makes me act so to you sometimes, when i certainly ain't meaning anything like i want to hurt you. i certainly don't mean to be so bad, melanctha, only it comes so quick on me before i know what i am acting to you. i certainly am all sorry, hard, to be so bad to you, melanctha, darling." "i suppose, jeff," said melanctha, very low and bitter, "i suppose you are always thinking, jeff, somebody had ought to be ashamed with us two together, and you certainly do think you don't see any way to it, jeff, for me to be feeling that way ever, so you certainly don't see any way to it, only to do it just so often for me. that certainly is the way always with you, jeff campbell, if i understand you right the way you are always acting to me. that certainly is right the way i am saying it to you now, jeff campbell. you certainly didn't anyway trust me now no more, did you, when you just acted so bad to me. i certainly am right the way i say it jeff now to you. i certainly am right when i ask you for it now, to tell me what i ask you, about not trusting me more then again, jeff, just like you never really knew me. you certainly never did trust me just then, jeff, you hear me?" "yes, melanctha," jeff answered slowly. melanctha paused. "i guess i certainly never can forgive you this time, jeff campbell," she said firmly. jeff paused too, and thought a little. "i certainly am afraid you never can no more now again, melanctha," he said sadly. they lay there very quiet now a long time, each one thinking very hard on their own trouble. at last jeff began again to tell melanctha what it was he was always thinking with her. "i certainly do know, melanctha, you certainly now don't want any more to be hearing me just talking, but you see, melanctha, really, it's just like this way always with me. you see, melanctha, its like this way now all the time with me. you remember, melanctha, what i was once telling to you, when i didn't know you very long together, about how i certainly never did know more than just two kinds of ways of living, one way the way it is good to be in families and the other kind of way, like animals are all the time just with each other, and how i didn't ever like that last kind of way much for any of the colored people. you see melanctha, it's like this way with me. i got a new feeling now, you been teaching to me, just like i told you once, just like a new religion to me, and i see perhaps what really loving is like, like really having everything together, new things, little pieces all different, like i always before been thinking was bad to be having, all go together like, to make one good big feeling. you see, melanctha, it's certainly like that you make me been seeing, like i never know before any way there was of all kinds of loving to come together to make one way really truly lovely. i see that now, sometimes, the way you certainly been teaching me, melanctha, really, and then i love you those times, melanctha, like a real religion, and then it comes over me all sudden, i don't know anything real about you melanctha, dear one, and then it comes over me sudden, perhaps i certainly am wrong now, thinking all this way so lovely, and not thinking now any more the old way i always before was always thinking, about what was the right way for me, to live regular and all the colored people, and then i think, perhaps, melanctha you are really just a bad one, and i think, perhaps i certainly am doing it so because i just am too anxious to be just having all the time excitements, like i don't ever like really to be doing when i know it, and then i always get so bad to you, melanctha, and i can't help it with myself then, never, for i want to be always right really in the ways, i have to do them. i certainly do very badly want to be right, melanctha, the only way i know is right melanctha really, and i don't know any way, melanctha, to find out really, whether my old way, the way i always used to be thinking, or the new way, you make so like a real religion to me sometimes, melanctha, which way certainly is the real right way for me to be always thinking, and then i certainly am awful good and sorry, melanctha, i always give you so much trouble, hurting you with the bad ways i am acting. can't you help me to any way, to make it all straight for me, melanctha, so i know right and real what it is i should be acting. you see, melanctha, i don't want always to be a coward with you, if i only could know certain what was the right way for me to be acting. i certainly am real sure, melanctha, that would be the way i would be acting, if i only knew it sure for certain now, melanctha. can't you help me any way to find out real and true, melanctha, dear one. i certainly do badly want to know always, the way i should be acting." "no, jeff, dear, i certainly can't help you much in that kind of trouble you are always having. all i can do now, jeff, is to just keep certainly with my believing you are good always, jeff, and though you certainly do hurt me bad, i always got strong faith in you, jeff, more in you certainly, than you seem to be having in your acting to me, always so bad, jeff." "you certainly are very good to me, melanctha, dear one," jeff said, after a long, tender silence. "you certainly are very good to me, melanctha, darling, and me so bad to you always, in my acting. do you love me good, and right, melanctha, always?" "always and always, you be sure of that now you have me. oh you jeff, you always be so stupid." "i certainly never can say now you ain't right, when you say that to me so, melanctha," jeff answered. "oh, jeff dear, i love you always, you know that now, all right, for certain. if you don't know it right now, jeff, really, i prove it to you now, for good and always." and they lay there a long time in their loving, and then jeff began again with his happy free enjoying. "i sure am a good boy to be learning all the time the right way you are teaching me, melanctha, darling," began jeff campbell, laughing, "you can't say no, never, i ain't a good scholar for you to be teaching now, melanctha, and i am always so ready to come to you every day, and never playing hooky ever from you. you can't say ever, melanctha, now can you, i ain't a real good boy to be always studying to be learning to be real bright, just like my teacher. you can't say ever to me, i ain't a good boy to you now, melanctha." "not near so good, jeff campbell, as such a good, patient kind of teacher, like me, who never teaches any ways it ain't good her scholars should be knowing, ought to be really having, jeff, you hear me? i certainly don't think i am right for you, to be forgiving always, when you are so bad, and i so patient, with all this hard teaching always." "but you do forgive me always, sure, melanctha, always?" "always and always, you be sure jeff, and i certainly am afraid i never can stop with my forgiving, you always are going to be so bad to me, and i always going to have to be so good with my forgiving." "oh! oh!" cried jeff campbell, laughing, "i ain't going to be so bad for always, sure i ain't, melanctha, my own darling. and sure you do forgive me really, and sure you love me true and really, sure, melanctha?" "sure, sure, jeff, boy, sure now and always, sure now you believe me, sure you do, jeff, always." "i sure hope i does, with all my heart, melanctha, darling." "i sure do that same, jeff, dear boy, now you really know what it is to be loving, and i prove it to you now so, jeff, you never can be forgetting. you see now, jeff, good and certain, what i always before been saying to you, jeff, now." "yes, melanctha, darling," murmured jeff, and he was very happy in it, and so the two of them now in the warm air of the sultry, southern, negro sunshine, lay there for a long time just resting. and now for a real long time there was no open trouble any more between jeff campbell and melanctha herbert. then it came that jeff knew he could not say out any more, what it was he wanted, he could not say out any more, what it was, he wanted to know about, what melanctha wanted. melanctha sometimes now, when she was tired with being all the time so much excited, when jeff would talk a long time to her about what was right for them both to be always doing, would be, as if she gave way in her head, and lost herself in a bad feeling. sometimes when they had been strong in their loving, and jeff would have rise inside him some strange feeling, and melanctha felt it in him as it would soon be coming, she would lose herself then in this bad feeling that made her head act as if she never knew what it was they were doing. and slowly now, jeff soon always came to be feeling that his melanctha would be hurt very much in her head in the ways he never liked to think of, if she would ever now again have to listen to his trouble, when he was telling about what it was he still was wanting to make things for himself really understanding. now jeff began to have always a strong feeling that melanctha could no longer stand it, with all her bad suffering, to let him fight out with himself what was right for him to be doing. now he felt he must not, when she was there with him, keep on, with this kind of fighting that was always going on inside him. jeff campbell never knew yet, what he thought was the right way, for himself and for all the colored people to be living. jeff was coming always each time closer to be really understanding, but now melanctha was so bad in her suffering with him, that he knew she could not any longer have him with her while he was always showing that he never really yet was sure what it was, the right way, for them to be really loving. jeff saw now he had to go so fast, so that melanctha never would have to wait any to get from him always all that she ever wanted. he never could be honest now, he never could be now, any more, trying to be really understanding, for always every moment now he felt it to be a strong thing in him, how very much it was melanctha herbert always suffered. jeff did not know very well these days, what it was, was really happening to him. all he knew every now and then, when they were getting strong to get excited, the way they used to when he gave his feeling out so that he could be always honest, that melanctha somehow never seemed to hear him, she just looked at him and looked as if her head hurt with him, and then jeff had to keep himself from being honest, and he had to go so fast, and to do everything melanctha ever wanted from him. jeff did not like it very well these days, in his true feeling. he knew now very well melanctha was not strong enough inside her to stand any more of his slow way of doing. and yet now he knew he was not honest in his feeling. now he always had to show more to melanctha than he was ever feeling. now she made him go so fast, and he knew it was not real with his feeling, and yet he could not make her suffer so any more because he always was so slow with his feeling. it was very hard for jeff campbell to make all this way of doing, right, inside him. if jeff campbell could not be straight out, and real honest, he never could be very strong inside him. now melanctha, with her making him feel, always, how good she was and how very much she suffered in him, made him always go so fast then, he could not be strong then, to feel things out straight then inside him. always now when he was with her, he was being more, than he could already yet, be feeling for her. always now, with her, he had something inside him always holding in him, always now, with her, he was far ahead of his own feeling. jeff campbell never knew very well these days what it was that was going on inside him. all he knew was, he was uneasy now always to be with melanctha. all he knew was, that he was always uneasy when he was with melanctha, not the way he used to be from just not being very understanding, but now, because he never could be honest with her, because he was now always feeling her strong suffering, in her, because he knew now he was having a straight, good feeling with her, but she went so fast, and he was so slow to her; jeff knew his right feeling never got a chance to show itself as strong, to her. all this was always getting harder for jeff campbell. he was very proud to hold himself to be strong, was jeff campbell. he was very tender not to hurt melanctha, when he knew she would be sure to feel it badly in her head a long time after, he hated that he could not now be honest with her, he wanted to stay away to work it out all alone, without her, he was afraid she would feel it to suffer, if he kept away now from her. he was uneasy always, with her, he was uneasy when he thought about her, he knew now he had a good, straight, strong feeling of right loving for her, and yet now he never could use it to be good and honest with her. jeff campbell did not know, these days, anything he could do to make it better for her. he did not know anything he could do, to set himself really right in his acting and his thinking toward her. she pulled him so fast with her, and he did not dare to hurt her, and he could not come right, so fast, the way she always needed he should be doing it now, for her. these days were not very joyful ones now any more, to jeff campbell, with melanctha. he did not think it out to himself now, in words, about her. he did not know enough, what was his real trouble, with her. sometimes now and again with them, and with all this trouble for a little while well forgotten by him, jeff, and melanctha with him, would be very happy in a strong, sweet loving. sometimes then, jeff would find himself to be soaring very high in his true loving. sometimes jeff would find them, in his loving, his soul swelling out full inside him. always jeff felt now in himself, deep feeling. always now jeff had to go so much faster than was real with his feeling. yet always jeff knew how he had a right, strong feeling. always now when jeff was wondering, it was melanctha he was doubting, in the loving. now he would often ask her, was she real now to him, in her loving. he would ask her often, feeling something queer about it all inside him, though yet he was never really strong in his doubting, and always melanctha would answer to him, "yes jeff, sure, you know it, always," and always jeff felt a doubt now, in her loving. always now jeff felt in himself, deep loving. always now he did not know really, if melanctha was true in her loving. all these days jeff was uncertain in him, and he was uneasy about which way he should act so as not to be wrong and put them both into bad trouble. always now he was, as if he must feel deep into melanctha to see if it was real loving he would find she now had in her, and always he would stop himself, with her, for always he was afraid now that he might badly hurt her. always now he liked it better when he was detained when he had to go and see her. always now he never liked to go to be with her, although he never wanted really, not to be always with her. always now he never felt really at ease with her, even when they were good friends together. always now he felt, with her, he could not be really honest to her. and jeff never could be happy with her when he could not feel strong to tell all his feeling to her. always now every day he found it harder to make the time pass, with her, and not let his feeling come so that he would quarrel with her. and so one evening, late, he was to go to her. he waited a little long, before he went to her. he was afraid, in himself, to-night, he would surely hurt her. he never wanted to go when he might quarrel with her. melanctha sat there looking very angry, when he came in to her. jeff took off his hat and coat and then sat down by the fire with her. "if you come in much later to me just now, jeff campbell, i certainly never would have seen you no more never to speak to you, 'thout your apologising real humble to me." "apologising melanctha," and jeff laughed and was scornful to her, "apologising, melanctha, i ain't proud that kind of way, melanctha, i don't mind apologising to you, melanctha, all i mind, melanctha is to be doing of things wrong, to you." "that's easy, to say things that way, jeff to me. but you never was very proud jeff, to be courageous to me." "i don't know about that melanctha. i got courage to say some things hard, when i mean them, to you." "oh, yes, jeff, i know all about that, jeff, to me. but i mean real courage, to run around and not care nothing about what happens, and always to be game in any kind of trouble. that's what i mean by real courage, to me, jeff, if you want to know it." "oh, yes, melanctha, i know all that kind of courage. i see plenty of it all the time with some kinds of colored men and with some girls like you melanctha, and jane harden. i know all about how you are always making a fuss to be proud because you don't holler so much when you run in to where you ain't got any business to be, and so you get hurt, the way you ought to. and then, you kind of people are very brave then, sure, with all your kinds of suffering, but the way i see it, going round with all my patients, that kind of courage makes all kind of trouble, for them who ain't so noble with their courage, and then they got it, always to be bearing it, when the end comes, to be hurt the hardest. it's like running around and being game to spend all your money always, and then a man's wife and children are the ones do all the starving and they don't ever get a name for being brave, and they don't ever want to be doing all that suffering, and they got to stand it and say nothing. that's the way i see it a good deal now with all that kind of braveness in some of the colored people. they always make a lot of noise to show they are so brave not to holler, when they got so much suffering they always bring all on themselves, just by doing things they got no business to be doing. i don't say, never, melanctha, they ain't got good courage not to holler, but i never did see much in looking for that kind of trouble just to show you ain't going to holler. no its all right being brave every day, just living regular and not having new ways all the time just to get excitements, the way i hate to see it in all the colored people. no i don't see much, melanctha, in being brave just to get it good, where you've got no business. i ain't ashamed melanctha, right here to tell you, i ain't ashamed ever to say i ain't got no longing to be brave, just to go around and look for trouble." "yes that's just like you always, jeff, you never understand things right, the way you are always feeling in you. you ain't got no way to understand right, how it depends what way somebody goes to look for new things, the way it makes it right for them to get excited." "no melanctha, i certainly never do say i understand much anybody's got a right to think they won't have real bad trouble, if they go and look hard where they are certain sure to find it. no melanctha, it certainly does sound very pretty all this talking about danger and being game and never hollering, and all that way of talking, but when two men are just fighting, the strong man mostly gets on top with doing good hard pounding, and the man that's getting all that pounding, he mostly never likes it so far as i have been able yet to see it, and i don't see much difference what kind of noble way they are made of when they ain't got any kind of business to get together there to be fighting. that certainly is the only way i ever see it happen right, melanctha, whenever i happen to be anywhere i can be looking." "that's because you never can see anything that ain't just so simple, jeff, with everybody, the way you always think it. it do make all the difference the kind of way anybody is made to do things game jeff campbell." "maybe melanctha, i certainly never say no you ain't right, melanctha. i just been telling it to you all straight, melanctha, the way i always see it. perhaps if you run around where you ain't got any business, and you stand up very straight and say, i am so brave, nothing can ever ever hurt me, maybe nothing will ever hurt you then melanctha. i never have seen it do so. i never can say truly any differently to you melanctha, but i always am ready to be learning from you, melanctha. and perhaps when somebody cuts into you real hard, with a brick he is throwing, perhaps you never will do any hollering then, melanctha. i certainly don't ever say no, melanctha, to you, i only say that ain't the way yet i ever see it happen when i had a chance to be there looking." they sat there together, quiet by the fire, and they did not seem to feel very loving. "i certainly do wonder," melanctha said dreamily, at last breaking into their long unloving silence. "i certainly do wonder why always it happens to me i care for anybody who ain't no ways good enough for me ever to be thinking to respect him." jeff looked at melanctha. jeff got up then and walked a little up and down the room, and then he came back, and his face was set and dark and he was very quiet to her. "oh dear, jeff, sure, why you look so solemn now to me. sure jeff i never am meaning anything real by what i just been saying. what was i just been saying jeff to you. i only certainly was just thinking how everything always was just happening to me." jeff campbell sat very still and dark, and made no answer. "seems to me, jeff you might be good to me a little to-night when my head hurts so, and i am so tired with all the hard work i have been doing, thinking, and i always got so many things to be a trouble to me, living like i do with nobody ever who can help me. seems to me you might be good to me jeff to-night, and not get angry, every little thing i am ever saying to you." "i certainly would not get angry ever with you, melanctha, just because you say things to me. but now i certainly been thinking you really mean what you have been just then saying to me." "but you say all the time to me jeff, you ain't no ways good enough in your loving to me, you certainly say to me all the time you ain't no ways good or understanding to me." "that certainly is what i say to you always, just the way i feel it to you melanctha always, and i got it right in me to say it, and i have got a right in me to be very strong and feel it, and to be always sure to believe it, but it ain't right for you melanctha to feel it. when you feel it so melanctha, it does certainly make everything all wrong with our loving. it makes it so i certainly never can bear to have it." they sat there then a long time by the fire, very silent, and not loving, and never looking to each other for it. melanctha was moving and twitching herself and very nervous with it. jeff was heavy and sullen and dark and very serious in it. "oh why can't you forget i said it to you jeff now, and i certainly am so tired, and my head and all now with it." jeff stirred, "all right melanctha, don't you go make yourself sick now in your head, feeling so bad with it," and jeff made himself do it, and he was a patient doctor again now with melanctha when he felt her really having her head hurt with it. "it's all right now melanctha darling, sure it is now i tell you. you just lie down now a little, dear one, and i sit here by the fire and just read awhile and just watch with you so i will be here ready, if you need me to give you something to help you resting." and then jeff was a good doctor to her, and very sweet and tender with her, and melanctha loved him to be there to help her, and then melanctha fell asleep a little, and jeff waited there beside her until he saw she was really sleeping, and then he went back and sat down by the fire. and jeff tried to begin again with his thinking, and he could not make it come clear to himself, with all his thinking, and he felt everything all thick and heavy and bad, now inside him, everything that he could not understand right, with all the hard work he made, with his thinking. and then he moved himself a little, and took a book to forget his thinking, and then as always, he loved it when he was reading, and then very soon he was deep in his reading, and so he forgot now for a little while that he never could seem to be very understanding. and so jeff forgot himself for awhile in his reading, and melanctha was sleeping. and then melanctha woke up and she was screaming. "oh, jeff, i thought you gone away for always from me. oh, jeff, never now go away no more from me. oh, jeff, sure, sure, always be just so good to me" there was a weight in jeff campbell from now on, always with him, that he could never lift out from him, to feel easy. he always was trying not to have it in him and he always was trying not to let melanctha feel it, with him, but it was always there inside him. now jeff campbell always was serious, and dark, and heavy, and sullen, and he would often sit a long time with melanctha without moving. "you certainly never have forgiven to me, what i said to you that night, jeff, now have you?" melanctha asked him after a long silence, late one evening with him. "it ain't ever with me a question like forgiving, melanctha, i got in me. it's just only what you are feeling for me, makes any difference to me. i ain't ever seen anything since in you, makes me think you didn't mean it right, what you said about not thinking now any more i was good, to make it right for you to be really caring so very much to love me." "i certainly never did see no man like you, jeff. you always wanting to have it all clear out in words always, what everybody is always feeling. i certainly don't see a reason, why i should always be explaining to you what i mean by what i am just saying. and you ain't got no feeling ever for me, to ask me what i meant, by what i was saying when i was so tired, that night. i never know anything right i was saying." "but you don't ever tell me now, melanctha, so i really hear you say it, you don't mean it the same way, the way you said it to me." "oh jeff, you so stupid always to me and always just bothering with your always asking to me. and i don't never any way remember ever anything i been saying to you, and i am always my head, so it hurts me it half kills me, and my heart jumps so, sometimes i think i die so when it hurts me, and i am so blue always, i think sometimes i take something to just kill me, and i got so much to bother thinking always and doing, and i got so much to worry, and all that, and then you come and ask me what i mean by what i was just saying to you. i certainly don't know, jeff, when you ask me. seems to me, jeff, sometimes you might have some kind of a right feeling to be careful to me." "you ain't got no right melanctha herbert," flashed out jeff through his dark, frowning anger, "you certainly ain't got no right always to be using your being hurt and being sick, and having pain, like a weapon, so as to make me do things it ain't never right for me to be doing for you. you certainly ain't got no right to be always holding your pain out to show me." "what do you mean by them words, jeff campbell." "i certainly do mean them just like i am saying them, melanctha. you act always, like i been responsible all myself for all our loving one another. and if its anything anyway that ever hurts you, you act like as if it was me made you just begin it all with me. i ain't no coward, you hear me, melanctha? i never put my trouble back on anybody, thinking that they made me. i certainly am right ready always, melanctha, you certainly had ought to know me, to stand all my own trouble for me, but i tell you straight now, the way i think it melanctha, i ain't going to be as if i was the reason why you wanted to be loving, and to be suffering so now with me." "but ain't you certainly ought to be feeling it so, to be right, jeff campbell. did i ever do anything but just let you do everything you wanted to me. did i ever try to make you be loving to me. did i ever do nothing except just sit there ready to endure your loving with me. but i certainly never, jeff campbell, did make any kind of way as if i wanted really to be having you for me." jeff stared at melanctha. "so that's the way you say it when you are thinking right about it all, melanctha. well i certainly ain't got a word to say ever to you any more, melanctha, if that's the way its straight out to you now, melanctha." and jeff almost laughed out to her, and he turned to take his hat and coat, and go away now forever from her. melanctha dropped her head on her arms, and she trembled all over and inside her. jeff stopped a little and looked very sadly at her. jeff could not so quickly make it right for himself, to leave her. "oh, i certainly shall go crazy now, i certainly know that," melanctha moaned as she sat there, all fallen and miserable and weak together. jeff came and took her in his arms, and held her. jeff was very good then to her, but they neither of them felt inside all right, as they once did, to be together. from now on, jeff had real torment in him. was it true what melanctha had said that night to him? was it true that he was the one had made all this trouble for them? was it true, he was the only one, who always had had wrong ways in him? waking or sleeping jeff now always had this torment going on inside him. jeff did not know now any more, what to feel within him. he did not know how to begin thinking out this trouble that must always now be bad inside him. he just felt a confused struggle and resentment always in him, a knowing, no, melanctha was not right in what she had said that night to him, and then a feeling, perhaps he always had been wrong in the way he never could be understanding. and then would come strong to him, a sense of the deep sweetness in melanctha's loving and a hating the cold slow way he always had to feel things in him. always jeff knew, sure, melanctha was wrong in what she had said that night to him, but always melanctha had had deep feeling with him, always he was poor and slow in the only way he knew how to have any feeling. jeff knew melanctha was wrong, and yet he always had a deep doubt in him. what could he know, who had such slow feeling in him? what could he ever know, who always had to find his way with just thinking. what could he know, who had to be taught such a long time to learn about what was really loving? jeff now always had this torment in him. melanctha was now always making him feel her way, strong whenever she was with him. did she go on to do it just to show him, did she do it so now because she was no longer loving, did she do it so because that was her way to make him be really loving. jeff never did know how it was that it all happened so to him. melanctha acted now the way she had said it always had been with them. now it was always jeff who had to do the asking. now it was always jeff who had to ask when would be the next time he should come to see her. now always she was good and patient to him, and now always she was kind and loving with him, and always jeff felt it was, that she was good to give him anything he ever asked or wanted, but never now any more for her own sake to make her happy in him. now she did these things, as if it was just to please her jeff campbell who needed she should now have kindness for him. always now he was the beggar, with them. always now melanctha gave it, not of her need, but from her bounty to him. always now jeff found it getting harder for him. sometimes jeff wanted to tear things away from before him, always now he wanted to fight things and be angry with them, and always now melanctha was so patient to him. now, deep inside him, there was always a doubt with jeff, of melanctha's loving. it was not a doubt yet to make him really doubting, for with that, jeff never could be really loving, but always now he knew that something, and that not in him, something was wrong with their loving. jeff campbell could not know any right way to think out what was inside melanctha with her loving, he could not use any way now to reach inside her to find if she was true in her loving, but now something had gone wrong between them, and now he never felt sure in him, the way once she had made him, that now at last he really had got to be understanding. melanctha was too many for him. he was helpless to find out the way she really felt now for him. often jeff would ask her, did she really love him. always she said, "yes jeff, sure, you know that," and now instead of a full sweet strong love with it, jeff only felt a patient, kind endurance in it. jeff did not know. if he was right in such a feeling, he certainly never any more did want to have melanctha herbert with him. jeff campbell hated badly to think melanctha never would give him love, just for his sake, and not because she needed it herself, to be with him. such a way of loving would be very hard for jeff to be enduring. "jeff what makes you act so funny to me. jeff you certainly now are jealous to me. sure jeff, now i don't see ever why you be so foolish to look so to me." "don't you ever think i can be jealous of anybody ever melanctha, you hear me. it's just, you certainly don't ever understand me. it's just this way with me always now melanctha. you love me, and i don't care anything what you do or what you ever been to anybody. you don't love me, then i don't care any more about what you ever do or what you ever be to anybody. but i never want you to be being good melanctha to me, when it ain't your loving makes you need it. i certainly don't ever want to be having any of your kind of kindness to me. if you don't love me, i can stand it. all i never want to have is your being good to me from kindness. if you don't love me, then you and i certainly do quit right here melanctha, all strong feeling, to be always living to each other. it certainly never is anybody i ever am thinking about when i am thinking with you melanctha, darling. that's the true way i am telling you melanctha, always. it's only your loving me ever gives me anything to bother me melanctha, so all you got to do, if you don't really love me, is just certainly to say so to me. i won't bother you more then than i can help to keep from it melanctha. you certainly need never to be in any worry, never, about me melanctha. you just tell me straight out melanctha, real, the way you feel it. i certainly can stand it all right, i tell you true melanctha. and i never will care to know why or nothing melanctha. loving is just living melanctha to me, and if you don't really feel it now melanctha to me, there ain't ever nothing between us then melanctha, is there? that's straight and honest just the way i always feel it to you now melanctha. oh melanctha, darling, do you love me? oh melanctha, please, please, tell me honest, tell me, do you really love me?" "oh you so stupid jeff boy, of course i always love you. always and always jeff and i always just so good to you. oh you so stupid jeff and don't know when you got it good with me. oh dear, jeff i certainly am so tired jeff to-night, don't you go be a bother to me. yes i love you jeff, how often you want me to tell you. oh you so stupid jeff, but yes i love you. now i won't say it no more now tonight jeff, you hear me. you just be good jeff now to me or else i certainly get awful angry with you. yes i love you, sure, jeff, though you don't any way deserve it from me. yes, yes i love you. yes jeff i say it till i certainly am very sleepy. yes i love you now jeff, and you certainly must stop asking me to tell you. oh you great silly boy jeff campbell, sure i love you, oh you silly stupid, my own boy jeff campbell. yes i love you and i certainly never won't say it one more time to-night jeff, now you hear me." yes jeff campbell heard her, and he tried hard to believe her. he did not really doubt her but somehow it was wrong now, the way melanctha said it. jeff always now felt baffled with melanctha. something, he knew, was not right now in her. something in her always now was making stronger the torment that was tearing every minute at the joy he once always had had with her. always now jeff wondered did melanctha love him. always now he was wondering, was melanctha right when she said, it was he had made all their beginning. was melanctha right when she said, it was he had the real responsibility for all the trouble they had and still were having now between them. if she was right, what a brute he always had been in his acting. if she was right, how good she had been to endure the pain he had made so bad so often for her. but no, surely she had made herself to bear it, for her own sake, not for his to make him happy. surely he was not so twisted in all his long thinking. surely he could remember right what it was had happened every day in their long loving. surely he was not so poor a coward as melanctha always seemed to be thinking. surely, surely, and then the torment would get worse every minute in him. one night jeff campbell was lying in his bed with his thinking, and night after night now he could not do any sleeping for his thinking. tonight suddenly he sat up in his bed, and it all came clear to him, and he pounded his pillow with his fist, and he almost shouted out alone there to him, "i ain't a brute the way melanctha has been saying. its all wrong the way i been worried thinking. we did begin fair, each not for the other but for ourselves, what we were wanting. melanctha herbert did it just like i did it, because she liked it bad enough to want to stand it. it's all wrong in me to think it any way except the way we really did it. i certainly don't know now whether she is now real and true in her loving. i ain't got any way ever to find out if she is real and true now always to me. all i know is i didn't ever make her to begin to be with me. melanctha has got to stand for her own trouble, just like i got to stand for my own trouble. each man has got to do it for himself when he is in real trouble. melanctha, she certainly don't remember right when she says i made her begin and then i made her trouble. no by god, i ain't no coward nor a brute either ever to her. i been the way i felt it honest, and that certainly is all about it now between us, and everybody always has just got to stand for their own trouble. i certainly am right this time the way i see it." and jeff lay down now, at last in comfort, and he slept, and he was free from his long doubting torment. "you know melanctha," jeff campbell began, the next time he was alone to talk a long time to melanctha. "you know melanctha, sometimes i think a whole lot about what you like to say so much about being game and never doing any hollering. seems to me melanctha, i certainly don't understand right what you mean by not hollering. seems to me it certainly ain't only what comes right away when one is hit, that counts to be brave to be bearing, but all that comes later from your getting sick from the shock of being hurt once in a fight, and all that, and all the being taken care of for years after, and the suffering of your family, and all that, you certainly must stand and not holler, to be certainly really brave the way i understand it." "what you mean jeff by your talking." "i mean, seems to me really not to holler, is to be strong not to show you ever have been hurt. seems to me, to get your head hurt from your trouble and to show it, ain't certainly no braver than to say, oh, oh, how bad you hurt me, please don't hurt me mister. it just certainly seems to me, like many people think themselves so game just to stand what we all of us always just got to be standing, and everybody stands it, and we don't certainly none of us like it, and yet we don't ever most of us think we are so much being game, just because we got to stand it." "i know what you mean now by what you are saying to me now jeff campbell. you make a fuss now to me, because i certainly just have stopped standing everything you like to be always doing so cruel to me. but that's just the way always with you jeff campbell, if you want to know it. you ain't got no kind of right feeling for all i always been forgiving to you." "i said it once for fun, melanctha, but now i certainly do mean it, you think you got a right to go where you got no business, and you say, i am so brave nothing can hurt me, and then something, like always, it happens to hurt you, and you show your hurt always so everybody can see it, and you say, i am so brave nothing did hurt me except he certainly didn't have any right to, and see how bad i suffer, but you never hear me make a holler, though certainly anybody got any feeling, to see me suffer, would certainly never touch me except to take good care of me. sometimes i certainly don't rightly see melanctha, how much more game that is than just the ordinary kind of holler." "no, jeff campbell, and made the way you is you certainly ain't likely ever to be much more understanding." "no, melanctha, nor you neither. you think always, you are the only one who ever can do any way to really suffer." "well, and ain't i certainly always been the only person knows how to bear it. no, jeff campbell, i certainly be glad to love anybody really worthy, but i made so, i never seem to be able in this world to find him." "no, and your kind of way of thinking, you certainly melanctha never going to any way be able ever to be finding of him. can't you understand melanctha, ever, how no man certainly ever really can hold your love for long times together. you certainly melanctha, you ain't got down deep loyal feeling, true inside you, and when you ain't just that moment quick with feeling, then you certainly ain't ever got anything more there to keep you. you see melanctha, it certainly is this way with you, it is, that you ain't ever got any way to remember right what you been doing, or anybody else that has been feeling with you. you certainly melanctha, never can remember right, when it comes what you have done and what you think happens to you." "it certainly is all easy for you jeff campbell to be talking. you remember right, because you don't remember nothing till you get home with your thinking everything all over, but i certainly don't think much ever of that kind of way of remembering right, jeff campbell. i certainly do call it remembering right jeff campbell, to remember right just when it happens to you, so you have a right kind of feeling not to act the way you always been doing to me, and then you go home jeff campbell, and you begin with your thinking, and then it certainly is very easy for you to be good and forgiving with it. no, that ain't to me, the way of remembering jeff campbell, not as i can see it not to make people always suffer, waiting for you certainly to get to do it. seems to me like jeff campbell, i never could feel so like a man was low and to be scorning of him, like that day in the summer, when you threw me off just because you got one of those fits of your remembering. no, jeff campbell, its real feeling every moment when its needed, that certainly does seem to me like real remembering. and that way, certainly, you don't never know nothing like what should be right jeff campbell. no jeff, it's me that always certainly has had to bear it with you. it's always me that certainly has had to suffer, while you go home to remember. no you certainly ain't got no sense yet jeff, what you need to make you really feeling. no, it certainly is me jeff campbell, that always has got to be remembering for us both, always. that's what's the true way with us jeff campbell, if you want to know what it is i am always thinking." "you is certainly real modest melanctha, when you do this kind of talking, you sure is melanctha," said jeff campbell laughing. "i think sometimes melanctha i am certainly awful conceited, when i think sometimes i am all out doors, and i think i certainly am so bright, and better than most everybody i ever got anything now to do with, but when i hear you talk this way melanctha, i certainly do think i am a real modest kind of fellow." "modest!" said melanctha, angry, "modest, that certainly is a queer thing for you jeff to be calling yourself even when you are laughing." "well it certainly does depend a whole lot what you are thinking with," said jeff campbell. "i never did use to think i was so much on being real modest melanctha, but now i know really i am, when i hear you talking. i see all the time there are many people living just as good as i am, though they are a little different to me. now with you melanctha if i understand you right what you are talking, you don't think that way of no other one that you are ever knowing." "i certainly could be real modest too, jeff campbell," said melanctha, "if i could meet somebody once i could keep right on respecting when i got so i was really knowing with them. but i certainly never met anybody like that yet, jeff campbell, if you want to know it." "no, melanctha, and with the way you got of thinking, it certainly don't look like as if you ever will melanctha, with your never remembering anything only what you just then are feeling in you, and you not understanding what any one else is ever feeling, if they don't holler just the way you are doing. no melanctha, i certainly don't see any ways you are likely ever to meet one, so good as you are always thinking you be." "no, jeff campbell, it certainly ain't that way with me at all the way you say it. it's because i am always knowing what it is i am wanting, when i get it. i certainly don't never have to wait till i have it, and then throw away what i got in me, and then come back and say, that's a mistake i just been making, it ain't that never at all like i understood it, i want to have, bad, what i didn't think it was i wanted. it's that way of knowing right what i am wanting, makes me feel nobody can come right with me, when i am feeling things, jeff campbell. i certainly do say jeff campbell, i certainly don't think much of the way you always do it, always never knowing what it is you are ever really wanting and everybody always got to suffer. no jeff, i don't certainly think there is much doubting which is better and the stronger with us two, jeff campbell." "as you will, melanctha herbert," cried jeff campbell, and he rose up, and he thundered out a black oath, and he was fierce to leave her now forever, and then with the same movement, he took her in his arms and held her. "what a silly goose boy you are, jeff campbell," melanctha whispered to him fondly. "oh yes," said jeff, very dreary. "i never could keep really mad with anybody, not when i was a little boy and playing. i used most to cry sometimes, i couldn't get real mad and keep on a long time with it, the way everybody always did it. it's certainly no use to me melanctha, i certainly can't ever keep mad with you melanctha, my dear one. but don't you ever be thinking it's because i think you right in what you been just saying to me. i don't melanctha really think it that way, honest, though i certainly can't get mad the way i ought to. no melanctha, little girl, really truly, you ain't right the way you think it. i certainly do know that melanctha, honest. you certainly don't do me right melanctha, the way you say you are thinking. good-bye melanctha, though you certainly is my own little girl for always." and then they were very good a little to each other, and then jeff went away for that evening, from her. melanctha had begun now once more to wander. melanctha did not yet always wander, but a little now she needed to begin to look for others. now melanctha herbert began again to be with some of the better kind of black girls, and with them she sometimes wandered. melanctha had not yet come again to need to be alone, when she wandered. jeff campbell did not know that melanctha had begun again to wander. all jeff knew, was that now he could not be so often with her. jeff never knew how it had come to happen to him, but now he never thought to go to see melanctha herbert, until he had before, asked her if she could be going to have time then to have him with her. then melanctha would think a little, and then she would say to him, "let me see jeff, to-morrow, you was just saying to me. i certainly am awful busy you know jeff just now. it certainly does seem to me this week jeff, i can't anyways fix it. sure i want to see you soon jeff. i certainly jeff got to do a little more now, i been giving so much time, when i had no business, just to be with you when you asked me. now i guess jeff, i certainly can't see you no more this week jeff, the way i got to do things." "all right melanctha," jeff would answer and he would be very angry. "i want to come only just certainly as you want me now melanctha." "now jeff you know i certainly can't be neglecting always to be with everybody just to see you. you come see me next week tuesday jeff, you hear me. i don't think jeff i certainly be so busy, tuesday." jeff campbell would then go away and leave her, and he would be hurt and very angry, for it was hard for a man with a great pride in himself, like jeff campbell, to feel himself no better than a beggar. and yet he always came as she said he should, on the day she had fixed for him, and always jeff campbell was not sure yet that he really understood what it was melanctha wanted. always melanctha said to him, yes she loved him, sure he knew that. always melanctha said to him, she certainly did love him just the same as always, only sure he knew now she certainly did seem to be right busy with all she certainly now had to be doing. jeff never knew what melanctha had to do now, that made her always be so busy, but jeff campbell never cared to ask melanctha such a question. besides jeff knew melanctha herbert would never, in such a matter, give him any kind of a real answer. jeff did not know whether it was that melanctha did not know how to give a simple answer. and then how could he, jeff, know what was important to her. jeff campbell always felt strongly in him, he had no right to interfere with melanctha in any practical kind of a matter. there they had always, never asked each other any kind of question. there they had felt always in each other, not any right to take care of one another. and jeff campbell now felt less than he had ever, any right to claim to know what melanctha thought it right that she should do in any of her ways of living. all jeff felt a right in himself to question, was her loving. jeff learned every day now, more and more, how much it was that he could really suffer. sometimes it hurt so in him, when he was alone, it would force some slow tears from him. but every day, now that jeff campbell, knew more how it could hurt him, he lost his feeling of deep awe that he once always had had for melanctha's feeling. suffering was not so much after all, thought jeff campbell, if even he could feel it so it hurt him. it hurt him bad, just the way he knew he once had hurt melanctha, and yet he too could have it and not make any kind of a loud holler with it. in tender hearted natures, those that mostly never feel strong passion, suffering often comes to make them harder. when these do not know in themselves what it is to suffer, suffering is then very awful to them and they badly want to help everyone who ever has to suffer, and they have a deep reverence for anybody who knows really how to always surfer. but when it comes to them to really suffer, they soon begin to lose their fear and tenderness and wonder. why it isn't so very much to suffer, when even i can bear to do it. it isn't very pleasant to be having all the time, to stand it, but they are not so much wiser after all, all the others just because they know too how to bear it. passionate natures who have always made themselves, to suffer, that is all the kind of people who have emotions that come to them as sharp as a sensation, they always get more tender-hearted when they suffer, and it always does them good to suffer. tender-hearted, unpassionate, and comfortable natures always get much harder when they suffer, for so they lose the fear and reverence and wonder they once had for everybody who ever has to suffer, for now they know themselves what it is to suffer and it is not so awful any longer to them when they know too, just as well as all the others, how to have it. and so it came in these days to jeff campbell. jeff knew now always, way inside him, what it is to really suffer, and now every day with it, he knew how to understand melanctha better. jeff campbell still loved melanctha herbert and he still had a real trust in her and he still had a little hope that some day they would once more get together, but slowly, every day, this hope in him would keep growing always weaker. they still were a good deal of time together, but now they never any more were really trusting with each other. in the days when they used to be together, jeff had felt he did not know much what was inside melanctha, but he knew very well, how very deep always was his trust in her; now he knew melanctha herbert better, but now he never felt a deep trust in her. now jeff never could be really honest with her. he never doubted yet, that she was steady only to him, but somehow he could not believe much really in melanctha's loving. melanctha herbert was a little angry now when jeff asked her, "i never give nobody before jeff, ever more than one chance with me, and i certainly been giving you most a hundred jeff, you hear me." "and why shouldn't you melanctha, give me a million, if you really love me!" jeff flashed out very angry. "i certainly don't know as you deserve that anyways from me, jeff campbell." "it ain't deserving, i am ever talking about to you melanctha. its loving, and if you are really loving to me you won't certainly never any ways call them chances." "deed jeff, you certainly are getting awful wise jeff now, ain't you, to me." "no i ain't melanctha, and i ain't jealous either to you. i just am doubting from the way you are always acting to me." "oh yes jeff, that's what they all say, the same way, when they certainly got jealousy all through them. you ain't got no cause to be jealous with me jeff, and i am awful tired of all this talking now, you hear me." jeff campbell never asked melanctha any more if she loved him. now things were always getting worse between them. now jeff was always very silent with melanctha. now jeff never wanted to be honest to her, and now jeff never had much to say to her. now when they were together, it was melanctha always did most of the talking. now she often had other girls there with her. melanctha was always kind to jeff campbell but she never seemed to need to be alone now with him. she always treated jeff, like her best friend, and she always spoke so to him and yet she never seemed now to very often want to see him. every day it was getting harder for jeff campbell. it was as if now, when he had learned to really love melanctha, she did not need any more to have him. jeff began to know this very well inside him. jeff campbell did not know yet that melanctha had begun again to wander. jeff was not very quick to suspect melanctha. all jeff knew was, that he did not trust her to be now really loving to him. jeff was no longer now in any doubt inside him. he knew very well now he really loved melanctha. he knew now very well she was not any more a real religion to him. jeff campbell knew very well too now inside him, he did not really want melanctha, now if he could no longer trust her, though he loved her hard and really knew now what it was to suffer. every day melanctha herbert was less and less near to him. she always was very pleasant in her talk and to be with him, but somehow now it never was any comfort to him. melanctha herbert now always had a lot of friends around her. jeff campbell never wanted to be with them. now melanctha began to find it, she said it often to him, always harder to arrange to be alone now with him. sometimes she would be late for him. then jeff always would try to be patient in his waiting, for jeff campbell knew very well how to remember, and he knew it was only right that he should now endure this from her. then melanctha began to manage often not to see him, and once she went away when she had promised to be there to meet him. then jeff campbell was really filled up with his anger. now he knew he could never really want her. now he knew he never any more could really trust her. jeff campbell never knew why melanctha had not come to meet him. jeff had heard a little talking now, about how melanctha herbert had commenced once more to wander. jeff campbell still sometimes saw jane harden, who always needed a doctor to be often there to help her. jane harden always knew very well what happened to melanctha. jeff campbell never would talk to jane harden anything about melanctha. jeff was always loyal to melanctha. jeff never let jane harden say much to him about melanctha, though he never let her know that now he loved her. but somehow jeff did know now about melanctha, and he knew about some men that melanctha met with rose johnson very often. jeff campbell would not let himself really doubt melanctha, but jeff began to know now very well, he did not want her. melanctha herbert did not love him ever, jeff knew it now, the way he once had thought that she could feel it. once she had been greater for him than he had thought he could ever know how to feel it. now jeff had come to where he could understand melanctha herbert. jeff was not bitter to her because she could not really love him, he was bitter only that he had let himself have a real illusion in him. he was a little bitter too, that he had lost now, what he had always felt real in the world, that had made it for him always full of beauty, and now he had not got this new religion really, and he had lost what he before had to know what was good and had real beauty. jeff campbell was so angry now in him, because he had begged melanctha always to be honest to him. jeff could stand it in her not to love him, he could not stand it in her not to be honest to him. jeff campbell went home from where melanctha had not met him, and he was sore and full of anger in him. jeff campbell could not be sure what to do, to make it right inside him. surely he must be strong now and cast this loving from him, and yet, was he sure he now had real wisdom in him. was he sure that melanctha herbert never had had a real deep loving for him. was he sure melanctha herbert never had deserved a reverence from him. always now jeff had this torment in him, but always now he felt more that melanctha never had real greatness for him. jeff waited to see if melanctha would send any word to him. melanctha herbert never sent a line to him. at last jeff wrote his letter to melanctha. "dear melanctha, i certainly do know you ain't been any way sick this last week when you never met me right the way you promised, and never sent me any word to say why you acted a way you certainly never could think was the right way you should do it to me. jane harden said she saw you that day and you went out walking with some people you like now to be with. don't be misunderstanding me now any more melanctha. i love you now because that's my slow way to learn what you been teaching, but i know now you certainly never had what seems to me real kind of feeling. i don't love you melanctha any more now like a real religion, because now i know you are just made like all us others. i know now no man can ever really hold you because no man can ever be real to trust in you, because you mean right melanctha, but you never can remember, and so you certainly never have got any way to be honest. so please you understand me right now melanctha, it never is i don't know how to love you. i do know now how to love you, melanctha, really. you sure do know that, melanctha, in me. you certainly always can trust me. and so now melanctha, i can say to you certainly real honest with you, i am better than you are in my right kind of feeling. and so melanctha, i don't never any more want to be a trouble to you. you certainly make me see things melanctha, i never any other way could be knowing. you been very good and patient to me, when i was certainly below you in my right feeling. i certainly never have been near so good and patient to you every any way melanctha, i certainly know that melanctha. but melanctha, with me, it certainly is, always to be good together, two people certainly must be thinking each one as good as the other, to be really loving right melanctha. and it certainly must never be any kind of feeling, of one only taking, and one only just giving, melanctha, to me. i know you certainly don't really ever understand me now melanctha, but that's no matter. i certainly do know what i am feeling now with you real melanctha. and so good-bye now for good melanctha. i say i can never ever really trust you real melanctha, that's only just certainly from your way of not being ever equal in your feeling to anybody real, melanctha, and your way never to know right how to remember. many ways i really trust you deep melanctha, and i certainly do feel deep all the good sweetness you certainly got real in you melanctha. its only just in your loving me melanctha. you never can be equal to me and that way i certainly never can bear any more to have it. and so now melanctha, i always be your friend, if you need me, and now we never see each other any more to talk to." and then jeff campbell thought and thought, and he could never make any way for him now, to see it different, and so at last he sent this letter to melanctha. and now surely it was all over in jeff campbell. surely now he never any more could know melanctha. and yet, perhaps melanctha really loved him. and then she would know how much it hurt him never any more, any way, to see her, and perhaps she would write a line to tell him. but that was a foolish way for jeff ever to be thinking. of course melanctha never would write a word to him. it was all over now for always, everything between them, and jeff felt it a real relief to him. for many days now jeff campbell only felt it as a relief in him. jeff was all locked up and quiet now inside him. it was all settling down heavy in him, and these days when it was sinking so deep in him, it was only the rest and quiet of not fighting that he could really feel inside him. jeff campbell could not think now, or feel anything else in him. he had no beauty nor any goodness to see around him. it was a dull, pleasant kind of quiet he now had inside him. jeff almost began to love this dull quiet in him, for it was more nearly being free for him than anything he had known in him since melanctha herbert first had moved him. he did not find it a real rest yet for him, he had not really conquered what had been working so long in him, he had not learned to see beauty and real goodness yet in what had happened to him, but it was rest even if he was sodden now all through him. jeff campbell liked it very well, not to have fighting always going on inside him. and so jeff went on every day, and he was quiet, and he began again to watch himself in his working; and he did not see any beauty now around him, and it was dull and heavy always now inside him, and yet he was content to have gone so far in keeping steady to what he knew was the right way for him to come back to, to be regular, and see beauty in every kind of quiet way of living, the way he had always wanted it for himself and for all the colored people. he knew he had lost the sense he once had of joy all through him, but he could work, and perhaps he would bring some real belief back into him about the beauty that he could not now any more see around him. and so jeff campbell went on with his working, and he staid home every evening, and he began again with his reading, and he did not do much talking, and he did not seem to himself to have any kind of feeling. and one day jeff thought perhaps he really was forgetting, one day he thought he could soon come back and be happy in his old way of regular and quiet living. jeff campbell had never talked to any one of what had been going on inside him. jeff campbell liked to talk and he was honest, but it never came out from him, anything he was ever really feeling, it only came out from him, what it was that he was always thinking. jeff campbell always was very proud to hide what he was really feeling. always he blushed hot to think things he had been feeling. only to melanctha herbert, had it ever come to him, to tell what it was that he was feeling. and so jeff campbell went on with this dull and sodden, heavy, quiet always in him, and he never seemed to be able to have any feeling. only sometimes he shivered hot with shame when he remembered some things he once had been feeling. and then one day it all woke up, and was sharp in him. dr. campbell was just then staying long times with a sick man who might soon be dying. one day the sick man was resting. dr. campbell went to the window to look out a little, while he was waiting. it was very early now in the southern springtime. the trees were just beginning to get the little zigzag crinkles in them, which the young buds always give them. the air was soft and moist and pleasant to them. the earth was wet and rich and smelling for them. the birds were making sharp fresh noises all around them. the wind was very gentle and yet urgent to them. and the buds and the long earthworms, and the negroes, and all the kinds of children, were coming out every minute farther into the new spring, watery, southern sunshine. jeff campbell too began to feel a little his old joy inside him. the sodden quiet began to break up in him. he leaned far out of the window to mix it all up with him. his heart went sharp and then it almost stopped inside him. was it melanctha herbert he had just seen passing by him? was it melanctha, or was it just some other girl, who made him feel so bad inside him? well, it was no matter, melanctha was there in the world around him, he did certainly always know that in him. melanctha herbert was always in the same town with him, and he could never any more feel her near him. what a fool he was to throw her from him. did he know she did not really love him. suppose melanctha was now suffering through him. suppose she really would be glad to see him. and did anything else he did, really mean anything now to him? what a fool he was to cast her from him. and yet did melanctha herbert want him, was she honest to him, had melanctha ever loved him, and did melanctha now suffer by him? oh! oh! oh! and the bitter water once more rose up in him. all that long day, with the warm moist young spring stirring in him, jeff campbell worked, and thought, and beat his breast, and wandered, and spoke aloud, and was silent, and was certain, and then in doubt and then keen to surely feel, and then all sodden in him; and he walked, and he sometimes ran fast to lose himself in his rushing, and he bit his nails to pain and bleeding, and he tore his hair so that he could be sure he was really feeling, and he never could know what it was right, he now should be doing. and then late that night he wrote it all out to melanctha herbert, and he made himself quickly send it without giving himself any time to change it. "it has come to me strong to-day melanctha, perhaps i am wrong the way i now am thinking. perhaps you do want me badly to be with you. perhaps i have hurt you once again the way i used to. i certainly melanctha, if i ever think that really, i certainly do want bad not to be wrong now ever any more to you. if you do feel the way to-day it came to me strong maybe you are feeling, then say so melanctha to me, and i come again to see you. if not, don't say anything any more ever to me. i don't want ever to be bad to you melanctha, really. i never want ever to be a bother to you. i never can stand it to think i am wrong; really, thinking you don't want me to come to you. tell me melanctha, tell me honest to me, shall i come now any more to see you." "yes" came the answer from melanctha, "i be home jeff to-night to see you." jeff campbell went that evening late to see melanctha herbert. as jeff came nearer to her, he doubted that he wanted really to be with her, he felt that he did not know what it was he now wanted from her. jeff campbell knew very well now, way inside him, that they could never talk their trouble out between them. what was it jeff wanted now to tell melanctha herbert? what was it that jeff campbell now could tell her? surely he never now could learn to trust her. surely jeff knew very well all that melanctha always had inside her. and yet it was awful, never any more to see her. jeff campbell went in to melanctha, and he kissed her, and he held her, and then he went away from her and he stood still and looked at her. "well jeff!" "yes melanctha!" "jeff what was it made you act so to me?" "you know very well melanctha, it's always i am thinking you don't love me, and you are acting to me good out of kindness, and then melanctha you certainly never did say anything to me why you never came to meet me, as you certainly did promise to me you would that day i never saw you!" "jeff don't you really know for certain, i always love you?" "no melanctha, deed i don't know it in me. deed and certain sure melanctha, if i only know that in me, i certainly never would give you any bother." "jeff, i certainly do love you more seems to me always, you certainly had ought to feel that in you." "sure melanctha?" "sure jeff boy, you know that." "but then melanctha why did you act so to me?" "oh jeff you certainly been such a bother to me. i just had to go away that day jeff, and i certainly didn't mean not to tell you, and then that letter you wrote came to me and something happened to me. i don't know right what it was jeff, i just kind of fainted, and what could i do jeff, you said you certainly never any more wanted to come and see me!" "and no matter melanctha, even if you knew, it was just killing me to act so to you, you never would have said nothing to me?" "no of course, how could i jeff when you wrote that way to me. i know how you was feeling jeff to me, but i certainly couldn't say nothing to you." "well melanctha, i certainly know i am right proud too in me, but i certainly never could act so to you melanctha, if i ever knew any way at all you ever really loved me. no melanctha darling, you and me certainly don't feel much the same way ever. any way melanctha, i certainly do love you true melanctha." "and i love you too jeff, even though you don't never certainly seem to believe me." "no i certainly don't any way believe you melanctha, even when you say it to me. i don't know melanctha how, but sure i certainly do trust you, only i don't believe now ever in your really being loving to me. i certainly do know you trust me always melanctha, only somehow it ain't ever all right to me. i certainly don't know any way otherwise melanctha, how i can say it to you." "well i certainly can't help you no ways any more jeff campbell, though you certainly say it right when you say i trust you jeff now always. you certainly is the best man jeff campbell, i ever can know, to me. i never been anyways thinking it can be ever different to me." "well you trust me then melanctha, and i certainly love you melanctha, and seems like to me melanctha, you and me had ought to be a little better than we certainly ever are doing now to be together. you certainly do think that way, too, melanctha to me. but may be you do really love me. tell me, please, real honest now melanctha darling, tell me so i really always know it in me, do you really truly love me?" "oh you stupid, stupid boy, jeff campbell. love you, what do you think makes me always to forgive you. if i certainly didn't always love you jeff, i certainly never would let you be always being all the time such a bother to me the way you certainly jeff always are to me. now don't you dass ever any more say words like that ever to me. you hear me now jeff, or i do something real bad sometime, so i really hurt you. now jeff you just be good to me. you know jeff how bad i need it, now you should always be good to me!" jeff campbell could not make an answer to melanctha. what was it he should now say to her? what words could help him to make their feeling any better? jeff campbell knew that he had learned to love deeply, that, he always knew very well now in him, melanctha had learned to be strong to be always trusting, that he knew too now inside him, but melanctha did not really love him, that he felt always too strong for him. that fact always was there in him, and it always thrust itself firm, between them. and so this talk did not make things really better for them. jeff campbell was never any more a torment to melanctha, he was only silent to her. jeff often saw melanctha and he was very friendly with her and he never any more was a bother to her. jeff never any more now had much chance to be loving with her. melanctha never was alone now when he saw her. melanctha herbert had just been getting thick in her trouble with jeff campbell, when she went to that church where she first met rose, who later was married regularly to sam johnson. rose was a good-looking, better kind of black girl, and had been brought up quite like their own child by white folks. rose was living now with colored people. rose was staying just then with a colored woman, who had known 'mis' herbert and her black husband and this girl melanctha. rose soon got to like melanctha herbert and melanctha now always wanted to be with rose, whenever she could do it. melanctha herbert always was doing everything for rose that she could think of that rose ever wanted. rose always liked to be with nice people who would do things for her. rose had strong common sense and she was lazy. rose liked melanctha herbert, she had such kind of fine ways in her. then, too, rose had it in her to be sorry for the subtle, sweet-natured, docile, intelligent melanctha herbert who always was so blue sometimes, and always had had so much trouble. then, too, rose could scold melanctha, for melanctha herbert never could know how to keep herself from trouble, and rose was always strong to keep straight, with her simple selfish wisdom. but why did the subtle, intelligent, attractive, half white girl melanctha herbert, with her sweetness and her power and her wisdom, demean herself to do for and to flatter and to be scolded, by this lazy, stupid, ordinary, selfish black girl. this was a queer thing in melanctha herbert. and so now in these new spring days, it was with rose that melanctha began again to wander. rose always knew very well in herself what was the right way to do when you wandered. rose knew very well, she was not just any common kind of black girl, for she had been raised by white folks, and rose always saw to it that she was engaged to him when she had any one man with whom she ever always wandered. rose always had strong in her the sense for proper conduct. rose always was telling the complex and less sure melanctha, what was the right way she should do when she wandered. rose never knew much about jeff campbell with melanctha herbert. rose had not known about melanctha herbert when she had been almost all her time with dr. campbell. jeff campbell did not like rose when he saw her with melanctha. jeff would never, when he could help it, meet her. rose did not think much about dr. campbell. melanctha never talked much about him to her. he was not important now to be with her. rose did not like melanctha's old friend jane harden when she saw her. jane despised rose for an ordinary, stupid, sullen black girl. jane could not see what melanctha could find in that black girl, to endure her. it made jane sick to see her. but then melanctha had a good mind, but she certainly never did care much to really use it. jane harden now really never cared any more to see melanctha, though melanctha still always tried to be good to her. and rose, she hated that stuck up, mean speaking, nasty, drunk thing, jane harden. rose did not see how melanctha could bear to ever see her, but melanctha always was so good to everybody, she never would know how to act to people the way they deserved that she should do it. rose did not know much about melanctha, and jeff campbell and jane harden. all rose knew about melanctha was her old life with her mother and her father. rose was always glad to be good to poor melanctha, who had had such an awful time with her mother and her father, and now she was alone and had nobody who could help her. "he was a awful black man to you melanctha, i like to get my hands on him so he certainly could feel it. i just would melanctha, now you hear me." perhaps it was this simple faith and simple anger and simple moral way of doing in rose, that melanctha now found such a comfort to her. rose was selfish and was stupid and was lazy, but she was decent and knew always what was the right way she should do, and what she wanted, and she certainly did admire how bright was her friend melanctha herbert, and she certainly did feel how very much it was she always suffered and she scolded her to keep her from more trouble, and she never was angry when she found some of the different ways melanctha herbert sometimes had to do it. and so always rose and melanctha were more and more together, and jeff campbell could now hardly ever any more be alone with melanctha. once jeff had to go away to another town to see a sick man. "when i come back monday melanctha, i come monday evening to see you. you be home alone once melanctha to see me." "sure jeff, i be glad to see you!" when jeff campbell came to his house on monday there was a note there from melanctha. could jeff come day after to-morrow, wednesday? melanctha was so sorry she had to go out that evening. she was awful sorry and she hoped jeff would not be angry. jeff was angry and he swore a little, and then he laughed, and then he sighed. "poor melanctha, she don't know any way to be real honest, but no matter, i sure do love her and i be good if only she will let me." jeff campbell went wednesday night to see melanctha. jeff campbell took her in his arms and kissed her. "i certainly am awful sorry not to see you jeff monday, the way i promised, but i just couldn't jeff, no way i could fix it." jeff looked at her and then he laughed a little at her. "you want me to believe that really now melanctha. all right i believe it if you want me to melanctha. i certainly be good to you to-night the way you like it. i believe you certainly did want to see me melanctha, and there was no way you could fix it." "oh jeff dear," said melanctha, "i sure was wrong to act so to you. it's awful hard for me ever to say it to you, i have been wrong in my acting to you, but i certainly was bad this time jeff to you. it do certainly come hard to me to say it jeff, but i certainly was wrong to go away from you the way i did it. only you always certainly been so bad jeff, and such a bother to me, and making everything always so hard for me, and i certainly got some way to do it to make it come back sometimes to you. you bad boy jeff, now you hear me, and this certainly is the first time jeff i ever yet said it to anybody, i ever been wrong, jeff, you hear me!" "all right melanctha, i sure do forgive you, cause it's certainly the first time i ever heard you say you ever did anything wrong the way you shouldn't," and jeff campbell laughed and kissed her, and melanctha laughed and loved him, and they really were happy now for a little time together. and now they were very happy in each other and then they were silent and then they became a little sadder and then they were very quiet once more with each other. "yes i certainly do love you jeff!" melanctha said and she was very dreamy. "sure, melanctha." "yes jeff sure, but not the way you are now ever thinking. i love you more and more seems to me jeff always, and i certainly do trust you more and more always to me when i know you. i do love you jeff, sure yes, but not the kind of way of loving you are ever thinking it now jeff with me. i ain't got certainly no hot passion any more now in me. you certainly have killed all that kind of feeling now jeff in me. you certainly do know that jeff, now the way i am always, when i am loving with you. you certainly do know that jeff, and that's the way you certainly do like it now in me. you certainly don't mind now jeff, to hear me say this to you." jeff campbell was hurt so that it almost killed him. yes he certainly did know now what it was to have real hot love in him, and yet melanctha certainly was right, he did not deserve she should ever give it to him. "all right melanctha i ain't ever kicking. i always will give you certainly always everything you want that i got in me. i take anything you want now to give me. i don't say never melanctha it don't hurt me, but i certainly don't say ever melanctha it ought ever to be any different to me." and the bitter tears rose up in jeff campbell, and they came and choked his voice to be silent, and he held himself hard to keep from breaking. "good-night melanctha," and jeff was very humble to her. "goodnight jeff, i certainly never did mean any way to hurt you. i do love you, sure jeff every day more and more, all the time i know you." "i know melanctha, i know, it's never nothing to me. you can't help it, anybody ever the way they are feeling. it's all right now melanctha, you believe me, good-night now melanctha, i got now to leave you, good-by melanctha, sure don't look so worried to me, sure melanctha i come again soon to see you." and then jeff stumbled down the steps, and he went away fast to leave her. and now the pain came hard and harder in jeff campbell, and he groaned, and it hurt him so, he could not bear it. and the tears came, and his heart beat, and he was hot and worn and bitter in him. now jeff knew very well what it was to love melanctha. now jeff campbell knew he was really understanding. now jeff knew what it was to be good to melanctha. now jeff was good to her always. slowly jeff felt it a comfort in him to have it hurt so, and to be good to melanctha always. now there was no way melanctha ever had had to bear things from him, worse than he now had it in him. now jeff was strong inside him. now with all the pain there was peace in him. now he knew he was understanding, now he knew he had a hot love in him, and he was good always to melanctha herbert who was the one had made him have it. now he knew he could be good, and not cry out for help to her to teach him how to bear it. every day jeff felt himself more a strong man, the way he once had thought was his real self, the way he knew it. now jeff campbell had real wisdom in him, and it did not make him bitter when it hurt him, for jeff knew now all through him that he was really strong to bear it. and so now jeff campbell could see melanctha often, and he was patient, and always very friendly to her, and every day jeff campbell understood melanctha herbert better. and always jeff saw melanctha could not love him the way he needed she should do it. melanctha herbert had no way she ever really could remember. and now jeff knew there was a man melanctha met very often, and perhaps she wanted to try to have this man to be good, for her. jeff campbell never saw the man melanctha herbert perhaps now wanted. jeff campbell only knew very well that there was one. then there was rose that melanctha now always had with her when she wandered. jeff campbell was very quiet to melanctha. he said to her, now he thought he did not want to come any more especially to see her. when they met, he always would be glad to see her, but now he never would go anywhere any more to meet her. sure he knew she always would have a deep love in him for her. sure she knew that. "yes jeff, i always trust you jeff, i certainly do know that all right." jeff campbell said, all right he never could say anything to reproach her. she knew always that he really had learned all through him how to love her. "yes, jeff, i certainly do know that." she knew now she could always trust him. jeff always would be loyal to her though now she never was any more to him like a religion, but he never could forget the real sweetness in her. that jeff must remember always, though now he never can trust her to be really loving to any man for always, she never did have any way she ever could remember. if she ever needed anybody to be good to her, jeff campbell always would do anything he could to help her. he never can forget the things she taught him so he could be really understanding, but he never any more wants to see her. he be like a brother to her always, when she needs it, and he always will be a good friend to her. jeff campbell certainly was sorry never any more to see her, but it was good that they now knew each other really. "good-bye jeff you always been very good always to me." "good-bye melanctha you know you always can trust yourself to me." "yes, i know, i know jeff, really." "i certainly got to go now melanctha, from you. i go this time, melanctha really," and jeff campbell went away and this time he never looked back to her. this time jeff campbell just broke away and left her. jeff campbell loved to think now he was strong again to be quiet, and to live regular, and to do everything the way he wanted it to be right for himself and all the colored people. jeff went away for a little while to another town to work there, and he worked hard, and he was very sad inside him, and sometimes the tears would rise up in him, and then he would work hard, and then he would begin once more to see some beauty in the world around him. jeff had behaved right and he had learned to have a real love in him. that was very good to have inside him. jeff campbell never could forget the sweetness in melanctha herbert, and he was always very friendly to her, but they never any more came close to one another. more and more jeff campbell and melanctha fell away from all knowing of each other, but jeff never could forget melanctha. jeff never could forget the real sweetness she had in her, but jeff never any more had the sense of a real religion for her. jeff always had strong in him the meaning of all the new kind of beauty melanctha herbert once had shown him, and always more and more it helped him with his working for himself and for all the colored people. melanctha herbert, now that she was all through with jeff campbell, was free to be with rose and the new men she met now. rose was always now with melanctha herbert. rose never found any way to get excited. rose always was telling melanctha herbert the right way she should do, so that she would not always be in trouble. but melanctha herbert could not help it, always she would find new ways to get excited. melanctha was all ready now to find new ways to be in trouble. and yet melanctha herbert never wanted not to do right. always melanctha herbert wanted peace and quiet, and always she could only find new ways to get excited. "melanctha," rose would say to her, "melanctha, i certainly have got to tell you, you ain't right to act so with that kind of feller. you better just had stick to black men now, melanctha, you hear me what i tell you, just the way you always see me do it. they're real bad men, now i tell you melanctha true, and you better had hear to me. i been raised by real nice kind of white folks, melanctha, and i certainly knows awful well, soon as ever i can see 'em acting, what is a white man will act decent to you and the kind it ain't never no good to a colored girl to ever go with. now you know real melanctha how i always mean right good to you, and you ain't got no way like me melanctha, what was raised by white folks, to know right what is the way you should be acting with men. i don't never want to see you have bad trouble come hard to you now melanctha, and so you just hear to me now melanctha, what i tell you, for i knows it. i don't say never certainly to you melanctha, you never had ought to have nothing to do ever with no white men, though it ain't never to me melanctha, the best kind of a way a colored girl can have to be acting, no i never do say to you melanctha, you hadn't never ought to be with white men, though it ain't never the way i feel it ever real, right for a decent colored girl to be always doing, but not never melanctha, now you hear me, no not never no kind of white men like you been with always now melanctha when i see you. you just hear to me melanctha, you certainly had ought to hear to me melanctha, i say it just like i knows it awful well, melanctha, and i knows you don't know no better, melanctha, how to act so, the ways i seen it with them kind of white fellers, them as never can know what to do right by a decent girl they have ever got to be with them. now you hear to me melanctha, what i tell you." and so it was melanctha herbert found new ways to be in trouble. but it was not very bad this trouble, for these white men rose never wanted she should be with, never meant very much to melanctha. it was only that she liked it to be with them, and they knew all about fine horses, and it was just good to melanctha, now a little, to feel real reckless with them. but mostly it was rose and other better kind of colored girls and colored men with whom melanctha herbert now always wandered. it was summer now and the colored people came out into the sunshine, full blown with the flowers. and they shone in the streets and in the fields with their warm joy, and they glistened in their black heat, and they flung themselves free in their wide abandonment of shouting laughter. it was very pleasant in some ways, the life melanctha herbert now led with rose and all the others. it was not always that rose had to scold her. there was not anybody of all these colored people, excepting only rose, who ever meant much to melanctha herbert. but they all liked melanctha, and the men all liked to see her do things, she was so game always to do anything anybody ever could do, and then she was good and sweet to do anything anybody ever wanted from her. these were pleasant days then, in the hot southern negro sunshine, with many simple jokes and always wide abandonment of laughter. "just look at that melanctha there a running. don't she just go like a bird when she is flying. hey melanctha there, i come and catch you, hey melanctha, i put salt on your tail to catch you," and then the man would try to catch her, and he would fall full on the earth and roll in an agony of wide-mouthed shouting laughter. and this was the kind of way rose always liked to have melanctha do it, to be engaged to him, and to have a good warm nigger time with colored men, not to go about with that kind of white man, never could know how to act right, to any decent kind of girl they could ever get to be with them. rose, always more and more, liked melanctha herbert better. rose often had to scold melanctha herbert, but that only made her like melanctha better. and then melanctha always listened to her, and always acted every way she could to please her. and then rose was so sorry for melanctha, when she was so blue sometimes, and wanted somebody should come and kill her. and melanctha herbert clung to rose in the hope that rose could save her. melanctha felt the power of rose's selfish, decent kind of nature. it was so solid, simple, certain to her. melanctha clung to rose, she loved to have her scold her, she always wanted to be with her. she always felt a solid safety in her; rose always was, in her way, very good to let melanctha be loving to her. melanctha never had any way she could really be a trouble to her. melanctha never had any way that she could ever get real power, to come close inside to her. melanctha was always very humble to her. melanctha was always ready to do anything rose wanted from her. melanctha needed badly to have rose always willing to let melanctha cling to her. rose was a simple, sullen, selfish, black girl, but she had a solid power in her. rose had strong the sense of decent conduct, she had strong the sense of decent comfort. rose always knew very well what it was she wanted, and she knew very well what was the right way to do to get everything she wanted, and she never had any kind of trouble to perplex her. and so the subtle intelligent attractive half white girl melanctha herbert loved and did for, and demeaned herself in service to this coarse, decent, sullen, ordinary, black, childish rose and now this unmoral promiscuous shiftless rose was to be married to a good man of the negroes, while melanctha herbert with her white blood and attraction and her desire for a right position was perhaps never to be really regularly married. sometimes the thought of how all her world was made filled the complex, desiring melanctha with despair. she wondered often how she could go on living when she was so blue. sometimes melanctha thought she would just kill herself, for sometimes she thought this would be really the best thing for her to do. rose was now to be married to a decent good man of the negroes. his name was sam johnson, and he worked as a deck-hand on a coasting steamer, and he was very steady, and he got good wages. rose first met sam johnson at church, the same place where she had met melanctha herbert. rose liked sam when she saw him, she knew he was a good man and worked hard and got good wages, and rose thought it would be very nice and very good now in her position to get really, regularly married. sam johnson liked rose very well and he always was ready to do anything she wanted. sam was a tall, square shouldered, decent, a serious, straightforward, simple, kindly, colored workman. they got on very well together, sam and rose, when they were married. rose was lazy, but not dirty, and sam was careful but not fussy. sam was a kindly, simple, earnest, steady workman, and rose had good common decent sense in her, of how to live regular, and not to have excitements, and to be saving so you could be always sure to have money, so as to have everything you wanted. it was not very long that rose knew sam johnson, before they were regularly married. sometimes sam went into the country with all the other young church people, and then he would be a great deal with rose and with her melanctha herbert. sam did not care much about melanctha herbert. he liked rose's ways of doing, always better. melanctha's mystery had no charm for sam ever. sam wanted a nice little house to come to when he was tired from his working, and a little baby all his own he could be good to. sam johnson was ready to marry as soon as ever rose wanted he should do it. and so sam johnson and rose one day had a grand real wedding and were married. then they furnished completely, a little red brick house and then sam went back to his work as deck hand on a coasting steamer. rose had often talked to sam about how good melanctha was and how much she always suffered. sam johnson never really cared about melanctha herbert, but he always did almost everything rose ever wanted, and he was a gentle, kindly creature, and so he was very good to rose's friend melanctha. melanctha herbert knew very well sam did not like her, and so she was very quiet, and always let rose do the talking for her. she only was very good to always help rose, and to do anything she ever wanted from her, and to be very good and listen and be quiet whenever sam had anything to say to her. melanctha liked sam johnson, and all her life melanctha loved and wanted good and kind and considerate people, and always melanctha loved and wanted people to be gentle to her, and always she wanted to be regular, and to have peace and quiet in her, and always melanctha could only find new ways to be in trouble. and melanctha needed badly to have rose, to believe her, and to let her cling to her. rose was the only steady thing melanctha had to cling to and so melanctha demeaned herself to be like a servant, to wait on, and always to be scolded, by this ordinary, sullen, black, stupid, childish woman. rose was always telling sam he must be good to poor melanctha. "you know sam," rose said very often to him, "you certainly had ought to be very good to poor melanctha, she always do have so much trouble with her. you know sam how i told you she had such a bad time always with that father, and he was awful mean to her always that awful black man, and he never took no kind of care ever to her, and he never helped her when her mother died so hard, that poor melanctha. melanctha's ma you know sam, always was just real religious. one day melanctha was real little, and she heard her ma say to her pa, it was awful sad to her, melanctha had not been the one the lord had took from them stead of the little brother who was dead in the house there from fever. that hurt melanctha awful when she heard her ma say it. she never could feel it right, and i don't no ways blame melanctha, sam, for not feeling better to her ma always after, though melanctha, just like always she is, always was real good to her ma after, when she was so sick, and died so hard, and nobody never to help melanctha do it, and she just all alone to do everything without no help come to her no way, and that ugly awful black man she have for a father never all the time come near her. but that's always the way melanctha is just doing sam, the way i been telling to you. she always is being just so good to everybody and nobody ever there to thank her for it. i never did see nobody ever sam, have such bad luck, seems to me always with them, like that poor melanctha always has it, and she always so good with it, and never no murmur in her, and never no complaining from her, and just never saying nothing with it. you be real good to her sam, now you hear me, now you and me is married right together. he certainly was an awful black man to her sam, that father she had, acting always just like a brute to her and she so game and never to tell anybody how it hurt her. and she so sweet and good always to do anything anybody ever can be wanting. i don't see sam how some men can be to act so awful. i told you sam, how once melanctha broke her arm bad and she was so sick and it hurt her awful and he never would let no doctor come near to her and he do some things so awful to her, she don't never want to tell nobody how bad he hurt her. that's just the way sam with melanctha always, you never can know how bad it is, it hurts her. you hear me sam, you always be real good to her now you and me is married right to each other." and so rose and sam johnson were regularly married, and rose sat at home and bragged to all her friends how nice it was to be married really to a husband. rose did not have melanctha to live with her, now rose was married. melanctha was with rose almost as much as ever but it was a little different now their being together. rose johnson never asked melanctha to live with her in the house, now rose was married. rose liked to have melanctha come all the time to help her, rose liked melanctha to be almost always with her, but rose was shrewd in her simple selfish nature, she did not ever think to ask melanctha to live with her. rose was hard headed, she was decent, and she always knew what it was she needed. rose needed melanctha to be with her, she liked to have her help her, the quick, good melanctha to do for the slow, lazy, selfish, black girl, but rose could have melanctha to do for her and she did not need her to live with her. sam never asked rose why she did not have her. sam always took what rose wanted should be done for melanctha, as the right way he should act toward her. it could never come to melanctha to ask rose to let her. it never could come to melanctha to think that rose would ask her. it would never ever come to melanctha to want it, if rose should ask her, but melanctha would have done it for the safety she always felt when she was near her. melanctha herbert wanted badly to be safe now, but this living with her, that, rose would never give her. rose had strong the sense for decent comfort, rose had strong the sense for proper conduct, rose had strong the sense to get straight always what she wanted, and she always knew what was the best thing she needed, and always rose got what she wanted. and so rose had melanctha herbert always there to help her, and she sat and was lazy and she bragged and she complained a little and she told melanctha how she ought to do, to get good what she wanted like she rose always did it, and always melanctha was doing everything rose ever needed. "don't you bother so, doing that melanctha, i do it or sam when he comes home to help me. sure you don't mind lifting it melanctha? you is very good melanctha to do it, and when you go out melanctha, you stop and get some rice to bring me to-morrow when you come in. sure you won't forget melanctha. i never see anybody like you melanctha to always do things so nice for me." and then melanctha would do some more for rose, and then very late melanctha would go home to the colored woman where she lived now. and so though melanctha still was so much with rose johnson, she had times when she could not stay there. melanctha now could not really cling there. rose had sam, and melanctha more and more lost the hold she had had there. melanctha herbert began to feel she must begin again to look and see if she could find what it was she had always wanted. now rose johnson could no longer help her. and so melanctha herbert began once more to wander and with men rose never thought it was right she should be with. one day melanctha had been very busy with the different kinds of ways she wandered. it was a pleasant late afternoon at the end of a long summer. melanctha was walking along, and she was free and excited. melanctha had just parted from a white man and she had a bunch of flowers he had left with her. a young buck, a mulatto, passed by and snatched them from her. "it certainly is real sweet in you sister, to be giving me them pretty flowers," he said to her. "i don't see no way it can make them sweeter to have with you," said melanctha. "what one man gives, another man had certainly just as much good right to be taking." "keep your old flowers then, i certainly don't never want to have them." melanctha herbert laughed at him and took them. "no, i didn't nohow think you really did want to have them. thank you kindly mister, for them. i certainly always do admire to see a man always so kind of real polite to people." the man laughed, "you ain't nobody's fool i can say for you, but you certainly are a damned pretty kind of girl, now i look at you. want men to be polite to you? all right, i can love you, that's real polite now, want to see me try it." "i certainly ain't got no time this evening just only left to thank you. i certainly got to be real busy now, but i certainly always will admire to see you." the man tried to catch and stop her, melanctha herbert laughed and dodged so that he could not touch her. melanctha went quickly down a side street near her and so the man for that time lost her. for some days melanctha did not see any more of her mulatto. one day melanctha was with a white man and they saw him. the white man stopped to speak to him. afterwards melanctha left the white man and she then soon met him. melanctha stopped to talk to him. melanctha herbert soon began to like him. jem richards, the new man melanctha had begun to know now, was a dashing kind of fellow, who had to do with fine horses and with racing. sometimes jem richards would be betting and would be good and lucky, and be making lots of money. sometimes jem would be betting badly, and then he would not be having any money. jem richards was a straight man. jem richards always knew that by and by he would win again and pay it, and so jem mostly did win again, and then he always paid it. jem richards was a man other men always trusted. men gave him money when he lost all his, for they all knew jem richards would win again, and when he did win they knew, and they were right, that he would pay it. melanctha herbert all her life had always loved to be with horses. melanctha liked it that jem knew all about fine horses. he was a reckless man was jem richards. he knew how to win out, and always all her life, melanctha herbert loved successful power. melanctha herbert always liked jem richards better. things soon began to be very strong between them. jem was more game even than melanctha. jem always had known what it was to have real wisdom. jem had always all his life been understanding. jem richards made melanctha herbert come fast with him. he never gave her any time with waiting. soon melanctha always had jem with her. melanctha did not want anything better. now in jem richards, melanctha found everything she had ever needed to content her. melanctha was now less and less with rose johnson. rose did not think much of the way melanctha now was going. jem richards was all right, only melanctha never had no sense of the right kind of way she should be doing. rose often was telling sam now, she did not like the fast way melanctha was going. rose told it to sam, and to all the girls and men, when she saw them. but rose was nothing just then to melanctha. melanctha herbert now only needed jem richards to be with her. and things were always getting stronger between jem richards and melanctha herbert. jem richards began to talk now as if he wanted to get married to her. jem was deep in his love now for her. and as for melanctha, jem was all the world now to her. and so jem gave her a ring, like white folks, to show he was engaged to her, and would by and by be married to her. and melanctha was filled full with joy to have jem so good to her. melanctha always loved to go with jem to the races. jem had been lucky lately with his betting, and he had a swell turn-out to drive in, and melanctha looked very handsome there beside him. melanctha was very proud to have jem richards want her. melanctha loved it the way jem knew how to do it. melanctha loved jem and loved that he should want her. she loved it too, that he wanted to be married to her. jem richards was a straight decent man, whom other men always looked up to and trusted. melanctha needed badly a man to content her. melanctha's joy made her foolish. melanctha told everybody about how jem richards, that swell man who owned all those fine horses and was so game, nothing ever scared him, was engaged to be married to her, and that was the ring he gave her. melanctha let out her joy very often to rose johnson. melanctha had begun again now to go there. melanctha's love for jem made her foolish. melanctha had to have some one always now to talk to and so she went often to rose johnson. melanctha put all herself into jem richards. she was mad and foolish in the joy she had there. rose never liked the way melanctha did it. "no sam i don't say never melanctha ain't engaged to jem richards the way she always says it, and jem he is all right for that kind of man he is, though he do think himself so smart and like he owns the earth and everything he can get with it, and he sure gave melanctha a ring like he really meant he should be married right soon with it, only sam, i don't ever like it the way melanctha is going. when she is engaged to him sam, she ain't not right to take on so excited. that ain't no decent kind of a way a girl ever should be acting. there ain't no kind of a man going stand that, not like i knows men sam, and i sure does know them. i knows them white and i knows them colored, for i was raised by white folks, and they don't none of them like a girl to act so. that's all right to be so when you is just only loving, but it ain't no ways right to be acting so when you is engaged to him, and when he says, all right he get really regularly married to you. you see sam i am right like i am always and i knows it. jem richards, he ain't going to the last to get real married, not if i knows it right, the way melanctha now is acting to him. rings or anything ain't nothing to them, and they don't never do no good for them, when a girl acts foolish like melanctha always now is acting. i certainly will be right sorry sam, if melanctha has real bad trouble come now to her, but i certainly don't no ways like it sam the kind of way melanctha is acting to him. i don't never say nothing to her sam. i just listens to what she is saying always, and i thinks it out like i am telling to you sam but i don't never say nothing no more now to melanctha. melanctha didn't say nothing to me about that jem richards till she was all like finished with him, and i never did like it sam, much, the way she was acting, not coming here never when she first ran with those men and met him. and i didn't never say nothing to her, sam, about it, and it ain't nothing ever to me, only i don't never no more want to say nothing to her, so i just listens to what she got to tell like she wants it. no sam, i don't never want to say nothing to her. melanctha just got to go her own way, not as i want to see her have bad trouble ever come hard to her, only it ain't in me never sam, after melanctha did so, ever to say nothing more to her how she should be acting. you just see sam like i tell you, what way jem richards will act to her, you see sam i just am right like i always am when i knows it." melanctha herbert never thought she could ever again be in trouble. melanctha's joy had made her foolish. and now jem richards had some bad trouble with his betting. melanctha sometimes felt now when she was with him that there was something wrong inside him. melanctha knew he had had trouble with his betting but melanctha never felt that that could make any difference to them. melanctha once had told jem, sure he knew she always would love to be with him, if he was in jail or only just a beggar. now melanctha said to him, "sure you know jem that it don't never make any kind of difference you're having any kind of trouble, you just try me jem and be game, don't look so worried to me. jem sure i know you love me like i love you always, and its all i ever could be wanting jem to me, just your wanting me always to be with you. i get married jem to you soon ever as you can want me, if you once say it jem to me. it ain't nothing to me ever, anything like having any money jem, why you look so worried to me." melanctha herbert's love had surely made her mad and foolish. she thrust it always deep into jem richards and now that he had trouble with his betting, jem had no way that he ever wanted to be made to feel it. jem richards never could want to marry any girl while he had trouble. that was no way a man like him should do it. melanctha's love had made her mad and foolish, she should be silent now and let him do it. jem richards was not a kind of man to want a woman to be strong to him, when he was in trouble with his betting. that was not the kind of a time when a man like him needed to have it. melanctha needed so badly to have it, this love which she had always wanted, she did not know what she should do to save it. melanctha saw now, jem richards always had something wrong inside him. melanctha soon dared not ask him. jem was busy now, he had to sell things and see men to raise money. jem could not meet melanctha now so often. it was lucky for melanctha herbert that rose johnson was coming now to have her baby. it had always been understood between them, rose should come and stay then in the house where melanctha lived with an old colored woman, so that rose could have the doctor from the hospital near by to help her, and melanctha there to take care of her the way melanctha always used to do it. melanctha was very good now to rose johnson. melanctha did everything that any woman could, she tended rose, and she was patient, submissive, soothing and untiring, while the sullen, childish, cowardly, black rosie grumbled, and fussed, and howled, and made herself to be an abomination and like a simple beast. all this time melanctha was always being every now and then with jem richards. melanctha was beginning to be stronger with jem richards. melanctha was never so strong and sweet and in her nature as when she was deep in trouble, when she was fighting so with all she had, she could not do any foolish thing with her nature. always now melanctha herbert came back again to be nearer to rose johnson. always now melanctha would tell all about her troubles to rose johnson. rose had begun now a little again to advise her. melanctha always told rose now about the talks she had with jem richards, talks where they neither of them liked very well what the other one was saying. melanctha did not know what it was jem richards wanted. all melanctha knew was, he did not like it when she wanted to be good friends and get really married, and then when melanctha would say, "all right, i never wear your ring no more jem, we ain't not any more to meet ever like we ever going to get really regular married," then jem did not like it either. what was it jem richards really wanted? melanctha stopped wearing jem's ring on her finger. poor melanctha, she wore it on a string she tied around her neck so that she could always feel it, but melanctha was strong now with jem richards, and he never saw it. and sometimes jem seemed to be awful sorry for it, and sometimes he seemed kind of glad of it. melanctha never could make out really what it was jem richards wanted. there was no other woman yet to jem, that melanctha knew, and so she always trusted that jem would come back to her, deep in his love, the way once he had had it and had made all the world like she once had never believed anybody could really make it. but jem richards was more game than melanctha herbert. he knew how to fight to win out, better. melanctha really had already lost it, in not keeping quiet and waiting for jem to do it. jem richards was not yet having better luck in his betting. he never before had had such a long time without some good coming to him in his betting. sometimes jem talked as if he wanted to go off on a trip somewhere and try some other place for luck with his betting. jem richards never talked as if he wanted to take melanctha with him. and so melanctha sometimes was really trusting, and sometimes she was all sick inside her with her doubting. what was it jem really wanted to do with her? he did not have any other woman, in that melanctha could be really trusting, and when she said no to him, no she never would come near him, now he did not want to have her, then jem would change and swear, yes sure he did want her, now and always right here near him, but he never now any more said he wanted to be married soon to her. but then jem richards never would marry a girl, he said that very often, when he was in this kind of trouble, and now he did not see any way he could get out of his trouble. but melanctha ought to wear his ring, sure she knew he never had loved any kind of woman like he loved her. melanctha would wear the ring a little while, and then they would have some more trouble, and then she would say to him, no she certainly never would any more wear anything he gave her, and then she would wear it on the string so nobody could see it but she could always feel it on her. poor melanctha, surely her love had made her mad and foolish. and now melanctha needed always more and more to be with rose johnson, and rose had commenced again to advise her, but rose could not help her. there was no way now that anybody could advise her. the time when melanctha could have changed it with jem richards was now all past for her. rose knew it, and melanctha too, she knew it, and it almost killed her to let herself believe it. the only comfort melanctha ever had now was waiting on rose till she was so tired she could hardly stand it. always melanctha did everything rose ever wanted. sam johnson began now to be very gentle and a little tender to melanctha. she was so good to rose and sam was so glad to have her there to help rose and to do things and to be a comfort to her. rose had a hard time to bring her baby to its birth and melanctha did everything that any woman could. the baby though it was healthy after it was born did not live long. rose johnson was careless and negligent and selfish and when melanctha had to leave for a few days the baby died. rose johnson had liked her baby well enough and perhaps she just forgot it for a while, anyway the child was dead and rose and sam were very sorry, but then these things came so often in the negro world in bridgepoint that they neither of them thought about it very long. when rose had become strong again she went back to her house with sam. and sam johnson was always now very gentle and kind and good to melanctha who had been so good to rose in her bad trouble. melanctha herbert's troubles with jem richards were never getting any better. jem always now had less and less time to be with her. when jem was with melanctha now he was good enough to her. jem richards was worried with his betting. never since jem had first begun to make a living had he ever had so much trouble for such a long time together with his betting. jem richards was good enough now to melanctha but he had not much strength to give her. melanctha could never any more now make him quarrel with her. melanctha never now could complain of his treatment of her, for surely, he said it always by his actions to her, surely she must know how a man was when he had trouble on his mind with trying to make things go a little better. sometimes jem and melanctha had long talks when they neither of them liked very well what the other one was saying, but mostly now melanctha could not make jem richards quarrel with her, and more and more, melanctha could not find any way to make it right to blame him for the trouble she now always had inside her. jem was good to her, and she knew, for he told her, that he had trouble all the time now with his betting. melanctha knew very well that for her it was all wrong inside jem richards, but melanctha had now no way that she could really reach him. things between melanctha and jem richards were now never getting any better. melanctha now more and more needed to be with rose johnson. rose still liked to have melanctha come to her house and do things for her, and rose liked to grumble to her and to scold her and to tell melanctha what was the way melanctha always should be doing so she could make things come out better and not always be so much in trouble. sam johnson in these days was always very good and gentle to melanctha. sam was now beginning to be very sorry for her. jem richards never made things any better for melanctha. often jem would talk so as to make melanctha almost certain that he never any more wanted to have her. then melanctha would get very blue, and she would say to rose, sure she would kill herself, for that certainly now was the best way she could do. rose johnson never saw it the least bit that way. "i don't see melanctha why you should talk like you would kill yourself just because you're blue. i'd never kill myself melanctha cause i was blue. i'd maybe kill somebody else but i'd never kill myself. if i ever killed myself, melanctha it'd be by accident and if i ever killed myself by accident, melanctha, i'd be awful sorry. and that certainly is the way you should feel it melanctha, now you hear me, not just talking foolish like you always do. it certainly is only your way just always being foolish makes you all that trouble to come to you always now, melanctha, and i certainly right well knows that. you certainly never can learn no way melanctha ever with all i certainly been telling to you, ever since i know you good, that it ain't never no way like you do always is the right way you be acting ever and talking, the way i certainly always have seen you do so melanctha always. i certainly am right melanctha about them ways you have to do it, and i knows it; but you certainly never can noways learn to act right melanctha, i certainly do know that, i certainly do my best melanctha to help you with it only you certainly never do act right melanctha, not to nobody ever, i can see it. you never act right by me melanctha no more than by everybody. i never say nothing to you melanctha when you do so, for i certainly never do like it when i just got to say it to you, but you just certainly done with that jem richards you always say wanted real bad to be married to you, just like i always said to sam you certainly was going to do it. and i certainly am real kind of sorry like for you melanctha, but you certainly had ought to have come to see me to talk to you, when you first was engaged to him so i could show you, and now you got all this trouble come to you melanctha like i certainly know you always catch it. it certainly ain't never melanctha i ain't real sorry to see trouble come so hard to you, but i certainly can see melanctha it all is always just the way you always be having it in you not never to do right. and now you always talk like you just kill yourself because you are so blue, that certainly never is melanctha, no kind of a way for any decent kind of a girl to do." rose had begun to be strong now to scold melanctha and she was impatient very often with her, but rose could now never any more be a help to her. melanctha herbert never could know now what it was right she should do. melanctha always wanted to have jem richards with her and now he never seemed to want her, and what could melanctha do. surely she was right now when she said she would just kill herself, for that was the only way now she could do. sam johnson always, more and more, was good and gentle to melanctha. poor melanctha, she was so good and sweet to do anything anybody ever wanted, and melanctha always liked it if she could have peace and quiet, and always she could only find new ways to be in trouble. sam often said this now to rose about melanctha. "i certainly don't never want sam to say bad things about melanctha, for she certainly always do have most awful kind of trouble come hard to her, but i never can say i like it real right sam the way melanctha always has to do it. its now just the same with her like it is always she has got to do it, now the way she is with that jem richards. he certainly now don't never want to have her but melanctha she ain't got no right kind of spirit. no sam i don't never like the way any more melanctha is acting to him, and then sam, she ain't never real right honest, the way she always should do it. she certainly just don't kind of never sam tell right what way she is doing with it. i don't never like to say nothing sam no more to her about the way she always has to be acting. she always say, yes all right rose, i do the way you say it, and then sam she don't never noways do it. she certainly is right sweet and good, sam, is melanctha, nobody ever can hear me say she ain't always ready to do things for everybody anyway she ever can see to do it, only sam some ways she never does act real right ever, and some ways, sam, she ain't ever real honest with it. and sam sometimes i hear awful kind of things she been doing, some girls know about her how she does it, and sometimes they tell me what kind of ways she has to do it, and sam it certainly do seem to me like more and more i certainly am awful afraid melanctha never will come to any good. and then sam, sometimes, you hear it, she always talk like she kill herself all the time she is so blue, and sam that certainly never is no kind of way any decent girl ever had ought to do. you see sam, how i am right like i always is when i knows it. you just be careful, sam, now you hear me, you be careful sam sure, i tell you, melanctha more and more i see her i certainly do feel melanctha no way is really honest. you be careful, sam now, like i tell you, for i knows it, now you hear to me, sam, what i tell you, for i certainly always is right, sam, when i knows it." at first sam tried a little to defend melanctha, and sam always was good and gentle to her, and sam liked the ways melanctha had to be quiet to him, and to always listen as if she was learning, when she was there and heard him talking, and then sam liked the sweet way she always did everything so nicely for him; but sam never liked to fight with anybody ever, and surely rose knew best about melanctha and anyway sam never did really care much about melanctha. her mystery never had had any interest for him. sam liked it that she was sweet to him and that she always did everything rose ever wanted that she should be doing. but melanctha never would be important to him. all sam ever wanted was to have a little house and to live regular and to work hard and to come home to his dinner, when he was tired with his working and by and by he wanted to have some children all his own to be good to, and so sam was real sorry for melanctha, she was so good and so sweet always to them, and jem richards was a bad man to behave so to her, but that was always the way a girl got it when she liked that kind of fast fellow. anyhow melanctha was rose's friend, and sam never cared to have anything to do with the kind of trouble always came to women, when they wanted to have men, who never could know how to behave good and steady to their women. and so sam never said much to rose about melanctha. sam was always very gentle to her, but now he began less and less to see her. soon melanctha never came any more to the house to see rose and sam never asked rose anything about her. melanctha herbert was beginning now to come less and less to the house to be with rose johnson. this was because rose seemed always less and less now to want her, and rose would not let melanctha now do things for her. melanctha was always humble to her and melanctha always wanted in every way she could to do things for her. rose said no, she guessed she do that herself like she likes to have it better. melanctha is real good to stay so long to help her, but rose guessed perhaps melanctha better go home now, rose don't need nobody to help her now, she is feeling real strong, not like just after she had all that trouble with the baby, and then sam, when he comes home for his dinner he likes it when rose is all alone there just to give him his dinner. sam always is so tired now, like he always is in the summer, so many people always on the steamer, and they make so much work so sam is real tired now, and he likes just to eat his dinner and never have people in the house to be a trouble to him. each day rose treated melanctha more and more as if she never wanted melanctha any more to come there to the house to see her. melanctha dared not ask rose why she acted in this way to her. melanctha badly needed to have rose always there to save her. melanctha wanted badly to cling to her and rose had always been so solid for her. melanctha did not dare to ask rose if she now no longer wanted her to come and see her. melanctha now never any more had sam to be gentle to her. rose always sent melanctha away from her before it was time for sam to come home to her. one day melanctha had stayed a little longer, for rose that day had been good to let melanctha begin to do things for her. melanctha then left her and melanctha met sam johnson who stopped a minute to speak kindly to her. the next day rose johnson would not let melanctha come in to her. rose stood on the steps, and there she told melanctha what she thought now of her. "i guess melanctha it certainly ain't no ways right for you to come here no more just to see me. i certainly don't melanctha no ways like to be a trouble to you. i certainly think melanctha i get along better now when i don't have nobody like you are, always here to help me, and sam he do so good now with his working, he pay a little girl something to come every day to help me. i certainly do think melanctha i don't never want you no more to come here just to see me." "why rose, what i ever done to you, i certainly don't think you is right rose to be so bad now to me." "i certainly don't no ways melanctha herbert think you got any right ever to be complaining the way i been acting to you. i certainly never do think melanctha herbert, you hear me, nobody ever been more patient to you than i always been to like you, only melanctha, i hear more things now so awful bad about you, everybody always is telling to me what kind of a way you always have been doing so much, and me always so good to you, and you never no ways, knowing how to be honest to me. no melanctha it ain't ever in me, not to want you to have good luck come to you, and i like it real well melanctha when you some time learn how to act the way it is decent and right for a girl to be doing, but i don't no ways ever like it the kind of things everybody tell me now about you. no melanctha, i can't never any more trust you. i certainly am real sorry to have never any more to see you, but there ain't no other way, i ever can be acting to you. that's all i ever got any more to say to you now melanctha." "but rose, deed; i certainly don't know, no more than the dead, nothing i ever done to make you act so to me. anybody say anything bad about me rose, to you, they just a pack of liars to you, they certainly is rose, i tell you true. i certainly never done nothing i ever been ashamed to tell you. why you act so bad to me rose. sam he certainly don't think ever like you do, and rose i always do everything i can, you ever want me to do for you." "it ain't never no use standing there talking, melanctha herbert. i just can tell it to you, and sam, he don't know nothing about women ever the way they can be acting. i certainly am very sorry melanctha, to have to act so now to you, but i certainly can't do no other way with you, when you do things always so bad, and everybody is talking so about you. it ain't no use to you to stand there and say it different to me melanctha. i certainly am always right melanctha herbert, the way i certainly always have been when i knows it, to you. no melanctha, it just is, you never can have no kind of a way to act right, the way a decent girl has to do, and i done my best always to be telling it to you melanctha herbert, but it don't never do no good to tell nobody how to act right; they certainly never can learn when they ain't got no sense right to know it, and you never have no sense right melanctha to be honest, and i ain't never wishing no harm to you ever melanctha herbert, only i don't never want any more to see you come here. i just say to you now, like i always been saying to you, you don't know never the right way, any kind of decent girl has to be acting, and so melanctha herbert, me and sam, we don't never any more want you to be setting your foot in my house here melanctha herbert, i just tell you. and so you just go along now, melanctha herbert, you hear me, and i don't never wish no harm to come to you." rose johnson went into her house and closed the door behind her. melanctha stood like one dazed, she did not know how to bear this blow that almost killed her. slowly then melanctha went away without even turning to look behind her. melanctha herbert was all sore and bruised inside her. melanctha had needed rose always to believe her, melanctha needed rose always to let her cling to her, melanctha wanted badly to have somebody who could make her always feel a little safe inside her, and now rose had sent her from her. melanctha wanted rose more than she had ever wanted all the others. rose always was so simple, solid, decent, for her. and now rose had cast her from her. melanctha was lost, and all the world went whirling in a mad weary dance around her. melanctha herbert never had any strength alone ever to feel safe inside her. and now rose johnson had cast her from her, and melanctha could never any more be near her. melanctha herbert knew now, way inside her, that she was lost, and nothing any more could ever help her. melanctha went that night to meet jem richards who had promised to be at the old place to meet her. jem richards was absent in his manner to her. by and by he began to talk to her, about the trip he was going to take soon, to see if he could get some luck back in his betting. melanctha trembled, was jem too now going to leave her. jem richards talked some more then to her, about the bad luck he always had now, and how he needed to go away to see if he could make it come out any better. then jem stopped, and then he looked straight at melanctha. "tell me melanctha right and true, you don't care really nothing more about me now melanctha," he said to her. "why you ask me that, jem richards," said melanctha. "why i ask you that melanctha, god almighty, because i just don't give a damn now for you any more melanctha. that the reason i was asking." melanctha never could have for this an answer. jem richards waited and then he went away and left her. melanctha herbert never again saw jem richards. melanctha never again saw rose johnson, and it was hard to melanctha never any more to see her. rose johnson had worked in to be the deepest of all melanctha's emotions. "no, i don't never see melanctha herbert no more now," rose would say to anybody who asked her about melanctha. "no, melanctha she never comes here no more now, after we had all that trouble with her acting so bad with them kind of men she liked so much to be with. she don't never come to no good melanctha herbert don't, and me and sam don't want no more to see her. she didn't do right ever the way i told her. melanctha just wouldn't, and i always said it to her, if she don't be more kind of careful, the way she always had to be acting, i never did want no more she should come here in my house no more to see me. i ain't no ways ever against any girl having any kind of a way, to have a good time like she wants it, but not that kind of a way melanctha always had to do it. i expect some day melanctha kill herself, when she act so bad like she do always, and then she got so awful blue. melanctha always says that's the only way she ever can think it a easy way for her to do. no, i always am real sorry for melanctha, she never was no just common kind of nigger, but she don't never know not with all the time i always was telling it to her, no she never no way could learn, what was the right way she should do. i certainly don't never want no kind of harm to come bad to melanctha, but i certainly do think she will most kill herself some time, the way she always say it would be easy way for her to do. i never see nobody ever could be so awful blue." but melanctha herbert never really killed herself because she was so blue, though often she thought this would be really the best way for her to do. melanctha never killed herself, she only got a bad fever and went into the hospital where they took good care of her and cured her. when melanctha was well again, she took a place and began to work and to live regular. then melanctha got very sick again; she began to cough and sweat and be so weak she could not stand to do her work. melanctha went back to the hospital, and there the doctor told her she had the consumption, and before long she would surely die. they sent her where she would be taken care of, a home for poor consumptives, and there melanctha stayed until she died. finis the gentle lena lena was patient, gentle, sweet and german. she had been a servant for four years and had liked it very well. lena had been brought from germany to bridgepoint by a cousin and had been in the same place there for four years. this place lena had found very good. there was a pleasant, unexacting mistress and her children, and they all liked lena very well. there was a cook there who scolded lena a great deal but lena's german patience held no suffering and the good incessant woman really only scolded so for lena's good. lena's german voice when she knocked and called the family in the morning was as awakening, as soothing, and as appealing, as a delicate soft breeze in midday, summer. she stood in the hallway every morning a long time in her unexpectant and unsuffering german patience calling to the young ones to get up. she would call and wait a long time and then call again, always even, gentle, patient, while the young ones fell back often into that precious, tense, last bit of sleeping that gives a strength of joyous vigor in the young, over them that have come to the readiness of middle age, in their awakening. lena had good hard work all morning, and on the pleasant, sunny afternoons she was sent out into the park to sit and watch the little two year old girl baby of the family. the other girls, all them that make the pleasant, lazy crowd, that watch the children in the sunny afternoons out in the park, all liked the simple, gentle, german lena very well. they all, too, liked very well to tease her, for it was so easy to make her mixed and troubled, and all helpless, for she could never learn to know just what the other quicker girls meant by the queer things they said. the two or three of these girls, the ones that lena always sat with, always worked together to confuse her. still it was pleasant, all this life for lena. the little girl fell down sometimes and cried, and then lena had to soothe her. when the little girl would drop her hat, lena had to pick it up and hold it. when the little girl was bad and threw away her playthings, lena told her she could not have them and took them from her to hold until the little girl should need them. it was all a peaceful life for lena, almost as peaceful as a pleasant leisure. the other girls, of course, did tease her, but then that only made a gentle stir within her. lena was a brown and pleasant creature, brown as blonde races often have them brown, brown, not with the yellow or the red or the chocolate brown of sun burned countries, but brown with the clear color laid flat on the light toned skin beneath, the plain, spare brown that makes it right to have been made with hazel eyes, and not too abundant straight, brown hair, hair that only later deepens itself into brown from the straw yellow of a german childhood. lena had the flat chest, straight back and forward falling shoulders of the patient and enduring working woman, though her body was now still in its milder girlhood and work had not yet made these lines too clear. the rarer feeling that there was with lena, showed in all the even quiet of her body movements, but in all it was the strongest in the patient, old-world ignorance, and earth made pureness of her brown, flat, soft featured face. lena had eyebrows that were a wondrous thickness. they were black, and spread, and very cool, with their dark color and their beauty, and beneath them were her hazel eyes, simple and human, with the earth patience of the working, gentle, german woman. yes it was all a peaceful life for lena. the other girls, of course, did tease her, but then that only made a gentle stir within her. "what you got on your finger lena," mary, one of the girls she always sat with, one day asked her. mary was good natured, quick, intelligent and irish. lena had just picked up the fancy paper made accordion that the little girl had dropped beside her, and was making it squeak sadly as she pulled it with her brown, strong, awkward finger. "why, what is it, mary, paint?" said lena, putting her finger to her mouth to taste the dirt spot. "that's awful poison lena, don't you know?" said mary, "that green paint that you just tasted." lena had sucked a good deal of the green paint from her finger. she stopped and looked hard at the finger. she did not know just how much mary meant by what she said. "ain't it poison, nellie, that green paint, that lena sucked just now," said mary. "sure it is lena, its real poison, i ain't foolin' this time anyhow." lena was a little troubled. she looked hard at her finger where the paint was, and she wondered if she had really sucked it. it was still a little wet on the edges and she rubbed it off a long time on the inside of her dress, and in between she wondered and looked at the finger and thought, was it really poison that she had just tasted. "ain't it too bad, nellie, lena should have sucked that," mary said. nellie smiled and did not answer. nellie was dark and thin, and looked italian. she had a big mass of black hair that she wore high up on her head, and that made her face look very fine. nellie always smiled and did not say much, and then she would look at lena to perplex her. and so they all three sat with their little charges in the pleasant sunshine a long time. and lena would often look at her finger and wonder if it was really poison that she had just tasted and then she would rub her finger on her dress a little harder. mary laughed at her and teased her and nellie smiled a little and looked queerly at her. then it came time, for it was growing cooler, for them to drag together the little ones, who had begun to wander, and to take each one back to its own mother. and lena never knew for certain whether it was really poison, that green stuff that she had tasted. during these four years of service, lena always spent her sundays out at the house of her aunt, who had brought her four years before to bridgepoint. this aunt, who had brought lena, four years before, to bridgepoint, was a hard, ambitious, well meaning, german woman. her husband was a grocer in the town, and they were very well to do. mrs. haydon, lena's aunt, had two daughters who were just beginning as young ladies, and she had a little boy who was not honest and who was very hard to manage. mrs. haydon was a short, stout, hard built, german woman. she always hit the ground very firmly and compactly as she walked. mrs. haydon was all a compact and well hardened mass, even to her face, reddish and darkened from its early blonde, with its hearty, shiny cheeks, and doubled chin well covered over with the up roll from her short, square neck. the two daughters, who were fourteen and fifteen, looked like unkneaded, unformed mounds of flesh beside her. the elder girl, mathilda, was blonde, and slow, and simple, and quite fat. the younger, bertha, who was almost as tall as her sister, was dark, and quicker, and she was heavy, too, but not really fat. these two girls the mother had brought up very firmly. they were well taught for their position. they were always both well dressed, in the same kinds of hats and dresses, as is becoming in two german sisters. the mother liked to have them dressed in red. their best clothes were red dresses, made of good heavy cloth, and strongly trimmed with braid of a glistening black. they had stiff, red felt hats, trimmed with black velvet ribbon, and a bird. the mother dressed matronly, in a bonnet and in black, always sat between her two big daughters, firm, directing, and repressed. the only weak spot in this good german woman's conduct was the way she spoiled her boy, who was not honest and who was very hard to manage. the father of this family was a decent, quiet, heavy, and uninterfering german man. he tried to cure the boy of his bad ways, and make him honest, but the mother could not make herself let the father manage, and so the boy was brought up very badly. mrs. haydon's girls were now only just beginning as young ladies, and so to get her niece, lena, married, was just then the most important thing that mrs. haydon had to do. mrs. haydon had four years before gone to germany to see her parents, and had taken the girls with her. this visit had been for mrs. haydon most successful, though her children had not liked it very well. mrs. haydon was a good and generous woman, and she patronized her parents grandly, and all the cousins who came from all about to see her. mrs. haydon's people were of the middling class of farmers. they were not peasants, and they lived in a town of some pretension, but it all seemed very poor and smelly to mrs. haydon's american born daughters. mrs. haydon liked it all. it was familiar, and then here she was so wealthy and important. she listened and decided, and advised all of her relations how to do things better. she arranged their present and their future for them, and showed them how in the past they had been wrong in all their methods. mrs. haydon's only trouble was with her two daughters, whom she could not make behave well to her parents. the two girls were very nasty to all their numerous relations. their mother could hardly make them kiss their grandparents, and every day the girls would get a scolding. but then mrs. haydon was so very busy that she did not have time to really manage her stubborn daughters. these hard working, earth-rough german cousins were to these american born children, ugly and dirty, and as far below them as were italian or negro workmen, and they could not see how their mother could ever bear to touch them, and then all the women dressed so funny, and were worked all rough and different. the two girls stuck up their noses at them all, and always talked in english to each other about how they hated all these people and how they wished their mother would not do so. the girls could talk some german, but they never chose to use it. it was her eldest brother's family that most interested mrs. haydon. here there were eight children, and out of the eight, five of them were girls. mrs. haydon thought it would be a fine thing to take one of these girls back with her to bridgepoint and get her well started. everybody liked that she should do so and they were all willing that it should be lena. lena was the second girl in her large family. she was at this time just seventeen years old. lena was not an important daughter in the family. she was always sort of dreamy and not there. she worked hard and went very regularly at it, but even good work never seemed to bring her near. lena's age just suited mrs. haydon's purpose. lena could first go out to service, and learn how to do things, and then, when she was a little older, mrs. haydon could get her a good husband. and then lena was so still and docile, she would never want to do things her own way. and then, too, mrs. haydon, with all her hardness had wisdom, and she could feel the rarer strain there was in lena. lena was willing to go with mrs. haydon. lena did not like her german life very well. it was not the hard work but the roughness that disturbed her. the people were not gentle, and the men when they were glad were very boisterous, and would lay hold of her and roughly tease her. they were good people enough around her, but it was all harsh and dreary for her. lena did not really know that she did not like it. she did not know that she was always dreamy and not there. she did not think whether it would be different for her away off there in bridgepoint. mrs. haydon took her and got her different kinds of dresses, and then took her with them to the steamer. lena did not really know what it was that had happened to her. mrs. haydon, and her daughters, and lena traveled second class on the steamer. mrs. haydon's daughters hated that their mother should take lena. they hated to have a cousin, who was to them, little better than a nigger, and then everybody on the steamer there would see her. mrs. haydon's daughters said things like this to their mother, but she never stopped to hear them, and the girls did not dare to make their meaning very clear. and so they could only go on hating lena hard, together. they could not stop her from going back with them to bridgepoint. lena was very sick on the voyage. she thought, surely before it was over that she would die. she was so sick she could not even wish that she had not started. she could not eat, she could not moan, she was just blank and scared, and sure that every minute she would die. she could not hold herself in, nor help herself in her trouble. she just staid where she had been put, pale, and scared, and weak, and sick, and sure that she was going to die. mathilda and bertha haydon had no trouble from having lena for a cousin on the voyage, until the last day that they were on the ship, and by that time they had made their friends and could explain. mrs. haydon went down every day to lena, gave her things to make her better, held her head when it was needful, and generally was good and did her duty by her. poor lena had no power to be strong in such trouble. she did not know how to yield to her sickness nor endure. she lost all her little sense of being in her suffering. she was so scared, and then at her best, lena, who was patient, sweet and quiet, had not self-control, nor any active courage. poor lena was so scared and weak, and every minute she was sure that she would die. after lena was on land again a little while, she forgot all her bad suffering. mrs. haydon got her the good place, with the pleasant unexacting mistress, and her children, and lena began to learn some english and soon was very happy and content. all her sundays out lena spent at mrs. haydon's house. lena would have liked much better to spend her sundays with the girls she always sat with, and who often asked her, and who teased her and made a gentle stir within her, but it never came to lena's unexpectant and unsuffering german nature to do something different from what was expected of her, just because she would like it that way better. mrs. haydon had said that lena was to come to her house every other sunday, and so lena always went there. mrs. haydon was the only one of her family who took any interest in lena. mr. haydon did not think much of her. she was his wife's cousin and he was good to her, but she was for him stupid, and a little simple, and very dull, and sure some day to need help and to be in trouble. all young poor relations, who were brought from germany to bridgepoint were sure, before long, to need help and to be in trouble. the little haydon boy was always very nasty to her. he was a hard child for any one to manage, and his mother spoiled him very badly. mrs. haydon's daughters as they grew older did not learn to like lena any better. lena never knew that she did not like them either. she did not know that she was only happy with the other quicker girls, she always sat with in the park, and who laughed at her and always teased her. mathilda haydon, the simple, fat, blonde, older daughter felt very badly that she had to say that this was her cousin lena, this lena who was little better for her than a nigger. mathilda was an overgrown, slow, flabby, blonde, stupid, fat girl, just beginning as a woman; thick in her speech and dull and simple in her mind, and very jealous of all her family and of other girls, and proud that she could have good dresses and new hats and learn music, and hating very badly to have a cousin who was a common servant. and then mathilda remembered very strongly that dirty nasty place that lena came from and that mathilda had so turned up her nose at, and where she had been made so angry because her mother scolded her and liked all those rough cow-smelly people. then, too, mathilda would get very mad when her mother had lena at their parties, and when she talked about how good lena was, to certain german mothers in whose sons, perhaps, mrs. haydon might find lena a good husband. all this would make the dull, blonde, fat mathilda very angry. sometimes she would get so angry that she would, in her thick, slow way, and with jealous anger blazing in her light blue eyes, tell her mother that she did not see how she could like that nasty lena; and then her mother would scold mathilda, and tell her that she knew her cousin lena was poor and mathilda must be good to poor people. mathilda haydon did not like relations to be poor. she told all her girl friends what she thought of lena, and so the girls would never talk to lena at mrs. haydon's parties. but lena in her unsuffering and unexpectant patience never really knew that she was slighted. when mathilda was with her girls in the street or in the park and would see lena, she always turned up her nose and barely nodded to her, and then she would tell her friends how funny her mother was to take care of people like that lena, and how, back in germany, all lena's people lived just like pigs. the younger daughter, the dark, large, but not fat, bertha haydon, who was very quick in her mind, and in her ways, and who was the favorite with her father, did not like lena, either. she did not like her because for her lena was a fool and so stupid, and she would let those irish and italian girls laugh at her and tease her, and everybody always made fun of lena, and lena never got mad, or even had sense enough to know that they were all making an awful fool of her. bertha haydon hated people to be fools. her father, too, thought lena was a fool, and so neither the father nor the daughter ever paid any attention to lena, although she came to their house every other sunday. lena did not know how all the haydons felt. she came to her aunt's house all her sunday afternoons that she had out, because mrs. haydon had told her she must do so. in the same way lena always saved all of her wages. she never thought of any way to spend it. the german cook, the good woman who always scolded lena, helped her to put it in the bank each month, as soon as she got it. sometimes before it got into the bank to be taken care of, somebody would ask lena for it. the little haydon boy sometimes asked and would get it, and sometimes some of the girls, the ones lena always sat with, needed some more money; but the german cook, who always scolded lena, saw to it that this did not happen very often. when it did happen she would scold lena very sharply, and for the next few months she would not let lena touch her wages, but put it in the bank for her on the same day that lena got it. so lena always saved her wages, for she never thought to spend them, and she always went to her aunt's house for her sundays because she did not know that she could do anything different. mrs. haydon felt more and more every year that she had done right to bring lena back with her, for it was all coming out just as she had expected. lena was good and never wanted her own way, she was learning english, and saving all her wages, and soon mrs. haydon would get her a good husband. all these four years mrs. haydon was busy looking around among all the german people that she knew for the right man to be lena's husband, and now at last she was quite decided. the man mrs. haydon wanted for lena was a young german-american tailor, who worked with his father. he was good and all the family were very saving, and mrs. haydon was sure that this would be just right for lena, and then too, this young tailor always did whatever his father and his mother wanted. this old german tailor and his wife, the father and the mother of herman kreder, who was to marry lena mainz, were very thrifty, careful people. herman was the only child they had left with them, and he always did everything they wanted. herman was now twenty-eight years old, but he had never stopped being scolded and directed by his father and his mother. and now they wanted to see him married. herman kreder did not care much to get married. he was a gentle soul and a little fearful. he had a sullen temper, too. he was obedient to his father and his mother. he always did his work well. he often went out on saturday nights and on sundays, with other men. he liked it with them but he never became really joyous. he liked to be with men and he hated to have women with them. he was obedient to his mother, but he did not care much to get married. mrs. haydon and the elder kreders had often talked the marriage over. they all three liked it very well. lena would do anything that mrs. haydon wanted, and herman was always obedient in everything to his father and his mother. both lena and herman were saving and good workers and neither of them ever wanted their own way. the elder kreders, everybody knew, had saved up all their money, and they were hard, good german people, and mrs. haydon was sure that with these people lena would never be in any trouble. mr. haydon would not say anything about it. he knew old kreder had a lot of money and owned some good houses, and he did not care what his wife did with that simple, stupid lena, so long as she would be sure never to need help or to be in trouble. lena did not care much to get married. she liked her life very well where she was working. she did not think much about herman kreder. she thought he was a good man and she always found him very quiet. neither of them ever spoke much to the other. lena did not care much just then about getting married. mrs. haydon spoke to lena about it very often. lena never answered anything at all. mrs. haydon thought, perhaps lena did not like herman kreder. mrs. haydon could not believe that any girl not even lena, really had no feeling about getting married. mrs. haydon spoke to lena very often about herman. mrs. haydon sometimes got very angry with lena. she was afraid that lena, for once, was going to be stubborn, now when it was all fixed right for her to be married. "why you stand there so stupid, why don't you answer, lena," said mrs. haydon one sunday, at the end of a long talking that she was giving lena about herman kreder, and about lena's getting married to him. "yes ma'am," said lena, and then mrs. haydon was furious with this stupid lena. "why don't you answer with some sense, lena, when i ask you if you don't like herman kreder. you stand there so stupid and don't answer just like you ain't heard a word what i been saying to you. i never see anybody like you, lena. if you going to burst out at all, why don't you burst out sudden instead of standing there so silly and don't answer. and here i am so good to you, and find you a good husband so you can have a place to live in all your own. answer me, lena, don't you like herman kreder? he is a fine young fellow, almost too good for you, lena, when you stand there so stupid and don't make no answer. there ain't many poor girls that get the chance you got now to get married." "why, i do anything you say, aunt mathilda. yes, i like him. he don't say much to me, but i guess he is a good man, and i do anything you say for me to do." "well then lena, why you stand there so silly all the time and not answer when i asked you." "i didn't hear you say you wanted i should say anything to you. i didn't know you wanted me to say nothing. i do whatever you tell me it's right for me to do. i marry herman kreder, if you want me." and so for lena mainz the match was made. old mrs. kreder did not discuss the matter with her herman. she never thought that she needed to talk such things over with him. she just told him about getting married to lena mainz who was a good worker and very saving and never wanted her own way, and herman made his usual little grunt in answer to her. mrs. kreder and mrs. haydon fixed the day and made all the arrangements for the wedding and invited everybody who ought to be there to see them married. in three months lena mainz and herman kreder were to be married. mrs. haydon attended to lena's getting all the things that she needed. lena had to help a good deal with the sewing. lena did not sew very well. mrs. haydon scolded because lena did not do it better, but then she was very good to lena, and she hired a girl to come and help her. lena still stayed on with her pleasant mistress, but she spent all her evenings and her sundays with her aunt and all the sewing. mrs. haydon got lena some nice dresses. lena liked that very well. lena liked having new hats even better, and mrs. haydon had some made for her by a real milliner who made them very pretty. lena was nervous these days, but she did not think much about getting married. she did not know really what it was, that, which was always coming nearer. lena liked the place where she was with the pleasant mistress and the good cook, who always scolded, and she liked the girls she always sat with. she did not ask if she would like being married any better. she always did whatever her aunt said and expected, but she was always nervous when she saw the kreders with their herman. she was excited and she liked her new hats, and everybody teased her and every day her marrying was coming nearer, and yet she did not really know what it was, this that was about to happen to her. herman kreder knew more what it meant to be married and he did not like it very well. he did not like to see girls and he did not want to have to have one always near him. herman always did everything that his father and his mother wanted and now they wanted that he should be married. herman had a sullen temper; he was gentle and he never said much. he liked to go out with other men, but he never wanted that there should be any women with them. the men all teased him about getting married. herman did not mind the teasing but he did not like very well the getting married and having a girl always with him. three days before the wedding day, herman went away to the country to be gone over sunday. he and lena were to be married tuesday afternoon. when the day came herman had not been seen or heard from. the old kreder couple had not worried much about it. herman always did everything they wanted and he would surely come back in time to get married. but when monday night came, and there was no herman, they went to mrs. haydon to tell her what had happened. mrs. haydon got very much excited. it was hard enough to work so as to get everything all ready, and then to have that silly herman go off that way, so no one could tell what was going to happen. here was lena and everything all ready, and now they would have to make the wedding later so that they would know that herman would be sure to be there. mrs. haydon was very much excited, and then she could not say much to the old kreder couple. she did not want to make them angry, for she wanted very badly now that lena should be married to their herman. at last it was decided that the wedding should be put off a week longer. old mr. kreder would go to new york to find herman, for it was very likely that herman had gone there to his married sister. mrs. haydon sent word around, about waiting until a week from that tuesday, to everybody that had been invited, and then tuesday morning she sent for lena to come down to see her. mrs. haydon was very angry with poor lena when she saw her. she scolded her hard because she was so foolish, and now herman had gone off and nobody could tell where he had gone to, and all because lena always was so dumb and silly. and mrs. haydon was just like a mother to her, and lena always stood there so stupid and did not answer what anybody asked her, and herman was so silly too, and now his father had to go and find him. mrs. haydon did not think that any old people should be good to their children. their children always were so thankless, and never paid any attention, and older people were always doing things for their good. did lena think it gave mrs. haydon any pleasure, to work so hard to make lena happy, and get her a good husband, and then lena was so thankless and never did anything that anybody wanted. it was a lesson to poor mrs. haydon not to do things any more for anybody. let everybody take care of themselves and never come to her with any troubles; she knew better now than to meddle to make other people happy. it just made trouble for her and her husband did not like it. he always said she was too good, and nobody ever thanked her for it, and there lena was always standing stupid and not answering anything anybody wanted. lena could always talk enough to those silly girls she liked so much, and always sat with, but who never did anything for her except to take away her money, and here was her aunt who tried so hard and was so good to her and treated her just like one of her own children and lena stood there, and never made any answer and never tried to please her aunt, or to do anything that her aunt wanted. "no, it ain't no use your standin' there and cryin', now, lena. its too late now to care about that herman. you should have cared some before, and then you wouldn't have to stand and cry now, and be a disappointment to me, and then i get scolded by my husband for taking care of everybody, and nobody ever thankful. i am glad you got the sense to feel sorry now, lena, anyway, and i try to do what i can to help you out in your trouble, only you don't deserve to have anybody take any trouble for you. but perhaps you know better next time. you go home now and take care you don't spoil your clothes and that new hat, you had no business to be wearin' that this morning, but you ain't got no sense at all, lena. i never in my life see anybody be so stupid." mrs. haydon stopped and poor lena stood there in her hat, all trimmed with pretty flowers, and the tears coming out of her eyes, and lena did not know what it was that she had done, only she was not going to be married and it was a disgrace for a girl to be left by a man on the very day she was to be married. lena went home all alone, and cried in the street car. poor lena cried very hard all alone in the street car. she almost spoiled her new hat with her hitting it against the window in her crying. then she remembered that she must not do so. the conductor was a kind man and he was very sorry when he saw her crying. "don't feel so bad, you get another feller, you are such a nice girl," he said to make her cheerful. "but aunt mathilda said now, i never get married," poor lena sobbed out for her answer. "why you really got trouble like that," said the conductor, "i just said that now to josh you. i didn't ever think you really was left by a feller. he must be a stupid feller. but don't you worry, he wasn't much good if he could go away and leave you, lookin' to be such a nice girl. you just tell all your trouble to me, and i help you." the car was empty and the conductor sat down beside her to put his arm around her, and to be a comfort to her. lena suddenly remembered where she was, and if she did things like that her aunt would scold her. she moved away from the man into the corner. he laughed, "don't be scared," he said, "i wasn't going to hurt you. but you just keep up your spirit. you are a real nice girl, and you'll be sure to get a real good husband. don't you let nobody fool you. you're all right and i don't want to scare you." the conductor went back to his platform to help a passenger get on the car. all the time lena stayed in the street car, he would come in every little while and reassure her, about her not to feel so bad about a man who hadn't no more sense than to go away and leave her. she'd be sure yet to get a good man, she needn't be so worried, he frequently assured her. he chatted with the other passenger who had just come in, a very well dressed old man, and then with another who came in later, a good sort of a working man, and then another who came in, a nice lady, and he told them all about lena's having trouble, and it was too bad there were men who treated a poor girl so badly. and everybody in the car was sorry for poor lena and the workman tried to cheer her, and the old man looked sharply at her, and said she looked like a good girl, but she ought to be more careful and not to be so careless, and things like that would not happen to her, and the nice lady went and sat beside her and lena liked it, though she shrank away from being near her. so lena was feeling a little better when she got off the car, and the conductor helped her, and he called out to her, "you be sure you keep up a good heart now. he wasn't no good that feller and you were lucky for to lose him. you'll get a real man yet, one that will be better for you. don't you be worried, you're a real nice girl as i ever see in such trouble," and the conductor shook his head and went back into his car to talk it over with the other passengers he had there. the german cook, who always scolded lena, was very angry when she heard the story. she never did think mrs. haydon would do so much for lena, though she was always talking so grand about what she could do for everybody. the good german cook always had been a little distrustful of her. people who always thought they were so much never did really do things right for anybody. not that mrs. haydon wasn't a good woman. mrs. haydon was a real, good, german woman, and she did really mean to do well by her niece lena. the cook knew that very well, and she had always said so, and she always had liked and respected mrs. haydon, who always acted very proper to her, and lena was so backward, when there was a man to talk to, mrs. haydon did have hard work when she tried to marry lena. mrs. haydon was a good woman, only she did talk sometimes too grand. perhaps this trouble would make her see it wasn't always so easy to do, to make everybody do everything just like she wanted. the cook was very sorry now for mrs. haydon. all this must be such a disappointment, and such a worry to her, and she really had always been very good to lena. but lena had better go and put on her other clothes and stop all that crying. that wouldn't do nothing now to help her, and if lena would be a good girl, and just be real patient, her aunt would make it all come out right yet for her. "i just tell mrs. aldrich, lena, you stay here yet a little longer. you know she is always so good to you, lena, and i know she let you, and i tell her all about that stupid herman kreder. i got no patience, lena, with anybody who can be so stupid. you just stop now with your crying, lena, and take off them good clothes and put them away so you don't spoil them when you need them, and you can help me with the dishes and everything will come off better for you. you see if i ain't right by what i tell you. you just stop crying now lena quick, or else i scold you." lena still choked a little and was very miserable inside her but she did everything just as the cook told her. the girls lena always sat with were very sorry to see her look so sad with her trouble. mary the irish girl sometimes got very angry with her. mary was always very hot when she talked to lena's aunt mathilda, who thought she was so grand, and had such stupid, stuck up daughters. mary wouldn't be a fat fool like that ugly tempered mathilda haydon, not for anything anybody could ever give her. how lena could keep on going there so much when they all always acted as if she was just dirt to them, mary never could see. but lena never had any sense of how she should make people stand round for her, and that was always all the trouble with her. and poor lena, she was so stupid to be sorry for losing that gawky fool who didn't ever know what he wanted and just said "ja" to his mamma and his papa, like a baby, and was scared to look at a girl straight, and then sneaked away the last day like as if somebody was going to do something to him. disgrace, lena talking about disgrace! it was a disgrace for a girl to be seen with the likes of him, let alone to be married to him. but that poor lena, she never did know how to show herself off for what she was really. disgrace to have him go away and leave her. mary would just like to get a chance to show him. if lena wasn't worth fifteen like herman kreder, mary would just eat her own head all up. it was a good riddance lena had of that herman kreder and his stingy, dirty parents, and if lena didn't stop crying about it,--mary would just naturally despise her. poor lena, she knew very well how mary meant it all, this she was always saying to her. but lena was very miserable inside her. she felt the disgrace it was for a decent german girl that a man should go away and leave her. lena knew very well that her aunt was right when she said the way herman had acted to her was a disgrace to everyone that knew her. mary and nellie and the other girls she always sat with were always very good to lena but that did not make her trouble any better. it was a disgrace the way lena had been left, to any decent family, and that could never be made any different to her. and so the slow days wore on, and lena never saw her aunt mathilda. at last on sunday she got word by a boy to go and see her aunt mathilda. lena's heart beat quick for she was very nervous now with all this that had happened to her. she went just as quickly as she could to see her aunt mathilda. mrs. haydon quick, as soon as she saw lena, began to scold her for keeping her aunt waiting so long for her, and for not coming in all the week to see her, to see if her aunt should need her, and so her aunt had to send a boy to tell her. but it was easy, even for lena, to see that her aunt was not really angry with her. it wasn't lena's fault, went on mrs. haydon, that everything was going to happen all right for her. mrs. haydon was very tired taking all this trouble for her, and when lena couldn't even take trouble to come and see her aunt, to see if she needed anything to tell her. but mrs. haydon really never minded things like that when she could do things for anybody. she was tired now, all the trouble she had been taking to make things right for lena, but perhaps now lena heard it she would learn a little to be thankful to her. "you get all ready to be married tuesday, lena, you hear me," said mrs. haydon to her. "you come here tuesday morning and i have everything all ready for you. you wear your new dress i got you, and your hat with all them flowers on it, and you be very careful coming you don't get your things all dirty, you so careless all the time, lena, and not thinking, and you act sometimes you never got no head at all on you. you go home now, and you tell your mrs. aldrich that you leave her tuesday. don't you go forgetting now, lena, anything i ever told you what you should do to be careful. you be a good girl, now lena. you get married tuesday to herman kreder." and that was all lena ever knew of what had happened all this week to herman kreder. lena forgot there was anything to know about it. she was really to be married tuesday, and her aunt mathilda said she was a good girl, and now there was no disgrace left upon her. lena now fell back into the way she always had of being always dreamy and not there, the way she always had been, except for the few days she was so excited, because she had been left by a man the very day she was to have been married. lena was a little nervous all these last days, but she did not think much about what it meant for her to be married. herman kreder was not so content about it. he was quiet and was sullen and he knew he could not help it. he knew now he just had to let himself get married. it was not that herman did not like lena mainz. she was as good as any other girl could be for him. she was a little better perhaps than other girls he saw, she was so very quiet, but herman did not like to always have to have a girl around him. herman had always done everything that his mother and his father wanted. his father had found him in new york, where herman had gone to be with his married sister. herman's father when he had found him coaxed herman a long time and went on whole days with his complaining to him, always troubled but gentle and quite patient with him, and always he was worrying to herman about what was the right way his boy herman should always do, always whatever it was his mother ever wanted from him, and always herman never made him any answer. old mr. kreder kept on saying to him, he did not see how herman could think now, it could be any different. when you make a bargain you just got to stick right to it, that was the only way old mr. kreder could ever see it, and saying you would get married to a girl and she got everything all ready, that was a bargain just like one you make in business and herman he had made it, and now herman he would just have to do it, old mr. kreder didn't see there was any other way a good boy like his herman had, to do it. and then too that lena mainz was such a nice girl and herman hadn't ought to really give his father so much trouble and make him pay out all that money, to come all the way to new york just to find him, and they both lose all that time from their working, when all herman had to do was just to stand up, for an hour, and then he would be all right married, and it would be all over for him, and then everything at home would never be any different to him. and his father went on; there was his poor mother saying always how her herman always did everything before she ever wanted, and now just because he got notions in him, and wanted to show people how he could be stubborn, he was making all this trouble for her, and making them pay all that money just to run around and find him. "you got no idea herman, how bad mama is feeling about the way you been acting herman," said old mr. kreder to him. "she says she never can understand how you can be so thankless herman. it hurts her very much you been so stubborn, and she find you such a nice girl for you, like lena mainz who is always just so quiet and always saves up all her wages, and she never wanting her own way at all like some girls are always all the time to have it, and you mama trying so hard, just so you could be comfortable herman to be married, and then you act so stubborn herman. you like all young people herman, you think only about yourself, and what you are just wanting, and your mama she is thinking only what is good for you to have, for you in the future. do you think your mama wants to have a girl around to be a bother, for herself, herman. its just for you herman she is always thinking, and she talks always about how happy she will be, when she sees her herman married to a nice girl, and then when she fixed it all up so good for you, so it never would be any bother to you, just the way she wanted you should like it, and you say yes all right, i do it, and then you go away like this and act stubborn, and make all this trouble everybody to take for you, and we spend money, and i got to travel all round to find you. you come home now with me herman and get married, and i tell your mama she better not say anything to you about how much it cost me to come all the way to look for you--hey herman," said his father coaxing, "hey, you come home now and get married. all you got to do herman is just to stand up for an hour herman, and then you don't never to have any more bother to it--hey herman!--you come home with me to-morrow and get married. hey herman." herman's married sister liked her brother herman, and she had always tried to help him, when there was anything she knew he wanted. she liked it that he was so good and always did everything that their father and their mother wanted, but still she wished it could be that he could have more his own way, if there was anything he ever wanted. but now she thought herman with his girl was very funny. she wanted that herman should be married. she thought it would do him lots of good to get married. she laughed at herman when she heard the story. until his father came to find him, she did not know why it was herman had come just then to new york to see her. when she heard the story she laughed a good deal at her brother herman and teased him a good deal about his running away, because he didn't want to have a girl to be all the time around him. herman's married sister liked her brother herman, and she did not want him not to like to be with women. he was good, her brother herman, and it would surely do him good to get married. it would make him stand up for himself stronger. herman's sister always laughed at him and always she would try to reassure him. "such a nice man as my brother herman acting like as if he was afraid of women. why the girls all like a man like you herman, if you didn't always run away when you saw them. it do you good really herman to get married, and then you got somebody you can boss around when you want to. it do you good herman to get married, you see if you don't like it, when you really done it. you go along home now with papa, herman and get married to that lena. you don't know how nice you like it herman when you try once how you can do it. you just don't be afraid of nothing, herman. you good enough for any girl to marry, herman. any girl be glad to have a man like you to be always with them herman. you just go along home with papa and try it what i say, herman. oh you so funny herman, when you sit there, and then run away and leave your girl behind you. i know she is crying like anything herman for to lose you. don't be bad to her herman. you go along home with papa now and get married herman. i'd be awful ashamed herman, to really have a brother didn't have spirit enough to get married, when a girl is just dying for to have him. you always like me to be with you herman. i don't see why you say you don't want a girl to be all the time around you. you always been good to me herman, and i know you always be good to that lena, and you soon feel just like as if she had always been there with you. don't act like as if you wasn't a nice strong man, herman. really i laugh at you herman, but you know i like awful well to see you real happy. you go home and get married to that lena, herman. she is a real pretty girl and real nice and good and quiet and she make my brother herman very happy. you just stop your fussing now with herman, papa. he go with you to-morrow papa, and you see he like it so much to be married, he make everybody laugh just to see him be so happy. really truly, that's the way it will be with you herman. you just listen to me what i tell you herman." and so his sister laughed at him and reassured him, and his father kept on telling what the mother always said about her herman, and he coaxed him and herman never said anything in answer, and his sister packed his things up and was very cheerful with him, and she kissed him, and then she laughed and then she kissed him, and his father went and bought the tickets for the train, and at last late on sunday he brought herman back to bridgepoint with him. it was always very hard to keep mrs. kreder from saying what she thought, to her herman, but her daughter had written her a letter, so as to warn her not to say anything about what he had been doing, to him, and her husband came in with herman and said, "here we are come home mama, herman and me, and we are very tired it was so crowded coming," and then he whispered to her. "you be good to herman, mama, he didn't mean to make us so much trouble," and so old mrs. kreder, held in what she felt was so strong in her to say to her herman. she just said very stiffly to him, "i'm glad to see you come home to-day, herman." then she went to arrange it all with mrs. haydon. herman was now again just like he always had been, sullen and very good, and very quiet, and always ready to do whatever his mother and his father wanted. tuesday morning came, herman got his new clothes on and went with his father and his mother to stand up for an hour and get married. lena was there in her new dress, and her hat with all the pretty flowers, and she was very nervous for now she knew she was really very soon to be married. mrs. haydon had everything all ready. everybody was there just as they should be and very soon herman kreder and lena mainz were married. when everything was really over, they went back to the kreder house together. they were all now to live together, lena and herman and the old father and the old mother, in the house where mr. kreder had worked so many years as a tailor, with his son herman always there to help him. irish mary had often said to lena she never did see how lena could ever want to have anything to do with herman kreder and his dirty stingy parents. the old kreders were to an irish nature, a stingy, dirty couple. they had not the free-hearted, thoughtless, fighting, mud bespattered, ragged, peat-smoked cabin dirt that irish mary knew and could forgive and love. theirs was the german dirt of saving, of being dowdy and loose and foul in your clothes so as to save them and yourself in washing, having your hair greasy to save it in the soap and drying, having your clothes dirty, not in freedom, but because so it was cheaper, keeping the house close and smelly because so it cost less to get it heated, living so poorly not only so as to save money but so they should never even know themselves that they had it, working all the time not only because from their nature they just had to and because it made them money but also that they never could be put in any way to make them spend their money. this was the place lena now had for her home and to her it was very different than it could be for an irish mary. she too was german and was thrifty, though she was always so dreamy and not there. lena was always careful with things and she always saved her money, for that was the only way she knew how to do it. she never had taken care of her own money and she never had thought how to use it. lena mainz had been, before she was mrs. herman kreder, always clean and decent in her clothes and in her person, but it was not because she ever thought about it or really needed so to have it, it was the way her people did in the german country where she came from, and her aunt mathilda and the good german cook who always scolded, had kept her on and made her, with their scoldings, always more careful to keep clean and to wash real often. but there was no deep need in all this for lena and so, though lena did not like the old kreders, though she really did not know that, she did not think about their being stingy dirty people. herman kreder was cleaner than the old people, just because it was his nature to keep cleaner, but he was used to his mother and his father, and he never thought that they should keep things cleaner. and herman too always saved all his money, except for that little beer he drank when he went out with other men of an evening the way he always liked to do it, and he never thought of any other way to spend it. his father had always kept all the money for them and he always was doing business with it. and then too herman really had no money, for he always had worked for his father, and his father had never thought to pay him. and so they began all four to live in the kreder house together, and lena began soon with it to look careless and a little dirty, and to be more lifeless with it, and nobody ever noticed much what lena wanted, and she never really knew herself what she needed. the only real trouble that came to lena with their living all four there together, was the way old mrs. kreder scolded. lena had always been used to being scolded, but this scolding of old mrs. kreder was very different from the way she ever before had had to endure it. herman, now he was married to her, really liked lena very well. he did not care very much about her but she never was a bother to him being there around him, only when his mother worried and was nasty to them because lena was so careless, and did not know how to save things right for them with their eating, and all the other ways with money, that the old woman had to save it. herman kreder had always done everything his mother and his father wanted but he did not really love his parents very deeply. with herman it was always only that he hated to have any struggle. it was all always all right with him when he could just go along and do the same thing over every day with his working, and not to hear things, and not to have people make him listen to their anger. and now his marriage, and he just knew it would, was making trouble for him. it made him hear more what his mother was always saying, with her scolding. he had to really hear it now because lena was there, and she was so scared and dull always when she heard it. herman knew very well with his mother, it was all right if one ate very little and worked hard all day and did not hear her when she scolded, the way herman always had done before they were so foolish about his getting married and having a girl there to be all the time around him, and now he had to help her so the girl could learn too, not to hear it when his mother scolded, and not to look so scared, and not to eat much, and always to be sure to save it. herman really did not know very well what he could do to help lena to understand it. he could never answer his mother back to help lena, that never would make things any better for her, and he never could feel in himself any way to comfort lena, to make her strong not to hear his mother, in all the awful ways she always scolded. it just worried herman to have it like that all the time around him. herman did not know much about how a man could make a struggle with a mother, to do much to keep her quiet, and indeed herman never knew much how to make a struggle against anyone who really wanted to have anything very badly. herman all his life never wanted anything so badly, that he would really make a struggle against any one to get it. herman all his life only wanted to live regular and quiet, and not talk much and to do the same way every day like every other with his working. and now his mother had made him get married to this lena and now with his mother making all that scolding, he had all this trouble and this worry always on him. mrs. haydon did not see lena now very often. she had not lost her interest in her niece lena, but lena could not come much to her house to see her, it would not be right, now lena was a married woman. and then too mrs. haydon had her hands full just then with her two daughters, for she was getting them ready to find them good husbands, and then too her own husband now worried her very often about her always spoiling that boy of hers, so he would be sure to turn out no good and be a disgrace to a german family, and all because his mother always spoiled him. all these things were very worrying now to mrs. haydon, but still she wanted to be good to lena, though she could not see her very often. she only saw her when mrs. haydon went to call on mrs. kreder or when mrs. kreder came to see mrs. haydon, and that never could be very often. then too these days mrs. haydon could not scold lena, mrs. kreder was always there with her, and it would not be right to scold lena, when mrs. kreder was there, who had now the real right to do it. and so her aunt always said nice things now to lena, and though mrs. haydon sometimes was a little worried when she saw lena looking sad and not careful, she did not have time just then to really worry much about it. lena now never any more saw the girls she always used to sit with. she had no way now to see them and it was not in lena's nature to search out ways to see them, nor did she now ever think much of the days when she had been used to see them. they never any of them had come to the kreder house to see her. not even irish mary had ever thought to come to see her. lena had been soon forgotten by them. they had soon passed away from lena and now lena never thought any more that she had ever known them. the only one of her old friends who tried to know what lena liked and what she needed, and who always made lena come to see her, was the good german cook who had always scolded. she now scolded lena hard for letting herself go so, and going out when she was looking so untidy. "i know you going to have a baby lena, but that's no way for you to be looking. i am ashamed most to see you come and sit here in my kitchen, looking so sloppy and like you never used to lena. i never see anybody like you lena. herman is very good to you, you always say so, and he don't treat you bad even though you don't deserve to have anybody good to you, you so careless all the time, lena, letting yourself go like you never had anybody tell you what was the right way you should know how to be looking. no, lena, i don't see no reason you should let yourself go so and look so untidy lena, so i am ashamed to see you sit there looking so ugly, lena. no lena that ain't no way ever i see a woman make things come out better, letting herself go so every way and crying all the time like as if you had real trouble. i never wanted to see you marry herman kreder, lena, i knew what you got to stand with that old woman always, and that old man, he is so stingy too and he don't say things out but he ain't any better in his heart than his wife with her bad ways, i know that lena, i know they don't hardly give you enough to eat, lena, i am real sorry for you lena, you know that lena, but that ain't any way to be going round so untidy lena, even if you have got all that trouble. you never see me do like that lena, though sometimes i got a headache so i can't see to stand to be working hardly, and nothing comes right with all my cooking, but i always see lena, i look decent. that's the only way a german girl can make things come out right lena. you hear me what i am saying to you lena. now you eat something nice lena, i got it all ready for you, and you wash up and be careful lena and the baby will come all right to you, and then i make your aunt mathilda see that you live in a house soon all alone with herman and your baby, and then everything go better for you. you hear me what i say to you lena. now don't let me ever see you come looking like this any more lena, and you just stop with that always crying. you ain't got no reason to be sitting there now with all that crying, i never see anybody have trouble it did them any good to do the way you are doing, lena. you hear me lena. you go home now and you be good the way i tell you lena, and i see what i can do. i make your aunt mathilda make old mrs. kreder let you be till you get your baby all right. now don't you be scared and so silly lena. i don't like to see you act so lena when really you got a nice man and so many things really any girl should be grateful to be having. now you go home lena to-day and you do the way i say, to you, and i see what i can do to help you." "yes mrs. aldrich" said the good german woman to her mistress later, "yes mrs. aldrich that's the way it is with them girls when they want so to get married. they don't know when they got it good mrs. aldrich. they never know what it is they're really wanting when they got it, mrs. aldrich. there's that poor lena, she just been here crying and looking so careless so i scold her, but that was no good that marrying for that poor lena, mrs. aldrich. she do look so pale and sad now mrs. aldrich, it just break my heart to see her. she was a good girl was lena, mrs. aldrich, and i never had no trouble with her like i got with so many young girls nowadays, mrs. aldrich, and i never see any girl any better to work right than our lena, and now she got to stand it all the time with that old woman mrs. kreder. my! mrs. aldrich, she is a bad old woman to her. i never see mrs. aldrich how old people can be so bad to young girls and not have no kind of patience with them. if lena could only live with her herman, he ain't so bad the way men are, mrs. aldrich, but he is just the way always his mother wants him, he ain't got no spirit in him, and so i don't really see no help for that poor lena. i know her aunt, mrs. haydon, meant it all right for her mrs. aldrich, but poor lena, it would be better for her if her herman had stayed there in new york that time he went away to leave her. i don't like it the way lena is looking now, mrs. aldrich. she looks like as if she don't have no life left in her hardly, mrs. aldrich, she just drags around and looks so dirty and after all the pains i always took to teach her and to keep her nice in her ways and looking. it don't do no good to them, for them girls to get married mrs. aldrich, they are much better when they only know it, to stay in a good place when they got it, and keep on regular with their working. i don't like it the way lena looks now mrs. aldrich. i wish i knew some way to help that poor lena, mrs. aldrich, but she she is a bad old woman, that old mrs. kreder, herman's mother. i speak to mrs. haydon real soon, mrs. aldrich, i see what we can do now to help that poor lena." these were really bad days for poor lena. herman always was real good to her and now he even sometimes tried to stop his mother from scolding lena. "she ain't well now mama, you let her be now you hear me. you tell me what it is you want she should be doing, i tell her. i see she does it right just the way you want it mama. you let be, i say now mama, with that always scolding lena. you let be, i say now, you wait till she is feeling better." herman was getting really strong to struggle, for he could see that lena with that baby working hard inside her, really could not stand it any longer with his mother and the awful ways she always scolded. it was a new feeling herman now had inside him that made him feel he was strong to make a struggle. it was new for herman kreder really to be wanting something, but herman wanted strongly now to be a father, and he wanted badly that his baby should be a boy and healthy, herman never had cared really very much about his father and his mother, though always, all his life, he had done everything just as they wanted, and he had never really cared much about his wife, lena, though he always had been very good to her, and had always tried to keep his mother off her, with the awful way she always scolded, but to be really a father of a little baby, that feeling took hold of herman very deeply. he was almost ready, so as to save his baby from all trouble, to really make a strong struggle with his mother and with his father, too, if he would not help him to control his mother. sometimes herman even went to mrs. haydon to talk all this trouble over. they decided then together, it was better to wait there all four together for the baby, and herman could make mrs. kreder stop a little with her scolding, and then when lena was a little stronger, herman should have his own house for her, next door to his father, so he could always be there to help him in his working, but so they could eat and sleep in a house where the old woman could not control them and they could not hear her awful scolding. and so things went on, the same way, a little longer. poor lena was not feeling any joy to have a baby. she was scared the way she had been when she was so sick on the water. she was scared now every time when anything would hurt her. she was scared and still and lifeless, and sure that every minute she would die. lena had no power to be strong in this kind of trouble, she could only sit still and be scared, and dull, and lifeless, and sure that every minute she would die. before very long, lena had her baby. he was a good, healthy little boy, the baby. herman cared very much to have the baby. when lena was a little stronger he took a house next door to the old couple, so he and his own family could eat and sleep and do the way they wanted. this did not seem to make much change now for lena. she was just the same as when she was waiting with her baby. she just dragged around and was careless with her clothes and all lifeless, and she acted always and lived on just as if she had no feeling. she always did everything regular with the work, the way she always had had to do it, but she never got back any spirit in her. herman was always good and kind, and always helped her with her working. he did everything he knew to help her. he always did all the active new things in the house and for the baby. lena did what she had to do the way she always had been taught it. she always just kept going now with her working, and she was always careless, and dirty, and a little dazed, and lifeless. lena never got any better in herself of this way of being that she had had ever since she had been married. mrs. haydon never saw any more of her niece, lena. mrs. haydon had now so much trouble with her own house, and her daughters getting married, and her boy, who was growing up, and who always was getting so much worse to manage. she knew she had done right by lena. herman kreder was a good man, she would be glad to get one so good, sometimes, for her own daughters, and now they had a home to live in together, separate from the old people, who had made their trouble for them. mrs. haydon felt she had done very well by her niece, lena, and she never thought now she needed any more to go and see her. lena would do very well now without her aunt to trouble herself any more about her. the good german cook who had always scolded, still tried to do her duty like a mother to poor lena. it was very hard now to do right by lena. lena never seemed to hear now what anyone was saying to her. herman was always doing everything he could to help her. herman always, when he was home, took good care of the baby. herman loved to take care of his baby. lena never thought to take him out or to do anything she didn't have to. the good cook sometimes made lena come to see her. lena would come with her baby and sit there in the kitchen, and watch the good woman cooking, and listen to her sometimes a little, the way she used to, while the good german woman scolded her for going around looking so careless when now she had no trouble, and sitting there so dull, and always being just so thankless. sometimes lena would wake up a little and get back into her face her old, gentle, patient, and unsuffering sweetness, but mostly lena did not seem to hear much when the good german woman scolded. lena always liked it when mrs. aldrich her good mistress spoke to her kindly, and then lena would seem to go back and feel herself to be like she was when she had been in service. but mostly lena just lived along and was careless in her clothes, and dull, and lifeless. by and by lena had two more little babies. lena was not so much scared now when she had the babies. she did not seem to notice very much when they hurt her, and she never seemed to feel very much now about anything that happened to her. they were very nice babies, all these three that lena had, and herman took good care of them always. herman never really cared much about his wife, lena. the only things herman ever really cared for were his babies. herman always was very good to his children. he always had a gentle, tender way when he held them. he learned to be very handy with them. he spent all the time he was not working, with them. by and by he began to work all day in his own home so that he could have his children always in the same room with him. lena always was more and more lifeless and herman now mostly never thought about her. he more and more took all the care of their three children. he saw to their eating right and their washing, and he dressed them every morning, and he taught them the right way to do things, and he put them to their sleeping, and he was now always every minute with them. then there was to come to them, a fourth baby. lena went to the hospital near by to have the baby. lena seemed to be going to have much trouble with it. when the baby was come out at last, it was like its mother lifeless. while it was coming, lena had grown very pale and sicker. when it was all over lena had died, too, and nobody knew just how it had happened to her. the good german cook who had always scolded lena, and had always to the last day tried to help her, was the only one who ever missed her. she remembered how nice lena had looked all the time she was in service with her, and how her voice had been so gentle and sweet-sounding, and how she always was a good girl, and how she never had to have any trouble with her, the way she always had with all the other girls who had been taken into the house to help her. the good cook sometimes spoke so of lena when she had time to have a talk with mrs. aldrich, and this was all the remembering there now ever was of lena. herman kreder now always lived very happy, very gentle, very quiet, very well content alone with his three children. he never had a woman any more to be all the time around him. he always did all his own work in his house, when he was through every day with the work he was always doing for his father. herman always was alone, and he always worked alone, until his little ones were big enough to help him. herman kreder was very well content now and he always lived very regular and peaceful, and with every day just like the next one, always alone now with his three good, gentle children. finis chefs d'oeuvre du roman contemporain realists [illustration: chapter xxi _jupillon was a true parisian: he loved to fish with a pole and line._ _and when summer came they stayed there all day, at the foot of the garden, on the bank of the stream--jupillon on a laundry board resting on two stakes, pole in hand, and germinie sitting, with the child in her skirts, under the medlar tree that overhung the stream._] bibliothÈque des chefs-d'oeuvre du roman contemporain _germinie lacerteux_ edmond and jules de goncourt printed for subscribers only by george barrie & sons, philadelphia germinie lacerteux preface to first edition we must ask pardon of the public for offering it this book, and give it due warning of what it will find therein. the public loves fictitious novels! this is a true novel. it loves books which make a pretence of introducing their readers to fashionable society: this book deals with the life of the street. it loves little indecent books, memoirs of courtesans, alcove confessions, erotic obscenity, the scandal tucked away in pictures in a bookseller's shop window: that which is contained in the following pages is rigidly clean and pure. do not expect the photograph of pleasure _décolletée_: the following study is the clinic of love. again, the public loves to read pleasant, soothing stories, adventures that end happily, imaginative works that disturb neither its digestion nor its peace of mind: this book furnishes entertainment of a melancholy, violent sort calculated to disarrange the habits and injure the health of the public. why then have we written it? for no other purpose than to annoy the public and offend its tastes? by no means. living as we do in the nineteenth century, in an age of universal suffrage, of democracy, of liberalism, we asked ourselves the question whether what are called "the lower classes" had no rights in the novel; if that world beneath a world, the common people, must needs remain subject to the literary interdict, and helpless against the contempt of authors who have hitherto said no word to imply that the common people possess a heart and soul. we asked ourselves whether, in these days of equality in which we live, there are classes unworthy the notice of the author and the reader, misfortunes too lowly, dramas too foul-mouthed, catastrophes too commonplace in the terror they inspire. we were curious to know if that conventional symbol of a forgotten literature, of a vanished society, tragedy, is definitely dead; if, in a country where castes no longer exist and aristocracy has no legal status, the miseries of the lowly and the poor would appeal to public interest, emotion, compassion, as forcibly as the miseries of the great and the rich; if, in a word, the tears that are shed in low life have the same power to cause tears to flow as the tears shed in high life. these thoughts led us to venture upon the humble tale, _soeur philomène_, in ; they lead us to put forth _germinie lacerteux_ to-day. now, let the book be spoken slightingly of; it matters little. at this day, when the sphere of the novel is broadening and expanding, when it is beginning to be the serious, impassioned, living form of literary study and social investigation, when it is becoming, by virtue of analysis and psychological research, the true history of contemporary morals, when the novel has taken its place among the necessary elements of knowledge, it may properly demand its liberty and freedom of speech. and to encourage it in the search for art and truth, to authorize it to disclose misery and suffering which it is not well for the fortunate people of paris to forget, and to show to people of fashion what the sisters of charity have the courage to see for themselves, what the queens of old compelled their children to touch with their eyes in the hospitals: the visible, palpitating human suffering that teaches charity; to confirm the novel in the practice of that religion which the last century called by the vast and far-reaching name, _humanity_:--it needs no other warrant than the consciousness that that is its right. _paris, october, ._ second preface prepared for a posthumous edition of germinie lacerteux _july , ._--the disease is gradually doing its work of destruction in our poor rose. it is as if the immaterial manifestations of life that formerly emanated from her body were dying one by one. her face is entirely changed. her expression is not the same, her gestures are not the same; and she seems to me as if she were putting off every day more and more of that something, humanly speaking indefinable, which makes the personality of a living being. disease, before making an end of its victim, introduces into his body something strange, unfamiliar, something that is _not he_, makes of him a new being, so to speak, in whom we must seek to find the former being--he, whose joyous, affectionate features have already ceased to exist. _july ._--doctor simon is to tell me very soon whether our dear old rose will live or die. i am waiting to hear his ring, which to me, is equivalent to that of a jury at the assizes, announcing their return to the court room with their verdict. "it is all over, there is no hope, it is simply a question of time. the disease has progressed very rapidly. one lung is entirely gone and the other substantially." and we must return to the invalid, restore her serenity with a smile, give her reason to hope for convalescence in every line of our faces. then we feel an unconquerable longing to rush from the room and from the poor creature. we leave the house, we wander at random through the streets; at last, overdone with fatigue, we sit down at a table in a café. we mechanically take up a copy of _l'illustration_ and our eyes fall at once upon the solution of its last riddle: _against death, there is no appeal!_ _monday, august ._--the disease of the lungs is complicated with peritonitis. she has terrible pains in the bowels, she cannot move without assistance, she cannot lie on her back or her left side. in god's name, is not death enough? must she also endure suffering, aye, torture, as the final implacable breaking-up of the human organism? and she suffers thus, poor wretch! in one of the servant's rooms, where the sun, shining in through a window in the sloping roof, makes the air as stifling as in a hothouse, and where there is so little room that the doctor has to put his hat on the bed. we struggled to the last to keep her, but finally we had to make up our minds to let her go away. she was unwilling to go to maison dubois, where we proposed to take her; it seems that twenty-five years ago, when she first came to us, she went there to see the nurse in charge of edmond, who died there, and so that particular hospital represents to her the place where people die. i am waiting for simon who is to bring her a permit to go to lariboisière. she passed almost a good night. she is all ready, in high spirits, in fact. we have covered everything up from her as well as we could. she longs to be gone. she is in a great hurry. she feels that she is going to get well there. at two o'clock simon arrives: "here it is, all right." she refuses to have a litter: "i should think i was dead!" she says. she is dressed. as soon as she leaves her bed, all the signs of life to be seen upon her face disappear. it is as if the earth had risen under her skin. she comes down into our apartments. sitting in the dining-room, with a trembling hand, the knuckles of which knock against one another, she draws her stockings on over a pair of legs like broomsticks, consumptive legs. then, for a long moment, she looks about at the familiar objects with dying eyes that seem desirous to take away with them the memory of the places they are leaving--and the door of the apartment closes upon her with a noise as of farewell. she reaches the foot of the stairs, where she rests for an instant on a chair. the concierge, in a bantering tone, assures her that she will be well in six weeks. she bows and says "yes," an inaudible "yes." the cab drives up to the door. she rests her hand on the concierge's wife. i hold her against the pillow she has behind her back. with wide open, vacant eyes she vaguely watches the houses pass, but she does not speak. at the door of the hospital she tries to alight without assistance. "can you walk so far?" the concierge asks. she makes an affirmative gesture and walks on. really i cannot imagine where she procured the strength to walk as she does. here we are at last in the great hall, a high, cold, bare, clean place with a litter standing, all ready for use, in the centre. i seat her in a straw armchair by a door with a glazed wicket. a young man opens the wicket, asks my name and age and writes busily for quarter of an hour, covering ten or more sheets of paper with a religious figure at the head. at last, everything is ready, and i embrace her. a boy takes one arm, the housekeeper the other.--after that, i saw nothing more. _thursday, august ._--we have been to lariboisière. we found rose quiet, hopeful, talking of her approaching discharge--in three weeks at most,--and so free from all thought of death that she told us of a furious love scene that took place yesterday between a woman in the bed next hers and a brother of the christian schools, who was there again to-day. poor rose is death, but death engrossed with life. near her bed was a young woman, whose husband, a mechanic, had come to see her. "you see, as soon as i can walk, i shall walk about the garden so much that they'll have to send me home!" she said. and the mother in her added: "does the child ask for me sometimes?" "sometimes, oh! yes," the man replied. _saturday, august ._--this morning, at ten o'clock, someone rings the bell. i hear a colloquy at the door between the housekeeper and the concierge. the door opens, the concierge enters with a letter. i take the letter; it bears the stamp of lariboisière. rose died this morning at seven o'clock. poor girl! so it is all over! i knew that she was doomed; but she was so animated, so cheerful, almost happy, when we saw her thursday! and here we are both walking up and down the salon, filled with the thought that a fellow-creature's death inspires: we shall never see her again!--an instinctive thought that recurs incessantly within you. what a void! what a gap in our household! a habit, an attachment of twenty-five years growth, a girl who knew our whole lives and opened our letters in our absence, and to whom we told all our business. when i was a bit of a boy i trundled my hoop with her, and she bought me apple-tarts with her own money, when we went to walk. she would sit up for edmond till morning, to open the door for him, when he went to the bal de l'opéra without our mother's knowledge. she was the woman, the excellent nurse, whose hands mother placed in ours when she was dying. she had the keys to everything, she managed everything, she did everything for our comfort. for twenty-five years she tucked us up in bed every night, and every night there were the same never-ending jokes about her ugliness and her disgraceful physique. sorrows and joys alike she shared with us. she was one of those devoted creatures upon whose solicitude you rely to close your eyes. our bodies, when we were ill or indisposed, were accustomed to her attentions. she was familiar with all our hobbies. she had known all our mistresses. she was a piece of our life, part of the furniture of our apartment, a stray memory of our youth, at once loving and scolding and care-taking, like a watchdog whom we were accustomed to having always beside us and about us, and who ought to last as long as ourselves. and we shall never see her again! it is not she moving about the rooms; she will never again come to our rooms to bid us good-morning! it is a great wrench, a great change in our lives, which seems to us, i cannot say why, like one of those solemn breaks in one's existence, when, as byron says, destiny changes horses. _sunday, august ._--this morning we are to perform all the last sad duties. we must return to the hospital, enter once more the reception hall, where i seem to see again, in the armchair against the wicket, the ghost of the emaciated creature i seated there less than a week ago. "will you identify the body?" the attendant hurls the question at me in a harsh voice. we go to the further end of the hospital, to a high yellow door, upon which is written in great black letters: _amphitheatre_. the attendant knocks. after some moments the door is partly opened, and a head like a butcher's boy's appears, with a short pipe in its mouth: a head which suggests the gladiator and the grave-digger. i fancied that i was at the circus, and that he was the slave who received the gladiators' bodies; and he does receive the slain in that great circus, society. they made us wait a long while before opening another door, and during those moments of suspense, all our courage oozed away, as the blood of a wounded man who is forced to remain standing oozes away, drop by drop. the mystery of what we were about to see, the horror of a sight that rends your heart, the search for the one body amid other bodies, the scrutiny and recognition of that poor face, disfigured doubtless--the thought of all this made us as timid as children. we were at the end of our strength, at the end of our will-power, at the end of our nervous tension, and, when the door opened, we said: "we will send some one," and fled. from there we went to the mayor's office, riding in a cab that jolted us and shook our heads about like empty things. and an indefinable horror seized upon us of death in a hospital, which seems to be only an administrative formality. one would say that in that abode of agony, everything is so well administered, regulated, reduced to system, that death opens it as if it were an administrative bureau. while we were having the death registered,--_mon dieu!_ the paper, all covered with writing and flourishes for a poor woman's death!--a man rushed out of an adjoining room, in joyous exultation, and looked at the almanac hanging on the wall to find the name of the saint of the day and give it to his child. as he passed, the skirt of the happy father's coat swept the sheet on which the death was registered from the desk to the floor. when we returned home, we must look through her papers, get her clothes together, sort out the clutter of phials, bandages and innumerable things that sickness collects--jostle death about, in short. it was a ghastly thing to enter that attic, where the crumbs of bread from her last meal were still lying in the folds of the bedclothes. i threw the coverlid up over the bolster, like a sheet over the ghost of a dead man. _monday, august ._--the chapel is beside the amphitheatre. in the hospital god and the dead body are neighbors. at the mass said for the poor woman beside her coffin, two or three others were placed near by to reap the benefit of the service. there was an unpleasant promiscuousness of salvation in that performance: it resembled the common grave in the prayer. behind me, in the chapel, rose's niece was weeping--the little girl she had at our house for a short time, who is now a young woman of nineteen, a pupil at the convent of the sisters of saint-laurent: a poor, weazened, pale, stunted creature, rickety from starvation, with a head too heavy for her body, back bent double, and the air of a mayeux--the last sad remnant of that consumption-ridden family, awaited by death and with his hand even now heavy upon her,--in her soft eyes there is already a gleam of the life beyond. then from the chapel to the extreme end of the montmartre cemetery,--vast as a necropolis and occupying a whole quarter of the city,--walking at slow steps through mud that never ends. lastly the intoning of the priests, and the coffin laboriously lowered by the gravediggers' arms to the ends of the ropes, as a cask of wine is lowered into a cellar. _wednesday, august ._--once more i must return to the hospital. for since the visit i paid rose on thursday and her sudden death the next day, there has existed for me a mystery which i force from my thoughts, but which constantly returns; the mystery of that agony of which i know nothing, of that sudden end. i long to know and i dread to learn. it does not seem to me as if she were dead; i think of her simply as of a person who has disappeared. my imagination returns to her last hours, gropes for them in the darkness and reconstructs them, and they torture me with their veiled horrors! i need to have my doubts resolved. at last, this morning, i took my courage in both hands. again i see the hospital, again i see the red-faced, obese concierge, reeking with life as one reeks with wine, and the corridors where the morning light falls upon the pale faces of smiling convalescents. in a distant corner, i rang at a door with little white curtains. it was opened and i found myself in a parlor where a virgin stood upon a sort of altar between two windows. on the northern wall of the room, the cold, bare room, there are--why, i cannot explain--two framed views of vesuvius, wretched water-colors which seem to shiver and to be entirely expatriated there. through an open door behind me, from a small room in which the sun shines brightly, i hear the chattering of sisters and children, childish joys, pretty little bursts of laughter, all sorts of fresh, clear vocal notes: a sound as from a dovecote bathed in the sun. sisters in white with black caps pass and repass; one stops in front of my chair. she is short, badly developed, with an ugly, sweet face, a poor face by the grace of god. she is the mother of the salle saint-joseph. she tells me how rose died, in hardly any pain, feeling that she was improving, almost well, overflowing with encouragement and hope. in the morning, after her bed was made, without any suspicion that death was near, suddenly she was taken with a hemorrhage, which lasted some few seconds. i came away, much comforted, delivered from the thought that she had had the anticipatory taste of death, the horror of its approach. _thursday, october ._ * * * * * in the midst of our dinner, which was rendered melancholy enough by the constant hovering of the conversation around the subject of death, maria, who came to dinner to-night, cried out, after two or three nervous blows with her fingers upon her fluffy blonde locks:--"my friends, while the poor girl was alive, i kept the professional secret of my trade. but, now that she is under ground, you must know the truth." and thereupon we learned things concerning the unhappy creature that took away our appetites, leaving in our mouths the bitter taste of fruit cut with a steel knife. and a whole strange, hateful, repugnant, deplorable existence was revealed to us. the notes she signed, the debts she has left behind her at all the dealers, have the most unforeseen, the most amazing, the most incredible basis. she kept men: the milkwoman's son, for whom she furnished a chamber; another to whom she carried our wine, chickens, food of all sorts. a secret life of nocturnal orgies, of nights passed abroad, of fierce nymphomania, that made her lovers say: "either she or i will stay on the field!" a passion, passions with her whole head and heart and all her senses at once, and complicated by all the wretched creatures' diseases, consumption which adds frenzy to pleasure, hysteria, the beginning of insanity. she had two children by the milkwoman's son, one of whom lived six months. some years ago, when she told us that she was going on a visit to her province, it was to lie in. and, with regard to these men, her passion was so extravagant, so unhealthy, so insane, that she, who was formerly honesty personified, actually stole from us, took twenty franc pieces out of rolls of a hundred francs, so that the lovers she paid might not leave her. now, after these involuntarily dishonest acts, these petty crimes extorted from her upright nature, she plunged into such depths of self-reproach, remorse, melancholy, such black despair, that in that hell in which she rolled on from sin to sin, desperate and unsatisfied, she had taken to drinking to escape herself, to save herself from the present, to drown herself and founder for a few moments in the heavy slumber, the lethargic torpor in which she would lie wallowing across her bed for a whole day, just as she fell when she tried to make it. the miserable creature! how great an incentive, how many motives and reasons she found for devouring her suffering, and bleeding internally: in the first place the rejection at intervals of religious ideas by the terrors of a hell of fire and brimstone; then jealousy, that characteristic jealousy of everything and everybody that poisoned her life; then, then--then the disgust which these men, after a time, brutally expressed for her ugliness, and which drove her deeper and deeper into sottishness,--caused her one day to have a miscarriage, and she fell half dead on the floor. such a frightful tearing away of the veil we have worn over our eyes is like the examination of a pocketful of horrible things in a dead body suddenly opened. from what we have heard i suddenly seem to realize what she must have suffered for ten years past: the dread of an anonymous letter to us or of a denunciation from some dealer; and the constant trepidation on the subject of the money that was demanded of her, and that she could not pay; and the shame felt by that proud creature, perverted by the vile quartier saint-georges, because of her intimacy with low wretches whom she despised; and the lamentable consciousness of the premature senility caused by drunkenness; and the inhuman exactions and brutality of the alphonses of the gutter; and the temptations to suicide which caused me to pull her away from a window one day, when i found her leaning far out--and lastly all the tears that we believed to be without cause--all these things mingled with a very deep and heartfelt affection for us, and with a vehement, feverish devotion when either of us was ill. and this woman possessed an energetic character, a force of will, a skill in mystification, to which nothing can be compared. yes, yes, all those frightful secrets kept under lock and key, hidden, buried deep in her own heart, so that neither our eyes, nor our ears, nor our powers of observation ever detected aught amiss, even in her hysterical attacks, when nothing escaped her but groans: a mystery preserved until her death, and which she must have believed would be buried with her. and of what did she die? she died, because, all through one rainy winter's night, eight months ago, at montmartre, she spied upon the milkwoman's son, who had turned her away, in order to find out with what woman he had filled her place; a whole night leaning against a ground-floor window, as a result of which she was drenched to the bones with deadly pleurisy! poor creature, we forgive her; indeed, a vast compassion for her fills our hearts, as we reflect upon all that she has suffered. but we have become suspicious, for our lives, of the whole female sex, and of women above us as well as of women below us in station. we are terror-stricken at the double lining of their hearts, at the marvelous faculty, the science, the consummate genius of falsehood with which their whole being is instinct. * * * * * the above extracts are from our journal: journal des goncourts--_mémoires de la vie littéraire_; they are the documentary foundation upon which, two years later, my brother and i composed germinie lacerteux, whom we made a study of and taught when she was in the service of our venerable cousin, mademoiselle de c----t, of whom we were writing a veracious biography, after the style of a biography of modern history. edmond de goncourt. _auteuil, april, ._ i "saved! so you are really out of danger, mademoiselle!" exclaimed the maid with a cry of joy, as she closed the door upon the doctor, and, rushing to the bed on which her mistress lay, she began, in a frenzy of happiness and with a shower of kisses to embrace, together with the bed covers, the old woman's poor, emaciated body, which seemed, in the huge bed, as small as a child's. the old woman took her head, silently, in both hands, pressed it against her heart, heaved a sigh, and muttered: "ah, well! so i must live on!" this took place in a small room, through the window of which could be seen a small patch of sky cut by three black iron pipes, various neighboring roofs, and in the distance, between two houses that almost touched, the leafless branch of a tree, whose trunk was invisible. on the mantelpiece, in a mahogany box, was a square clock with a large dial, huge figures and bulky hands. beside it, under glass covers, were two candlesticks formed by three silver swans twisting their necks around a golden quiver. near the fireplace an easy chair _à la voltaire_, covered with one of the pieces of tapestry of checker-board pattern, which little girls and old women make, extended its empty arms. two little italian landscapes, a flower piece in water-colors after bertin, with a date in red ink at the bottom, and a few miniatures hung on the walls. upon the mahogany commode of an empire pattern, a statue of time in black bronze, running with his scythe in rest, served as a watch stand for a small watch with a monogram in diamonds upon blue enamel, surrounded with pearls. the floor was covered with a bright carpet with black and green stripes. the curtains at the bed and the window were of old-fashioned chintz with red figures upon a chocolate ground. at the head of the bed, a portrait inclined over the invalid and seemed to gaze sternly at her. it represented a man with harsh features, whose face emerged from the high collar of a green satin coat, and a muslin cravat, with waving ends, tied loosely around the neck, in the style of the early years of the revolution. the old woman in the bed resembled the portrait. she had the same bushy, commanding black eyebrows, the same aquiline nose, the same clearly marked lines of will, resolution and energy. the portrait seemed to cast a reflection upon her, as a father's face is reflected in his child's. but in hers the harshness of the features was softened by a gleam of rough kindliness, by an indefinable flame of sturdy devotion and masculine charity. the light in the room was the light of an evening in early spring, about five o'clock, a light as clear as crystal and as white as silver, the cold, chaste, soft light, which fades away in the flush of the sunset passing into twilight. the sky was filled with that light of a new life, adorably melancholy, like the still naked earth, and so replete with pathos that it moves happy souls to tears. "well, well! my silly germinie, weeping?" said the old woman, a moment later, withdrawing her hands which were moist with her maid's kisses. "oh! my dear, kind mademoiselle, i would like to weep like this all the time! it's so good! it brings my poor mother back before my eyes--and everything!--if you only knew!" "go on, go on," said her mistress, closing her eyes to listen, "tell me about it." "oh! my poor mother!" the maid paused a moment. then, with the flood of words that gushes forth with tears of joy, she continued, as if, in the emotion and outpouring of her happiness, her whole childhood flowed back into her heart! "poor woman! i can see her now the last time she went out to take me to mass, one st of january, i remember. in those days they read from the king's testament. ah! she suffered enough on my account, did mamma! she was forty-two years old, when i was born----papa made her cry a good deal! there were three of us before and there wasn't any too much bread in the house. and then he was proud as anything. if we'd had only a handful of peas in the house he would never have gone to the curé for help. ah! we didn't eat bacon every day at our house. never mind; for all that mamma loved me a little more and she always found a little fat or cheese in some corner to put on my bread. i wasn't five when she died. that was a bad thing for us all. i had a tall brother, who was white as a sheet, with a yellow beard--and good! you have no idea. everybody loved him. they gave him all sorts of names. some called him boda--why, i don't know. others called him jesus christ. ah! he was a worker, he was! it didn't make any difference to him that his health was good for nothing; at daybreak he was always at his loom--for we were weavers, you must know--and he never put his shuttle down till night. and honest, too, if you knew! people came from all about to bring him their yarn, and without weighing it, too. he was a great friend of the schoolmaster, and he used to write the _mottoes_ for the carnival. my father, he was a different sort: he'd work for a moment, or an hour, you know, and then he'd go off into the fields--and when he came home he'd beat us, and beat us hard. he was like a madman; they said it was because he was consumptive. it was lucky my brother was there: he used to prevent my second sister from pulling my hair and hurting me, because she was jealous. he always took me by the hand to go and see them play skittles. in fact, he supported the family all alone. for my first communion he had the bells rung! ah! he did a heap of work so that i should be like the others, in a little white dress with flounces and a little bag in my hand, such as they used to carry in those days. i didn't have any cap: i remember making myself a pretty little wreath of ribbons and the white pith you pull off when you strip reeds; there was lots of it in the places where we used to put the hemp to soak. that was one of my great days--that and the drawing lots for the pigs at christmas--and the days when i went to help them tie up the vines; that was in june, you know. we had a little vineyard near saint hilaire. there was one very hard year in those days--do you remember it, mademoiselle?--the long frost of that ruined everything. it extended as far as dijon and farther, too--people had to make bread from bran. my brother nearly killed himself with work. father, who was always out of doors tramping about the fields, sometimes brought home a few mushrooms. it was pretty bad, all the same; we were hungry oftener than anything else. when i was out in the fields myself, i'd look around to see if anyone could see me, and then i'd crawl along softly on my knees, and when i was under a cow, i'd take off one of my sabots and begin to milk her. bless me! i came near being caught at it! my oldest sister was out at service with the mayor of lenclos, and she sent home her wages--twenty-four francs--it was always as much as that. the second worked at dressmaking in bourgeois families; but they didn't pay the prices then that they do to-day; she worked from six in the morning till dark for eight sous. out of that she wanted to put some by for a dress for the fête on saint-remi's day.--ah! that's the way it is with us: there are many who live on two potatoes a day for six months so as to have a new dress for that day. bad luck fell on us on all sides. my father died. we had to sell a small field, and a bit of a vineyard that yielded a cask of wine every year. the notaries don't work for nothing. when my brother was sick there was nothing to give him to drink but _lees_ that we'd been putting water to for a year. and there wasn't any change of linen for him; all the sheets in the wardrobe, which had a golden cross on top of it in mother's time, had gone--and the cross too. more than that, before he was sick this time, my brother goes off to the fête at clefmont. he hears someone say that my sister had gone wrong with the mayor she worked for; he falls on the men who said it, but he wasn't very strong. they were, though, and they threw him down, and when he was down, they kicked him with their wooden shoes, in the pit of the stomach. he was brought home to us for dead. the doctor put him on his feet again, though, and told us he was cured. but he could just drag himself along. i could see that he was going when he kissed me. when he was dead, poor dear boy, cadet ballard had to use all his strength to take me away from the body. the whole village, mayor and all, went to his funeral. as my sister couldn't keep her place with the mayor on account of the things he said to her, and had gone to paris to find a place, my other sister went after her. i was left all alone. one of my mother's cousins then took me with her to damblin; but i was all upset there; i cried all night long, and whenever i could run away i always went back to our house. just to see the old vine at our door, from the end of the street, did me good! it put strength into my legs. the good people who had bought the house would keep me till someone came for me! they were always sure to find me there. at last they wrote to my sister in paris that, if she didn't send for me to come and live with her, i wasn't likely to live long. it's a fact that i was just like wax. they put me in charge of the driver of a small wagon that went from langres to paris every month, and that's how i came to paris. i was fourteen years old, then. i remember that i went to bed all dressed all the way, because they made me sleep in the common room. when i arrived i was covered with lice." ii the old woman said nothing: she was comparing her own life with her servant's. * * * * * mademoiselle de varandeuil was born in . she first saw the light in a mansion on rue royale and mesdames de france were her sponsors in baptism. her father was a close friend of the comte d'artois, in whose household he held an important post. he joined in all his hunting-parties, and was one of the few familiar spirits, in whose presence, at the mass preceding the hunt, he who was one day to be king charles x. used to hurry the officiating priest by saying in an undertone: "psit! psit! curé, swallow your _good lord_ quickly!" monsieur de varandeuil had made one of those marriages which were customary enough in his day: he had espoused a sort of actress, a singer, who, although she had no great talent, had made a success at the _concert spirituel_, beside madame todi, madame ponteuil and madame saint-huberty. the little girl born of this marriage in was sickly and delicate, ugly of feature, with a nose even then large enough to be absurd, her father's nose in a face as thin as a man's wrist. she had nothing of what her parents' vanity would have liked her to have. after making a fiasco on the piano at the age of five, at a concert given by her mother in her salon, she was relegated to the society of the servants. except for a moment in the morning, she never went near her mother, who always made her kiss her under the chin, so that she might not disturb her rouge. when the revolution arrived, monsieur de varandeuil, thanks to the comte d'artois' patronage, was disburser of pensions. madame de varandeuil was traveling in italy, whither she had ordered her physician to send her on the pretext of ill health, leaving her daughter and an infant son in her husband's charge. the absorbing anxiety of the times, the tempests threatening wealth and the families that handled wealth--monsieur de varandeuil's brother was a farmer-general--left that very selfish and unloving father but little leisure to attend to the wants of his children. thereupon, he began to be somewhat embarrassed pecuniarily. he left rue royale and took up his abode at the hôtel du petit-charolais, belonging to his mother, who allowed him to install himself there. events moved rapidly; one evening, in the early days of the guillotine, as he was walking along rue saint-antoine, he heard a hawker in front of him, crying the journal: _aux voleurs! aux voleurs!_ according to the usual custom of those days, he gave a list of the articles contained in the number he had for sale: monsieur de varandeuil heard his own name mingled with oaths and obscenity. he bought the paper and read therein a revolutionary denunciation of himself. some time after, his brother was arrested and detained at hôtel talaru with the other farmers-general. his mother, in a paroxysm of terror, had foolishly sold the hôtel du petit-charolais, where he was living, for the value of the mirrors: she was paid in _assignats_, and died of despair over the constant depreciation of the paper. luckily monsieur de varandeuil obtained from the purchasers, who could find no tenants, leave to occupy the rooms formerly used by the stableboys. he took refuge there, among the outbuildings of the mansion, stripped himself of his name and posted at the door, as he was ordered to do, his family name of roulot, under which he buried the _de varandeuil_ and the former courtier of the comte d'artois. he lived there alone, buried, forgotten, hiding his head, never going out, cowering in his hole, without servants, waited upon by his daughter, to whom he left everything. the terror was to them a period of shuddering suspense, the breathless excitement of impending death. every evening, the little girl went and listened at a grated window to the day's crop of condemnations, the _list of prize winners in the lottery of saint guillotine_. she answered every knock at the door, thinking that they had come to take her father to the place de la révolution, whither her uncle had already been taken. the moment came when money, the money that was so scarce, no longer procured bread. it was necessary to go and get it, almost by force, at the doors of the bakeries; it was necessary to earn it by standing for hours in the cold, biting night air, in the crushing pressure of crowds of people; to stand in line from three o'clock in the morning. the father did not care to venture into that mass of humanity. he was afraid of being recognized, of compromising himself by one of those outbursts to which his impetuous nature would have given vent, no matter where he might be. then, too, he recoiled from the fatigue and severity of the task. the little boy was still too small; he would have been crushed; so the duty of obtaining bread for three mouths each day fell to the daughter. she obtained it. with her little thin body, fairly lost in her father's knitted jacket, a cotton cap pulled down over her eyes, her limbs all huddled together to retain a little warmth, she would wait, shivering, her eyes aching with cold, amid the pushing and buffeting, until the baker's wife on rue des francs-bourgeois placed in her hands a loaf which her little fingers, stiff with cold, could hardly hold. at last, this poor little creature, who returned day after day, with her pinched face and her emaciated, trembling body, moved the baker's wife to pity. with the kindness of heart of a woman of the people, she would send the coveted loaf to the little one by her boy as soon as she appeared in the long line. but one day, just as she put out her hand to take it, a woman, whose jealousy was aroused by this mark of favor and preference, dealt the child a kick with her wooden shoe which kept her in bed almost a month. mademoiselle de varandeuil bore the marks of the blow all her life. during that month, the whole family would have died of starvation, had it not been for a supply of rice, which one of their acquaintances, the comtesse d'auteuil, had had the forethought to lay aside, and which she consented to share with the father and the two children. thus, monsieur de varandeuil escaped the revolutionary tribunal by burying himself in obscurity. he escaped it also by reason of the fact that the accounts of his administration of his office were still unsettled, as he had had the good fortune to procure the postponement of the settlement from month to month. then, too, he kept suspicion at bay by his personal animosity toward some great personages at court, and by the hatred of the queen which many retainers of the king's brothers had conceived. whenever he had occasion to speak of that wretched woman, he used violent, bitter, insulting words, uttered in such a passionate, sincere tone that they almost made him appear as an enemy of the royal family; so that those to whom he was simply citizen roulot looked upon him as a good patriot, and those who knew his former name almost excused him for having been what he had been: a noble, the friend of a prince of the blood, and a place holder. the republic had reached the epoch of patriotic suppers, those repasts of a whole street in the street; mademoiselle de varandeuil, in her confused, terrified reminiscences of those days, could still see the tables on rue pavée, with their legs in the streams of the blood of september flowing from la force! it was at one of these suppers that monsieur de varandeuil conceived a scheme that completely assured his immunity. he informed two of his neighbors at table, devoted patriots both, one of whom was on intimate terms with chaumette, that he was in great embarrassment because his daughter had been privately baptized only, so that she had no civil status, and said that he would be very happy if chaumette would have her entered on the registers of the municipality and honor her with a name selected by him from the republican calendar of greece or rome. chaumette at once arranged a meeting with this father, _who had reached so high a level_, as they said in those days. during the interview mademoiselle de varandeuil was taken into a closet where she found two women who were instructed to satisfy themselves as to her sex, and she showed them her breast. they then escorted her to the great salle des declarations, and there, after a metaphorical allocution, chaumette baptized her _sempronie_; a name which habit was destined to fasten upon mademoiselle de varandeuil and which she never abandoned. somewhat protected and reassured by that episode, the family passed through the terrible days preceding the fall of robespierre. at last came the ninth thermidor and deliverance. but poverty was none the less a pressing fact in the varandeuil household. they had not lived through the bitter days of the revolution, they were not to live through the wretched days of the directory without unhoped-for succor, money sent by providence by the hand of folly. the father and the two children could hardly have existed without the income from four shares in the _vaudeville_, an investment which monsieur de varandeuil was happily inspired to make in , and which proved to be the best of all possible investments in those years of death, when people felt the need of forgetting death every evening--in those days of supreme agony, when everyone wished to laugh his last laugh at the latest song. soon these shares, added to the amount of some outstanding claims that were paid, provided the family with something more than bread. they thereupon left the eaves of the hôtel du petit-charolais and took a small suite in the marais, on rue du chaume. no change took place, however, in the habits of the household. the daughter continued to wait upon her father and brother. monsieur de varandeuil had gradually become accustomed to see in her only the woman indicated by her costume and by the work that she did. the father's eyes did not care to recognize a daughter in that servant's garb and in her performance of menial occupations. she was no longer a person with his blood in her veins or who had the honor to belong to him: she was a servant; and his selfishness confirmed him so fully in that idea and in his harsh treatment of her, he found that filial, affectionate, respectful service,--which cost nothing at all, by the way,--so convenient, that it cost him a bitter pang to give it up later, when a little more money mended the family fortunes: battles had to be fought to induce him to take a maid to fill his child's place and to relieve the girl from the most humiliating domestic labor. they were without information concerning madame de varandeuil, who had refused to join her husband at paris during the early years of the revolution; at last they learned that she had married again in germany, producing, as a certificate of her husband's death, the death certificate of his guillotined brother, the baptismal name having been changed. the girl grew up, therefore, abandoned, without affection, with no mother except a woman dead to her family, whom her father taught her to despise. her childhood was passed in constant anxiety, in the privations that wear life away, in the fatigue resulting from labor that exhausted the strength of a sickly child, in an expectation of death that became, at last, an impatient longing to die: there had been hours when that girl of thirteen was tempted to do as many women did in those days--to open the door and rush into the street, crying: _vive le roi!_ in order to end it all. her girlhood was a continuation of her childhood with less tragic motives of weariness. she had to submit to the ill humor, the exactions, the bitter moods, the tempestuous outbreaks of her father, which had been hitherto somewhat curbed and restrained by the great tempest of the time. she was still doomed to undergo the fatigues and humiliations of a servant. she remained alone with her father, kept down and humbled, shut out from his arms and his kisses, her heart heavy with grief because she longed to love and had nothing to love. she was beginning to suffer from the cold void that is formed about a woman by an unattractive, unfascinating girlhood, by a girlhood devoid of beauty and sympathetic charm. she could see that she aroused a sort of compassion with her long nose, her yellow complexion, her angular figure, her thin body. she felt that she was ugly, and that her ugliness was made repulsive by her miserable costumes, her dismal, woolen dresses which she made herself, her father paying for the material only after much grumbling: she could not induce him to make her a small allowance for her toilet until she was thirty-five. how sad and bitter and lonely for her was her life with that morose, sour old man, who was always scolding and complaining at home, affable only in society, and who left her every evening to go to the great houses that were reopened under the directory and at the beginning of the empire! only at very long intervals did he take her out, and when he did, it was always to that everlasting _vaudeville_, where he had boxes. even on those rare occasions, his daughter was terrified. she trembled all the time that she was with him; she was afraid of his violent disposition, of the tone of the old régime that his outbreaks of wrath had retained, of the facility with which he would raise his cane at an insolent remark from the _canaille_. on almost every occasion there were scenes with the manager, wordy disputes with people in the pit, and threats of personal violence to which she put an end by lowering the curtain of the box. the same thing was kept up in the street, even in the cab, with the driver, who would refuse to carry them at monsieur de varandeuil's price and would keep them waiting one hour, two hours without moving; sometimes would unharness his horse in his wrath and leave him in the vehicle with his daughter who would vainly implore him to submit and pay the price demanded. considering that these diversions should suffice for sempronie, and having, moreover, a jealous desire to have her all to himself and always under his hand, monsieur de varandeuil allowed her to form no intimacies with anybody. he did not take her into society; he did not take her to the houses of their kinsfolk who returned after the emigration, except on days of formal receptions or family gatherings. he kept her closely confined to the house: not until she was forty did he consider that she was old enough to be allowed to go out alone. thus, the girl had no friendship, no connection of any sort to lean upon; indeed, she no longer had her younger brother with her, as he had gone to the united states and enlisted in the american navy. she was forbidden by her father to marry, he did not admit that she would allow herself even to think of marrying and deserting him; all the suitors who might have come forward he fought and rejected in advance, in order not to leave his daughter the courage to speak to him on the subject, if the occasion should ever arise. meanwhile our victories were stripping italy of her treasures. the masterpieces of rome, florence and venice were hurrying to paris. italian art was at a premium. collectors no longer took pride in any paintings but those of the italian school. monsieur de varandeuil saw an opening for a fortune in this change of taste. he, also, had fallen a victim to the artistic dilettantism which was one of the refined passions of the nobility before the revolution. he had lived in the society of artists and collectors; he admired pictures. it occurred to him to collect a gallery of italian works and then to sell them. paris was still overrun with the objects of art sold and scattered under the terror. monsieur de varandeuil began to walk back and forth through the streets--they were the markets for large canvases in those days,--and at every step he made a discovery; every day he purchased something. soon the small apartment was crowded with old, black paintings, so large for the most part that the walls would not hold them with their frames, with the result that there was no room for the furniture. these were christened raphael, vinci, or andrea del sarto; there were none but _chefs d'oeuvre_, and the father would keep his daughter standing in front of them hours at a time, forcing his admiration upon her, wearying her with his ecstatic flights. he would ascend from epithet to epithet, would work himself into a state of intoxication, of delirium, and would end by thinking that he was negotiating with an imaginary purchaser, would dispute with him over the price of a masterpiece, and would cry out: "a hundred thousand francs for my rosso! yes, monsieur, a hundred thousand francs!" his daughter, dismayed by the large amount of money that those great, ugly things, in which there were so many nude men, deducted from the housekeeping supply, ventured upon remonstrance and tried to check such ruinous extravagance. monsieur de varandeuil lost his temper, waxed wroth like a man who was ashamed to find one of his blood so deficient in taste, and told her that that was her fortune and that she would see later if he was an old fool. at last she induced him to realize. the sale took place; it was a failure, one of the most complete shipwrecks of illusions that the glazed hall of the hôtel bullion has ever seen. stung to the quick, furious with rage at this blow, which not only involved pecuniary loss and a serious inroad upon his little fortune, but was also a direct denial of his claims to connoisseurship, a slap at his knowledge of art delivered upon the cheek of his raphaels, monsieur de varandeuil informed his daughter that they were too poor to remain in paris and that they must go into the provinces to live. having been cradled and reared in an epoch little adapted to inspire a love of country life in women, mademoiselle de varandeuil tried vainly to combat her father's resolution: she was obliged to go with him wherever he chose to go, and, by leaving paris, to lose the society and friendship of two young kinswomen, to whom, in their too infrequent interviews, she had partly given her confidence, and whose hearts she had felt reaching out to her as to an older sister. monsieur de varandeuil hired a small house at l'isle-adam. there he was near familiar scenes, in the atmosphere of what was formerly a little court, close at hand to two or three châteaux, whose owners he knew, and which were beginning to throw open their doors once more. then, too, since the revolution a little community of well-to-do bourgeois, rich shopkeepers, had settled upon this territory which once belonged to the contis. the name of monsieur de varandeuil sounded very grand in the ears of all those good people. they bowed very low to him, they contended for the honor of entertaining him, they listened respectfully, almost devoutly, to the stories he told of society as it was. and thus, flattered, caressed, honored as a relic of versailles, he had the place of honor and the prestige of a lord among them. when he dined with madame mutel, a former baker, who had forty thousand francs a year, the hostess left the table, silk dress and all, to go and fry the oyster plants herself: monsieur de varandeuil did not like them except as she cooked them. but monsieur de varandeuil's decision to go into retirement at l'isle-adam was mainly due, not to the pleasant surroundings there, but to a project that he had formed. he had gone thither to obtain leisure for a monumental work. that which he had been unable to do for the honor and glory of italian art by his collection, he proposed to do by his pen. he had learned a little italian with his wife; he took it into his head to present vasari's _lives of the painters_ to the french public, to translate it with the assistance of his daughter, who, when she was very small, had heard her mother's maid speak italian and had retained a few words. he plunged the girl into vasari, he locked up her time and her thoughts in grammars, dictionaries, commentaries, all the works of all the scholiasts of italian art, kept her bending double over the ungrateful toil, the _ennui_ and labor of translating italian words, groping in the darkness of her imperfect knowledge. the whole burden of the book fell upon her; when he had laid out her task, he would leave her tête-à-tête with the volumes bound in white vellum, to go and ramble about the neighborhood, paying visits, gambling at some château or dining among the bourgeois of his acquaintance, to whom he would complain pathetically of the laborious effort that the vast undertaking of his translation entailed upon him. he would return home, listen to the reading of the translation made during the day, make comments and critical remarks, and upset a sentence to give it a different meaning, which his daughter would eliminate again when he had gone; then he would resume his walks and jaunts, like a man who has well earned his leisure, walking very erect, with his hat under his arm and dainty pumps on his feet, enjoying himself, the sky and the trees and rousseau's god, gentle to all nature and loving to the plants. from time to time fits of impatience, common to children and old men, would overtake him; he would demand a certain number of pages for the next day, and would compel his daughter to sit up half the night. two or three years passed in this labor, in which sempronie's eyes were ruined at last. she lived entombed in her father's vasari, more entirely alone than ever, holding aloof through innate, haughty repugnance from the bourgeois ladies of l'isle-adam and their manners _à la madame angot_, and too poorly clad to visit at the châteaux. for her, there was no pleasure, no diversion, which was not made wretched and poisoned by her father's eccentricities and fretful humor. he tore up the flowers that she planted secretly in the garden. he would have nothing there but vegetables and he cultivated them himself, putting forth grand utilitarian theories, arguments which might have induced the convention to convert the tuileries into a potato field. her only enjoyment was when her father, at very long intervals, allowed her to entertain one of her two young friends for a week--a week which would have been seven days of paradise to sempronie, had not her father embittered its joys, its diversions, its fêtes, with his always threatening outbreaks, his ill-humor always armed and alert, and his constant fault-finding about trifles--a bottle of eau de cologne that sempronie asked for to place in her friend's room, a dish for her dinner, or a place to which she wished to take her. at l'isle-adam monsieur de varandeuil had hired a servant, who almost immediately became his mistress. a child was born of this connection, and the father, in his cynical indifference, was shameless enough to have it brought up under his daughter's eyes. as the years rolled on the woman acquired a firm foothold in the house. she ended by ruling the household, father and daughter alike. the day came when monsieur de varandeuil chose to have her sit at his table and be served by sempronie. that was too much. mademoiselle de varandeuil rebelled under the insult, and drew herself up to the full height of her indignation. secretly, silently, in misery and isolation, harshly treated by the people and the things about her, the girl had built up a resolute, straightforward character; tears had tempered instead of softening it. beneath filial docility and humility, beneath passive obedience, beneath apparent gentleness of disposition, she concealed a character of iron, a man's strength of will, one of those hearts which nothing bends and which never bend themselves. when her father demanded that she lower herself to that extent, she reminded him that she was his daughter, she reviewed her whole life, cast, in a flood of words, the shame and the reproach of it in his face, and concluded by informing him that if that woman did not leave the house that very evening, she would leave it, and that she should have no difficulty in living, thank god! wherever she might go, with the simple tastes he had forced upon her. the father, thunderstruck and bewildered by this revolt, yielded and dismissed the servant; but he retained a dastardly sort of rancor against his daughter on account of the sacrifice she had extorted from him. his spleen betrayed itself in sharp, aggressive words, ironical thanks and bitter smiles. sempronie's only revenge was to attend to his wants more thoroughly, more gently, more patiently than ever. her devotion was destined to be subjected to one final test; the old man had a stroke of apoplexy which left him with one whole side of his body stiff and dead, lame in one leg, and asleep so far as his intelligence was concerned, although keenly conscious of his misfortune and of his dependence upon his daughter. thereupon, all the evil that lay dormant in the depths of his nature was aroused and let loose. his selfishness amounted to ferocity. under the torment of his suffering and his weakness, he became a sort of malevolent madman. mademoiselle de varandeuil devoted her days and her nights to the invalid, who seemed to hate her for her attentions, to be humiliated by her care as if it implied generosity and forgiveness, to suffer torments at seeing always by his side, indefatigable and kindly, that image of duty. but what a life it was! she had to contend against the miserable man's incurable _ennui_, to be always ready to bear him company, to lead him about and support him all day long. she must play cards with him when he was at home, and not let him win or lose too much. she must combat his wishes, his gormandizing tendencies, take dishes away from him, and, in connection with everything that he wanted, endure complaints, reproaches, insults, tears, mad despair, and the outbursts of childish anger in which helpless old men indulge. and this lasted ten years! ten years, during which mademoiselle de varandeuil had no other recreation, no other consolation than to pour out all the tenderness and warmth of a maternal affection upon one of her two young friends, recently married,--her _chick_, as she called her. it was mademoiselle de varandeuil's delight to go and pass a short time every fortnight in that happy household. she would kiss the pretty child, already in its cradle and asleep for the night when she arrived; she would dine at racing speed; at dessert she would send for a carriage and would hasten away like a tardy schoolboy. but in the last years of her father's life she could not even obtain permission to dine out: the old man would no longer sanction such a long absence and kept her almost constantly beside him, repeating again and again that he was well aware that it was not amusing to take care of an infirm old man like himself, but that she would soon be rid of him. he died in , and, before his death, could find no words but these for her who had been his daughter nearly forty years: "i know that you never loved me!" two years before her father's death, sempronie's brother had returned from america. he brought with him a colored woman who had nursed him through the yellow fever, and two girls, already grown up, whom he had had by the woman before marrying her. although she was imbued with the ideas of the old régime as to the blacks, and although she looked upon that ignorant creature, with her negro jargon, her grin like a wild beast's and her skin that left grease stains upon her clothing, as no better than a monkey, mademoiselle de varandeuil combated her father's horror and unwillingness to receive his daughter-in-law; and she it was who induced him, in the last days of his life, to allow her brother to present his wife to him. when her father was dead she reflected that her brother's household was all that remained of the family. monsieur de varandeuil, to whom the comte d'artois had caused the arrears of salary of his office to be paid at the return of the bourbons, left about ten thousand francs a year to his children. the brother had, before that inheritance, only a pension of fifteen hundred francs from the united states. mademoiselle de varandeuil considered that five or six thousand francs a year would hardly suffice for the comfortable support of that family, in which there were two children, and it at once occurred to her to add to it her share in the inheritance. she suggested this contribution in the most natural and simple way imaginable. her brother accepted it, and she went with him to live in a pretty little apartment at the upper end of rue de clichy, on the fourth floor of one of the first houses built in that neighborhood, then hardly known, where the fresh country air blew briskly through the framework of the white buildings. she continued there her modest life, her humble manner of dressing, her economical habits, content with the least desirable room in the suite, and spending upon herself no more than eighteen hundred to two thousand francs a year. but, soon, a brooding jealousy, slowly gathering strength, took possession of the mulattress. she took offence at the fraternal affection which seemed to be taking her husband from her arms. she suffered because of the communion of speech and thought and reminiscences between them; she suffered because of the conversations in which she could take no part, because of what she heard in their voices, but could not understand. the consciousness of her inferiority kindled in her heart the fires of wrath and hatred that burn fiercely in the tropics. she had recourse to her children for her revenge; she urged them on, excited them, aroused their evil passions against her sister-in-law. she encouraged them to laugh at her, to make sport of her. she applauded the manifestations of the mischievous intelligence characteristic of children, in whom observation begins with naughtiness. once she had let them loose upon their aunt, she allowed them to laugh at all her absurdities, her figure, her nose, her dresses, whose meanness, nevertheless, provided their own elegant attire. thus incited and upheld, the little ones soon arrived at insolence. mademoiselle de varandeuil had the quick temper that accompanies kindness of heart. with her the hand, as well as the heart, had a part in the first impulse. and then she shared the prevalent opinion of her time as to the proper way of bringing up children. she endured two or three impertinent sallies without a word; but at the fourth she seized the mocking child, took down her skirts, and administered to her, notwithstanding her twelve years, the soundest whipping she had ever received. the mulattress made a great outcry and told her sister-in-law, that she had always detested her children and that she wanted to kill them. the brother interposed between the two women and succeeded in reconciling them after a fashion. but new scenes took place, when the little ones, inflamed against the woman who made their mother weep, assailed their aunt with the refined tortures of misbehaved children, mingled with the fiendish cruelty of little savages. after several patched-up truces it became necessary to part. mademoiselle de varandeuil decided to leave her brother, for she saw how unhappy he was amid this daily wrenching of his dearest affections. she left him to his wife and his children. this separation was one of the great sorrows of her life. she who was so strong against emotion and so self-contained, and who seemed to take pride in suffering, as it were, almost broke down when she had to leave the apartment, where she had dreamed of enjoying a little happiness in her corner, looking on at the happiness of others: her last tears mounted to her eyes. she did not go too far away, so that she might be at hand to nurse her brother if he were ill, and to see him and meet him sometimes. but there was a great void in her heart and in her life. she had begun to visit her kinsfolk since her father's death: she drew nearer to them; she allowed the relatives whom the restoration had placed in a lofty and powerful position to come to her, and sought out those whom the new order of things left in obscurity and poverty. but she returned to her dear _chick_ first of all, and to another distant cousin, also married, who had become the _chick's_ sister-in-law. her relations with her kinsfolk soon assumed remarkable regularity. mademoiselle de varandeuil never went into society, to an evening party, or to the play. it required mademoiselle rachel's brilliant success to persuade her to step inside a theatre; she ventured there but twice. she never accepted an invitation to a large dinner-party. but there were two or three houses where, as at the _chick's_, she would invite herself to dine, unexpectedly, when there were no guests. "my love," she would say without ceremony, "are you and your husband doing nothing this evening? then i will stay and eat some of your ragoût." at eight o'clock regularly she rose to go, and when the husband took his hat to escort her home, she would knock it out of his hands with a: "nonsense! an old nanny-goat like me! why, i frighten men in the street!" and then ten days or a fortnight would pass, during which they would not see her. but if anything went wrong, if there was a death or sickness in the house, mademoiselle de varandeuil always heard of it at once, no one knew how; she would come, in spite of everything--the weather or the hour--would give a loud ring at the bell in her own way--they finally called it _cousin's ring_--and a moment later, relieved of her umbrella, which never left her, and of her pattens, her hat tossed upon a chair, she was at the service of those who needed her. she listened, talked, restored their courage with an indescribable martial accent, with language as energetic as a soldier might use to console a wounded comrade, and stimulating as a cordial. if it was a child that was out of sorts, she would go straight to the bed, laugh at the little one, whose fear vanished at once, order the father and mother about, run hither and thither, assume the management of everything, apply the leeches, arrange the cataplasms, and bring back hope, joy and health at the double quick. in all branches of the family the old maid appeared thus providentially, without warning, on days of sorrow, _ennui_ and suffering. she was never seen except when her hands were needed to heal, her devoted friendship to console. she was, so to speak, an impersonal creature, because of her great heart; a woman who did not belong to herself: god seemed to have made her only to give her to others. her everlasting black dress which she persisted in wearing, her worn, dyed shawl, her absurd hat, her impoverished appearance, were, in her eyes, the means of being rich enough to help others with her little fortune; she was extravagant in almsgiving, and her pockets were always filled with gifts for the poor; not of money, for she feared the wineshop, but of four-pound loaves which she bought for them at the baker's. and then, too, by dint of living in poverty, she was able to give herself what was to her the greatest of all luxuries: the joy of her friends' children whom she overwhelmed with new year's and other gifts, with surprises and pleasures of all sorts. for instance, suppose that one of them had been left by his mother, who was absent from paris, to pass a lovely summer sunday at his boarding school, and the little rascal, out of spite, had misbehaved so that he was not allowed to go out. how surprised he would be, as the clock struck nine, to see his old cousin appear in the courtyard, just buttoning the last button of her dress, she had come in such haste. and what a feeling of desolation at the sight! "cousin," he would say piteously, in one of those fits of passion in which at the same moment you long to cry and to kill your _tyrant_, "i--i am kept in, and----" "kept in? oh! yes, kept in! and do you suppose i've taken all this trouble----is your schoolmaster poking fun at me? where is the puppy, that i may have a word with him? you go and dress yourself meanwhile. off with you!" and the child, not daring to hope that a woman so shabbily dressed would have the power to raise the embargo, would suddenly feel a hand upon his arm, and the cousin would carry him off, toss him into a cab, all bewildered and dumfounded with joy, and take him to the bois de boulogne. she would let him ride a donkey all day long, urging the beast on with a broken branch, and crying: "get up!" and then, after a good dinner at borne's, she would take him back to school, and, under the porte-cochère, as she kissed him she would slip a big hundred-sou piece into his hand. strange old maid. the bitter experiences of her whole existence, the struggle to live, the never-ending physical suffering, the long-continued bodily and mental torture had, as it were, cut her loose from life and placed her above it. her education, the things she had seen, the spectacle of what seemed the end of everything, the revolution, had so formed her character as to lead her to disdain human suffering. and this old woman, who had nothing left of life save breath, had risen to a serene philosophy, to a virile, haughty, almost satirical stoicism. sometimes she would begin to declaim against a sorrow that seemed a little too keen; but, in the midst of her tirade, she would suddenly hurl an angry, mocking word at herself, upon which her face would at once become calm. she was cheerful with the cheerfulness of a deep, bubbling spring, the cheerfulness of devoted hearts that have seen everything, of the old soldier or the old hospital nurse. kind-hearted to admiration she was, and yet something was lacking in her kindness of heart: forgiveness. hitherto, she had never succeeded in moving or bending her character. a slight, an unkind action, a trifle, if it touched her heart, wounded her forever. she forgot nothing. time, death itself, did not disarm her memory. of religion, she had none. born at a period when women did without it, she had grown to womanhood at a time when there were no churches. mass did not exist when she was a young maid. there had been nothing to accustom her to the thought of god or to make her feel the need of him, and she had retained a sort of shrinking hatred for priests, which must have been connected with some family secret of which she never spoke. her faith, her strength, her piety, all consisted in the pride of her conscience; she considered that if she retained her own esteem, she could be sure of acting rightly and of never failing in her duty. she was thus singularly constituted by the two epochs in which she had lived, a compound of the two, dipped in the opposing currents of the old régime and the revolution. after louis xvi. failed to take horse on the tenth of august, she lost her regard for kings; but she detested the mob. she desired equality and she held parvenus in horror. she was a republican and an aristocrat, combined scepticism with prejudice, the horrors of ' , which she saw, with the vague and noble theories of humanity which surrounded her cradle. her external qualities were altogether masculine. she had the sharp voice, the freedom of speech, the unruly tongue of the old woman of the eighteenth century, heightened by an accent suggestive of the common people, a mannish, highly colored style of elocution peculiar to herself, rising above modesty in the choice of words and fearless in calling things baldly by their plain names. meanwhile, the years rolled on, sweeping away the restoration and the monarchy of louis-philippe. she saw all those whom she had loved go from her one by one, all her family take the road to the cemetery. she was left quite alone, and she marveled and was grieved that death should forget her, who would have offered so little resistance, for she was already leaning over the grave and was obliged to force her heart down to the level of the little children brought to her by the sons and daughters of the friends whom she had lost. her brother was dead. her dear _chick_ was no more. the _chick's_ sister-in-law alone was left to her. but hers was a life that hung trembling in the balance, ready to fly away. crushed by the death of a child for whom she had waited for years, the poor woman was dying of consumption. mademoiselle de varandeuil was in her bedroom every day, from noon until six o'clock, for four years. she lived by her side all that time, in the close atmosphere and the odor of constant fumigations. she did not allow herself to be kept away for one hour by her own gout and rheumatism, but gave her time and her life to the peaceful last hours of that dying woman, whose eyes were fixed upon heaven, where her dead children awaited her. and when, in the cemetery, mademoiselle de varandeuil had turned aside the shroud to kiss the dead face for the last time, it seemed to her as if there were no one near to her, as if she were all alone upon the earth. thenceforth, yielding to the infirmities which she had no further reason to shake off, she began to live the narrow, confined life of old people who wear out their carpet in one spot only--never leaving her room, reading but little because it tired her eyes, and passing most of her time buried in her easy-chair, reviewing the past and living it over again. she would sit in the same position for days, her eyes wide open and dreaming, her thoughts far from herself, far from the room in which she sat, journeying whither her memories led her, to distant faces, dearly loved, pallid faces, to vanished regions--lost in a profound lethargy which germinie was careful not to disturb, saying to herself: "madame is in her meditations----" one day in every week, however, she went abroad. indeed it was with that weekly excursion in view, in order to be nearer the spot to which she wished to go on that one day, that she left her apartments on rue taitbout and took up her abode on rue de laval. one day in every week, deterred by nothing, not even by illness, she repaired to the montmartre cemetery, where her father and her brother rested, and the women whose loss she regretted, all those whose sufferings had come to an end before hers. for the dead and for death she displayed a veneration almost equal to that of the ancients. to her, the grave was sacred, and a dear friend. she loved to visit the land of hope and deliverance where her dear ones were sleeping, there to await death and to be ready with her body. on that day, she would start early in the morning, leaning on the arm of her maid, who carried a folding-stool. as she drew near the cemetery, she would enter the shop of a dealer in wreaths, who had known her for many years, and who, in winter, loaned her a foot-warmer. there she would rest a few moments; then, loading germinie down with wreaths of immortelles, she would pass through the cemetery gate, take the path to the left of the cedar at the entrance, and make her pilgrimage slowly from tomb to tomb. she would throw away the withered flowers, sweep up the dead leaves, tie the wreaths together, and, sitting down upon her folding-chair, would gaze and dream, and absent-mindedly remove a bit of moss from the flat stone with the end of her umbrella. then she would rise, turn as if to say _au revoir_ to the tomb she was leaving, walk away, stop once more, and talk in an undertone, as she had done before, with that part of her that was sleeping under the stone; and having thus paid a visit to all the dead who lived in her affections, she would return home slowly and reverentially, enveloping herself in silence as if she were afraid to speak. iii in the course of her reverie, mademoiselle de varandeuil had closed her eyes. the maid's story ceased, and the remainder of the history of her life, which was upon her lips that evening, was once more buried in her heart. the conclusion of her story was as follows: when little germinie lacerteux arrived in paris, being then less than fifteen years old, her sister, desirous to have her begin to earn her living at once, and to help to put bread in her hand, obtained a place for her in a small café on the boulevard, where she performed the double duties of lady's maid to the mistress of the café and assistant to the waiters in carrying on the main business of the establishment. the child, just from her village and dropped suddenly in that place, was completely bewildered and terrified by her surroundings and her duties. she had the first instinctive feeling of wounded modesty and, foreshadowing the woman she was destined to become, she shuddered at the perpetual contact with the other sex, working, eating, passing her whole time with men; and whenever she had an opportunity to go out, and went to her sisters, there were tearful, despairing scenes, when, without actually complaining of anything, she manifested a sort of dread to return, saying that she did not want to stay there, that they were not satisfied with her, that she preferred to return to them. they would reply that it had already cost them enough to bring her to paris, that it was a silly whim on her part and that she was very well off where she was, and they would send her back to the café in tears. she dared not tell all that she suffered in the company of the waiters in the café, insolent, boasting, cynical fellows, fed on the remains of debauches, tainted with all the vices to which they ministered, and corrupt to the core with putrefying odds and ends of obscenity. at every turn, she had to submit to the dastardly jests, the cruel mystifications, the malicious tricks of these scoundrels, who were only too happy to make a little martyr of the poor unsophisticated child, ignorant of everything, with the crushed and sickly air, timid and sullen, thin and pale, and pitiably clad in her wretched, countrified gowns. bewildered, overwhelmed, so to speak, by this hourly torture, she became their drudge. they made sport of her ignorance, they deceived her and abused her credulity by absurd fables, they overburdened her with fatiguing tasks, they assailed her with incessant, pitiless ridicule, which well-nigh drove her benumbed intellect to imbecility. in addition, they made her blush at the things they said to her, which made her feel ashamed, although she did not understand them. they soiled the artlessness of her fourteen years with filthy veiled allusions. and they found amusement in putting the eyes of her childish curiosity to the keyholes of the private supper-rooms. the little one longed to confide in her sisters, but she dared not. when, with nourishing food, her body took on a little flesh, her cheeks a little color and she began to have something of the aspect of a woman, they took great liberties with her and grew bolder. there were attempts at familiarity, significant gestures, advances, which she eluded, and from which she escaped unscathed, but which assailed her purity by breathing upon her innocence. roughly treated, scolded, reviled by the master of the establishment, who was accustomed to abuse his maidservants and who bore her a grudge because she was not old enough or of the right sort for a mistress, she found no support, no touch of humanity, except in his wife. she began to love that woman with a sort of animal devotion, and to obey her with the docility of a dog. she did all her errands without thought or reflection. she carried her letters to her lovers and was very clever about delivering them. she became very active and agile and ingenuously sly in passing in and out, evading the awakened suspicions of the husband; and without any clear idea of what she was doing or of what she was concealing, she felt a mischievous delight, such as children and monkeys feel, in telling herself vaguely that she was causing some little suffering to that man and that house, which caused her so much. there was among her comrades an old waiter, named joseph, who defended her, warned her of the cruel plots concocted against her, and, when she was present, put a stop to conversation that was too free, with the authority of his white hairs and his paternal interest in the girl. meanwhile germinie's horror of the house increased every day. one week her sisters were compelled to take her back to the café by force. a few days later, there was a great review on the champ de mars, and the waiters had leave of absence for the day. only germinie and old joseph remained in the house. joseph was at work sorting soiled linen in a small, dark room. he told germinie to come and help him. she entered the room; she cried out, fell to the floor, wept, implored, struggled, called desperately for help. the empty house was deaf. when she recovered consciousness, germinie ran and shut herself up in her chamber. she was not seen again that day. on the following day, when joseph walked toward her and attempted to speak to her, she recoiled from him in dismay, with the gesture of a woman mad with fear. for a long time, whenever a man approached her, her first involuntary impulse was to draw back suddenly, trembling and nervous, like a terrified, bewildered beast, looking about for means of flight. joseph, who feared that she would denounce him, allowed her to keep him at a distance, and respected the horrible repugnance she exhibited for him. she became _enceinte_. one sunday she had been to pass the evening with her sister, the concierge; she had an attack of vomiting, followed by severe pain. a physician who occupied an apartment in the house, came to the lodge for his key, and the sisters learned from him the secret of their younger sister's condition. the brutal, intractable pride of the common people in their honor, the implacable severity of rigid piety, flew to arms in the two women and found vent in fierce indignation. their bewilderment changed to fury. germinie recovered consciousness under their blows, their insults, the wounds inflicted by their hands, the harsh words that came from their mouths. her brother-in-law was there, who had never forgiven her the cost of her journey; he glanced at her with a bantering expression, with the cunning, ferocious joy of an auvergnat, with a sneering laugh that dyed the girl's cheeks a deeper red than her sisters' blows. she received the blows, she did not repel the insults. she sought neither to defend nor to excuse herself. she did not tell what had taken place and how little her own desires had had to do with her misfortune. she was dumb: she had a vague hope that they would kill her. when her older sister asked her if there had been no violence, and reminded her that there were police officers and courts, she closed her eyes at the thought of publishing her shame. for one instant only, when her mother's memory was cast in her face, she emitted a glance, a lightning flash from her eyes, by which the two women felt their consciences pierced; they remembered that they were the ones who had placed her and kept her in that den, and had exposed her to the danger, nay, had almost forced her into her misfortune. that same evening, the younger of germinie's sisters took her to the rue saint-martin, to the house of a repairer of cashmere shawls, with whom she lodged, and who, being almost daft on the subject of religion, was banner-bearer in a sisterhood of the virgin. she made her lie beside her on a mattress on the floor, and having her there under her hand all night, she vented upon her all her long-standing, venomous jealousy, her bitter resentment at the preference, the caresses given germinie by her father and mother. it was a long succession of petty tortures, brutal or hypocritical exhibitions of spite, kicks that bruised her legs, and progressive movements of the body by which she gradually forced her companion out of bed--it was a cold winter's night--to the floor of the fireless room. during the day, the seamstress took germinie in hand, catechized her, preached at her, and by detailing the tortures of the other life, inspired in her mind a horrible fear of the hell whose flames she caused her to feel. she lived there four months, in close confinement, and was never allowed to leave the house. at the end of four months she gave birth to a dead child. when her health was restored, she entered the service of a depilator on rue laffitte, and for the first few days she had the joyful feeling of having been released from prison. two or three times, in her walks, she met old joseph who ran after her and wanted to marry her; but she escaped him and the old man never knew that he had been a father. but soon germinie began to pine away in her new place. the house where she had taken service as a maid of all work was what servants call "a barrack." a spendthrift and glutton, devoid of order as of money, as is often the case with women engaged in the occupations that depend upon chance, and in the problematical methods of gaining a livelihood in vogue in paris, the depilator, who was almost always involved in a lawsuit of some sort, paid but little heed to her small servant's nourishment. she often went away for the whole day without leaving her any dinner. the little one would satisfy her appetite as well as she could with some kind of uncooked food, salads, vinegary things that deceive a young woman's appetite, even charcoal, which she would nibble with the depraved taste and capricious stomach of her age and sex. this diet, just after recovering from her confinement, her health being but partially restored and greatly in need of stimulants, exhausted the young woman's strength, reduced her flesh and undermined her constitution. she had a terrifying aspect. her complexion changed to that dead white that looks green in the daylight. her swollen eyes were surrounded with a great, bluish shadow. her discolored lips assumed the hue of faded violets. her breath failed her at the slightest ascent, and the incessant vibrating sound that came from the arteries of her throat was painful to those near her. with heavy feet and enfeebled body, she dragged herself along, as if life were too heavy a burden for her. her faculties and her senses were so torpid that she swooned for no cause at all, for so small a matter as the fatigue of combing her mistress's hair. she was silently drooping there when her sister found her another place, with a former actor, a retired comedian, living upon the money that the laughter of all paris had brought him. the good man was old and had never had any children. he took pity on the wretched girl, interested himself in her welfare, took care of her and made much of her. he took her into the country. he walked with her on the boulevards in the sunlight, and enjoyed the warmth the more for leaning on her arm. it delighted him to see her in good spirits. often, to amuse her, he would take down a moth-eaten costume from his wardrobe and try to remember a fragment of some part that had gone from his memory. the mere sight of this little maid and her white cap was like a ray of returning youth to him. in his old age, jocrisse leaned upon her with the good-fellowship, the pleasures and the childish fancies of a grandfather's heart. but he died after a few months, and germinie had fallen back into the service of kept mistresses, boarding-house keepers, and passageway tradesmen, when the sudden death of a maidservant gave her an opportunity to enter the service of mademoiselle de varandeuil, then living on rue taitbout, in the house of which her sister was concierge. iv those people who look for the death of the catholic religion in our day, do not realize by what an infinite number of sturdy roots it still retains its hold upon the hearts of the people. they do not realize the secret, delicate fascination it has for the woman of the people. they do not realize what confession and the confessor are to the impoverished souls of those poor women. in the priest who listens and whose voice falls softly on her ear, the woman of toil and suffering sees not so much the minister of god, the judge of her sins, the arbiter of her welfare, as the confidant of her sorrows and the friend of her misery. however coarse she may be, there is always a little of the true woman in her, a feverish, trembling, sensitive, wounded something, a restlessness and, as it were, the sighing of an invalid who craves caressing words, even as a child's trifling ailments require the nurse's droning lullaby. she, as well as the woman of the world, must have the consolation of pouring out her heart, of confiding her troubles to a sympathetic ear. for it is the nature of her sex to seek an outlet for the emotions and an arm to lean upon. there are in her mind things that she must tell, and concerning which she would like to be questioned, pitied and comforted. she dreams of a compassionate interest, a tender sympathy for hidden feelings of which she is ashamed. her masters may be the kindest, the most friendly, the most approachable of masters to the woman in their employ: their kindness to her will still be of the same sort that they bestow upon a domestic animal. they will be uneasy concerning her appetite and her health; they will look carefully after the animal part of her, and that will be all. it will not occur to them that she can suffer elsewhere than in her body, and they will not dream that she can have the heartache, the sadness and immaterial pain for which they seek relief by confiding in those of their own station. in their eyes, the woman who sweeps and does the cooking, has no ideas that can cause her to be sad or thoughtful, and they never speak to her of her thoughts. to whom, then, shall she carry them? to the priest who is waiting for them, asks for them, welcomes them, to the churchman who is also a man of the world, a superior creature, a well-educated gentleman, who knows everything, speaks well, is always accessible, gentle, patient, attentive, and seems to feel no scorn for the most humble soul, the most shabbily dressed penitent. the priest alone listens to the woman in a cap. he alone takes an interest in her secret sufferings, in the things that disturb and agitate her and that bring to a maid, as well as to her mistress, the sudden longing to weep, or excite a tempest within her. there is none but he to encourage her outpourings, to draw from her those things which the irony of her daily life holds back, to look to the state of her moral health; none but he to raise her above her material life, none but he to cheer her with moving words of charity and hope,--such divine words as she has never heard from the mouths of the men of her family and of her class. after entering the service of mademoiselle de varandeuil, germinie became profoundly religious and cared for nothing but the church. she abandoned herself little by little to the sweet delight of confession, to the priest's smooth, tranquil bass voice that came to her from the darkness, to the conversations which resembled the touch of soothing words, and from which she went forth refreshed, light of heart, free from care, and happy with a delightful sense of relief, as if a balm had been applied to all the tender, suffering, fettered portions of her being. she did not, could not, open her heart elsewhere. her mistress had a certain masculine roughness of demeanor which repelled expansiveness. she had an abrupt, exclamatory way of speaking that forced back all that germinie would have liked to confide to her. it was in her nature to be brutal in her treatment of all lamentations that were not caused by pain or disappointment. her virile kindliness had no pity to spare for diseases of the imagination, for the suffering that is created by the thought, for the weariness of spirit that flows from a woman's nerves and from the disordered condition of her mental organism. germinie often found her unfeeling; the old woman had simply been hardened by the times in which she had lived and by the circumstances of her life. the shell of her heart was as hard as her body. never complaining herself, she did not like to hear complaints about her. and by the right of all the tears she had not shed, she detested childish tears in grown persons. soon the confessional became a sort of sacred, idolized rendezvous for germinie's thoughts. every day it was her first idea, the theme of her first prayer. throughout the day, she was kneeling there as in a dream; and while she was about her work it was constantly before her eyes, with its oaken frame with fillets of gold, its pediment in the shape of a winged angel's head, its green curtain with the motionless folds, and the mysterious darkness on both sides. it seemed to her that now her whole life centred there, and that every hour tended thither. she lived through the week looking forward to that longed-for, prayed-for, promised day. on thursday, she began to be impatient; she felt, in the redoubling of her blissful agony, the material drawing near, as it were, of the blessed saturday evening; and when saturday came and mademoiselle's dinner had been hastily served and her work done, she would make her escape and run to notre-dame de lorette, hurrying to the penitential stool as to a lover's rendezvous. her fingers dipped in holy water and a genuflexion duly made, she would glide over the flags, between the rows of chairs, as softly as a cat steals across a carpeted floor. with bent head, almost crawling, she would go noiselessly forward in the shadow of the side aisles, until she reached the mysterious, veiled confessional, where she would pause and await her turn, absorbed in the emotion of suspense. the young priest who confessed her, encouraged her frequent confessions. he was not sparing of time or attention or charity. he allowed her to talk at great length and tell him, with many words, of all her petty troubles. he was indulgent to the diffuseness of a suffering soul, and permitted her to pour out freely her most trivial afflictions. he listened while she set forth her anxieties, her longings, her troubles; he did not repel or treat with scorn any portion of the confidences of a servant who spoke to him of all the most delicate, secret concerns of her existence, as one would speak to a mother and a physician. this priest was young. he was kind-hearted. he had lived in the world. a great sorrow had impelled him, crushed and broken, to assume the gown wherein he wore mourning for his heart. there remained something of the man in the depths of his being, and he listened, with melancholy compassion, to the outpouring of this maidservant's suffering heart. he understood that germinie needed him, that he sustained and strengthened her, that he saved her from herself and removed her from the temptations to which her nature exposed her. he was conscious of a sad sympathy for that heart overflowing with affection, for the ardent, yet tractable girl, for the unhappy creature who knew nothing of her own nature, who was promised to passion by every impulse of her heart, by her whole body, and who betrayed in every detail of her person the vocation of her temperament. enlightened by his past experience, he was amazed and terrified sometimes by the gleams that emanated from her, by the flame that shot from her eyes at the outburst of love in a prayer, by the evident tendency of her confessions, by her constantly recurring to that scene of violence, that scene in which her perfectly sincere purpose to resist seemed to the priest to have been betrayed by a convulsion of the senses that was stronger than she. this fever of religion lasted several years, during which germinie lived a concentrated, silent, happy life, entirely devoted to god's service--at least she thought so. her confessor, however, had come gradually to the conclusion that all her adoration tended toward himself. by her glances, by her blushes, by the words she no longer said to him, and by others which she made bold to say to him for the first time, he realized that his penitent's devotion was going astray and becoming unduly fervent, deceiving itself as to its object. she watched for him when the services were at an end, followed him into the sacristy, hung on his skirts, ran into the church after his cassock. the confessor tried to warn her, to divert her amorous fervor from himself. he became more reserved and assumed a cold demeanor. in despair at this change, at his apparent indifference, germinie, feeling bitter and hurt, confessed to him one day, in the confessional, the hatred that had taken possession of her for two young girls, who were his favorite penitents. thereupon the priest dismissed her, without discussion, and sent her to another confessor. germinie went once or twice to confess to this other confessor; then she ceased to go; soon she ceased even to think of going, and of all her religion naught remained in her mind but a certain far-off sweetness, like the faint odor of burned-out incense. affairs had reached that point when mademoiselle fell ill. throughout her illness, as germinie did not want to leave her, she did not attend mass. and on the first sunday--when mademoiselle, being fully recovered, did not require her care, she was greatly surprised to find that "her devotee" remained at home and did not run away to church. "oho!" said she, "so you don't go and see your curés nowadays? what have they done to you, eh?" "nothing," said germinie. v "there, mademoiselle!--look at me," said germinie. it was a few months later. she had asked her mistress's permission to go that evening to the wedding ball of her grocer's sister, who had chosen her for her maid-of-honor, and she had come to exhibit herself _en grande toilette_, in her low-necked muslin dress. mademoiselle raised her eyes from the old volume, printed in large type, which she was reading, removed her spectacles, placed them in the book to mark her place, and exclaimed: "what, my little bigot, you at a ball! do you know, my girl, this seems to me downright nonsense! you and the hornpipe! faith, all you need now is to want to get married! a deuce of a want, that! but if you marry, i warn you that i won't keep you--mind that! i've no desire to wait on your brats! come a little nearer----oho! why----bless my soul! mademoiselle show-all! we're getting to be a bit of a flirt lately, i find----" "why no, mademoiselle," germinie tried to say. "and then," continued mademoiselle de varandeuil, following out her thought, "among you people, the men are such sweet creatures! they'll spend all you have--to say nothing of the blows. but marriage--i am sure that that nonsensical idea of getting married buzzes around in your head when you see the others. that's what gives you that simper, i'll wager. _bon dieu de dieu!_ now turn a bit, so that i can see you," said mademoiselle de varandeuil, with an abrupt change of tone to one that was almost caressing; and placing her thin hands on the arms of her easy-chair, crossing her legs and moving her foot back and forth, she set about inspecting germinie and her toilet. "what the devil!" said she, after a few moments of silent scrutiny, "what! is it really you?----then i have never used my eyes to look at you.----good god, yes!----but----but----" she mumbled more vague exclamations between her teeth.----"where the deuce did you get that mug like an amorous cat's?" she said at last, and continued to gaze at her. germinie was ugly. her hair, of so dark a chestnut that it seemed black, curled and twisted in unruly waves, in little stiff, rebellious locks, which escaped and stood up all over her head, despite the pomade upon her shiny _bandeaux_. her smooth, narrow, swelling brow protruded above the shadow of the deep sockets in which her eyes were buried and sunken to such a depth as almost to denote disease; small, bright, sparkling eyes they were, made to seem smaller and brighter by a constant girlish twinkle that softened and lighted up their laughter. they were neither brown eyes nor blue eyes, but were of an undefinable, changing gray, a gray that was not a color, but a light! emotion found expression therein in the flame of fever, pleasure in the flashing rays of a sort of intoxication, passion in phosphorescence. her short, turned-up nose, with large, dilated, palpitating nostrils, was one of those noses of which the common people say that it rains inside: upon one side, at the corner of the eye was a thick, swollen blue vein. the square head of the lorraine race was emphasized in her broad, high, prominent cheek-bones, which were well-covered with the traces of small-pox. the most noticeable defect in her face was the too great distance between the nose and mouth. this lack of proportion gave an almost apish character to the lower part of the head, where the expansive mouth, with white teeth and full lips that looked as if they had been crushed, they were so flat, smiled at you with a strange, vaguely irritating smile. her _décolleté_ dress disclosed her neck, the upper part of her breast, her shoulders and her white back, presenting a striking contrast to her swarthy face. it was a lymphatic sort of whiteness, the whiteness, at once unhealthy and angelic, of flesh in which there is no life. she had let her arms fall by her sides--round, smooth arms with a pretty dimple at the elbow. her wrists were delicate; her hands, which did not betray the servant, were embellished with a lady's fingernails. and lazily, with graceful sloth, she allowed her indolent figure to curve and sway;--a figure that a garter might span, and that was made even more slender to the eye by the projection of the hips and the curve of the hoops that gave the balloon-like roundness to her skirt;--an impossible waist, absurdly small but adorable, like everything in woman that offends one's sense of proportion by its diminutiveness. from this ugly woman emanated a piquant, mysterious charm. light and shadow, jostling and intercepting each other on her face on which hollows and protuberances abounded, imparted to it that suggestion of libertinism which the painter of love scenes gives to the rough sketch of his mistress. everything about her,--her mouth, her eyes, her very plainness--was instinct with allurement and solicitation. her person exhaled an aphrodisiac charm, which challenged and laid fast hold of the other sex. it unloosed desire, and caused an electric shock. sensual thoughts were naturally and involuntarily aroused by her, by her gestures, her gait, her slightest movement--even by the air in which her body had left one of its undulations. beside her, one felt as if he were near one of those disturbing, disquieting creatures, burning with the love disease and communicating it to others, whose face appears to man in his restless hours, torments his listless noonday thoughts, haunts his nights and trespasses upon his dreams. in the midst of mademoiselle de varandeuil's scrutiny, germinie stooped over her, and covered her hand with hurried kisses. "there--there--enough of that," said mademoiselle. "you would soon wear out the skin--with your way of kissing. come, run along, enjoy yourself, and try not to stay out too late. don't get all tired out." mademoiselle de varandeuil was left alone. she placed her elbows on her knees, stared at the fire and stirred the burning wood with the tongs. then, as she was accustomed to do when deeply preoccupied, she struck herself two or three sharp little blows on the neck with the flat of her hand, and thereby set her black cap all awry. vi when she mentioned the subject of marriage to germinie, mademoiselle de varandeuil touched upon the real cause of her trouble. she placed her hand upon the seat of her _ennui_. her maid's uneven temper, her distaste for life, the languor, the emptiness, the discontent of her existence, arose from that disease which medical science calls the _melancholia of virgins_. the torment of her twenty-four years was the ardent, excited, poignant longing for marriage, for that state which was too holy and honorable for her, and which seemed impossible of attainment in face of the confession her womanly probity would insist upon making of her fall and her unworthiness. family losses and misfortunes forcibly diverted her mind from her own troubles. her brother-in-law, her sister the concierge's husband, had dreamed the dream of all auvergnats: he had undertaken to increase his earnings as concierge by the profits of a dealer in bric-à-brac. he had begun modestly with a stall in the street, at the doors of the marts where executors' sales are held; and there you could see, set out upon blue paper, plated candlesticks, ivory napkin rings, colored lithographs with frames of gold lace on a black ground, and three or four odd volumes of buffon. his profit on the plated candlesticks intoxicated him. he hired a dark shop on a passage way, opposite an umbrella mender's, and began to trade upon the credulity that goes in and out of the lower rooms in the auction exchange. he sold _assiettes à coq_, pieces of jean jacques rousseau's wooden shoe, and water-colors by ballue, signed watteau. in that business he threw away what he had made, and ran in debt to the amount of several thousand francs. his wife, in order to straighten matters out a little and to try and get out of debt, asked for and obtained a place as box-opener at the _théâtre-historique_. she hired her sister the dressmaker to watch the door in the evening, went to bed at one o'clock and was astir again at five. after a few months she caught cold in the corridors of the theatre, and an attack of pleurisy laid her low and carried her off in six weeks. the poor woman left a little girl three years old, who was taken down with the measles; the disease assumed its most malignant form in the foul stench of the loft, where the child had breathed for more than a month air poisoned by the breath of her dying mother. the father had gone into the country to try and borrow money. he married again there. nothing more was heard of him. when returning from her sister's burial germinie ran to the house of an old woman who made a living in those curious industries which prevent poverty from absolutely starving to death in paris. this old woman carried on several trades. sometimes she cut bristles into equal lengths for brushes, sometimes she sorted out bits of gingerbread. when those industries failed, she did cooking and washed the faces of pedlars' children. in lent she rose at four o'clock in the morning, went and took possession of a chair at notre-dame, and sold it for ten or twelve sous when the crowd arrived. in order to procure fuel to warm herself, in the den where she lived on rue saint-victor, she would go, at nightfall, to the luxembourg and peel the bark off the trees. germinie, who knew her from having given her the crusts from the kitchen every week, hired a servant's room on the sixth floor of the house, and took up her abode there with the little one. she did it on the impulse of the moment, without reflection. she did not remember her sister's harsh treatment of her when she was _enceinte_, so that she had no need to forgive it. thenceforth germinie had but one thought, her niece. she determined to rescue her from death and restore her to life by dint of careful nursing. she would rush away from mademoiselle at every moment, run up the stairs to the sixth floor four at a time, kiss the child, give her her draught, arrange her comfortably in bed, look at her, and rush down again, all out of breath and red with pleasure. care, caresses, the breath from the heart with which we revive a tiny flame on the point of dying out, consultations, doctor's visits, costly medicines, the remedies of the wealthy,--germinie spared nothing for the little one and gave her everything. her wages flowed through that channel. for almost a year she gave her beef juice every morning: sleepyhead that she was, she left her bed at five o'clock in the morning to prepare it, and awoke without being called, as mothers do. the child was out of danger at last, when germinie received a visit one morning from her sister the dressmaker, who had been married two or three years to a machinist, and who came now to bid her adieu: her husband was going to accompany some fellow-workmen who had been hired to go to africa. she was going with him and she proposed to germinie that they should take the little one with them as a playmate for their own child. they offered to take her off her hands. germinie, they said, would have to pay only for the journey. it was a separation she would have to make up her mind to sooner or later on account of her mistress. and then, said the sister, she was the child's aunt too. and she heaped words upon words to induce germinie to give them the child, with whom she and her husband expected, after their arrival in africa, to move germinie to pity, to get possession of her wages, to play upon her heart and her purse. it cost germinie very dear to part with her niece. she had staked a portion of her existence upon the child. she was attached to her by her anxiety and her sacrifices. she had disputed possession of her with disease and had won the day; the girl's life was her miracle. and yet she realized that she could never take her to mademoiselle's apartments; that mademoiselle, at her age, with the burden of her years, and an aged person's need of tranquillity, could never endure the constant noise and movement of a child. and then, the little girl's presence in the house would cause idle gossip and set the whole street agog: people would say she was her child. germinie made a confidante of her mistress. mademoiselle de varandeuil knew the whole story. she knew that she had taken charge of her niece, although she had pretended not to know it; she had chosen to see nothing in order to permit everything. she advised germinie to entrust her niece to her sister, pointing out to her all the difficulties in the way of keeping her herself, and she gave her money to pay for the journey of the whole family. the parting was a heart-breaking thing to germinie. she found herself left alone and without occupation. not having the child, she knew not what to love; her heart was weary, and she had such a feeling of the emptiness of life without the little one, that she turned once more to religion and transferred her affections to the church. three months had passed when she received news of her sister's death. the husband, who was one of the whining, lachrymose breed of mechanics, gave her in his letter, mingled with labored, moving phrases, and threads of pathos, a despairing picture of his position, with the burial to pay for, attacks of fever that prevented him from working, two young children, without counting the little girl, and a household with no wife to heat the soup. germinie wept over the letter; then her thoughts turned to living in that house, beside that poor man, among the poor children, in that horrible africa; and a vague longing to sacrifice herself began to awaken within her. other letters followed, in which, while thanking her for her assistance, her brother-in-law gave to his poverty, to his desolate plight, to the misery that enveloped him, a still more dramatic coloring--the coloring that the common people impart to trifles, with its memories of the boulevard du crime and its fragments of vile books. once caught by the _blague_ of this misery, germinie could not cut loose from it. she fancied she could hear the cries of the children calling her. she became completely absorbed, buried in the project and resolution of going to them. she was haunted by the idea and by the word africa, which she turned over and over incessantly in the depths of her mind, without a word. mademoiselle de varandeuil, noticing her thoughtfulness and melancholy, asked her what the matter was, but in vain: germinie did not speak. she was pulled this way and that, tormented between what seemed to her a duty and what seemed to her ingratitude, between her mistress and her sisters' blood. she thought that she could not leave mademoiselle. and again she said to herself that god did not wish her to abandon her family. she would look about the apartment and mutter: "and yet i must go!" then she would fear that mademoiselle might be sick when she was not there. another maid! at that thought she was seized with jealousy and fancied that she could already see someone stealing her mistress. at other moments, when her religious ideas impelled her to thoughts of self-sacrifice, she was all ready to devote her existence to this brother-in-law. she determined to go and live with this man, whom she detested, with whom she had always been on the worst of terms, who had almost killed her sister with grief, whom she knew to be a brutish, drunken sot; and all that she anticipated, all that she dreaded, the certainty of all she would have to suffer and her shrinking fear of it, served to exalt and inflame her imagination, to urge her on to the sacrifice with the greater impatience and ardor. often the whole scheme fell to the ground in an instant: at a word, at a gesture from mademoiselle, germinie would become herself once more, and would fail to recognize herself. she felt that she was bound to her mistress absolutely and forever, and she had a thrill of horror at having so much as thought of detaching her own life from hers. she struggled thus for two years. then she learned one fine day, by chance, that her niece had died a few weeks after her sister: her brother-in-law had concealed the child's death in order to maintain his hold upon her, and to lure her to him in africa, with her few sous. germinie's illusions being wholly dispelled by that revelation, she was cured on the spot. she hardly remembered that she had ever thought of going away. vii about this time a small creamery at the end of the street, with few customers, changed hands, as a result of the sale of the real estate by order of court. the shop was renovated and repainted. the front windows were embellished with inscriptions in yellow letters. pyramids of chocolate from the compagnie coloniale, and coffee-cups filled with flowers, alternating with small liqueur glasses, were displayed upon the shelves. at the door glistened the sign--a copper milk jug divided in the middle. the woman who thus endeavored to re-establish the concern, the new _crémière_, was a person of about fifty years of age, whose corpulence passed all bounds, and who still retained some _débris_ of beauty, half submerged in fat. it was said in the quarter that she had set herself up in business with the money of an old gentleman, whose servant she had been until his death, in her native province, near langres; for it happened that she was a countrywoman of germinie, not from the same village, but from a small place near by; and although she and mademoiselle's maid had never met nor seen each other in the country, they knew each other by name and were drawn together by the fact that they had acquaintances in common and could compare memories of the same places. the stout woman was a flattering, affected, fawning creature. she said: "my love" to everybody, talked in a piping voice, and played the child with the querulous languor of corpulent persons. she detested vulgar remarks and would blush and take alarm at trifles. she adored secrets, twisted everything into a confidential communication, invented stories and always whispered in your ear. her life was passed in gossiping and groaning. she pitied others and she pitied herself; she lamented her ill fortune and her stomach. when she had eaten too much she would say dramatically: "i am dying!" and nothing ever was so pathetic as her indigestion. she was constantly moved to tears: she wept indiscriminately for a maltreated horse, for someone who had died, for milk that had curdled. she wept over the various items in the newspapers, she wept for the sake of weeping. germinie was very soon ensnared and moved to pity by this wheedling, talkative _crémière_, who was always in a state of intense emotion, calling upon others to open their hearts to her, and apparently so affectionate. after three months hardly anything passed mademoiselle's doors that did not come from mère jupillon. germinie procured everything, or almost everything there. she passed hours in the shop. once there it was hard work for her to leave; she remained there, unable to rise from her chair. a sort of instinctive cowardice detained her. at the door she would stop and talk on, in order to delay her departure. she felt bound to the _crémière_ by the invisible charm of familiar places to which you constantly return, and which end by embracing you like things that would love you. and then, too, in her eyes the shop meant madame jupillon's three dogs, three wretched curs; she always had them on her knees, she scolded them and kissed them and talked to them; and when she was warm with their warmth, she would feel in the depths of her heart the contentment of a beast rubbing against her little ones. again, the shop to her meant all the gossip of the quarter, the rendezvous of all the scandals,--how this one had failed to pay her note and that one had received a carriage load of flowers; it meant a place that was on the watch for everything, even to the lace _peignoir_ going to town on the maid's arm. in a word everything tended to attach her to the place. her intimacy with the _crémière_ was strengthened by all the mysterious bonds of friendship between women of the people, by the continual chatter, the daily exchange of the trivial affairs of life, the conversation for the sake of conversing, the repetition of the same _bonjour_ and the same _bonsoir_, the division of caresses among the same animals, the naps side by side and chair against chair. the shop at last became her regular place for idling away her time, a place where her thoughts, her words, her body and her very limbs were marvelously at ease. there came a time when her happiness consisted in sitting drowsily of an evening in a straw arm-chair, beside mère jupillon--sound asleep with her spectacles on her nose--and holding the dogs rolled in a ball in the skirt of her dress; and while the lamp, almost dying, burned pale upon the counter, she would sit idly there, letting her glance lose itself at the back of the shop, and gradually grow dim, with her ideas, as her eyes rested vaguely upon a triumphal arch of snail shells joined together with old moss, beneath which stood a little copper napoléon, with his hands behind his back. viii madame jupillon, who claimed to have been married and signed herself _widow jupillon_, had a son. he was still a child. she had placed him at saint-nicholas, the great religious establishment where, for thirty francs a month, rudimentary instruction and a trade are furnished to the children of the common people, and to many natural children. germinie fell into the way of accompanying madame jupillon when she went to see _bibi_ on thursdays. this visit became a means of distraction to her, something to look forward to. she would urge the mother to hurry, would always arrive first at the omnibus office, and was content to sit with her arms resting on a huge basket of provisions all the way. it happened that mère jupillon had trouble with her leg--a carbuncle that prevented her from walking for nearly eighteen months. germinie went alone to saint-nicholas, and as she was promptly and easily led to devote herself to others, she took as deep an interest in that child as if he were connected with her in some way. she did not miss a single thursday and always arrived with her hands full of the last week's desserts, and with cakes and fruit and sweetmeats she had bought. she would kiss the urchin, inquire for his health, and feel to see if he had his knitted vest under his blouse; she would notice how flushed he was from running, would wipe his face with her handkerchief and make him show her the soles of his shoes so that she could see if there were any holes in them. she would ask if his teachers were satisfied with him, if he attended to his duties and if he had had many good marks. she would talk to him of his mother and bid him love the good lord, and until the clock struck two she would walk with him in the courtyard: the child would offer her his arm, as proud as you please to be with a woman much better dressed than the majority of those who came there--with a woman in silk. he was anxious to learn the flageolet. it cost only five francs a month, but his mother would not give them. germinie carried him the hundred sous every month, on the sly. it was a humiliating thing to him to wear the little uniform blouse when he went out to walk, and on the two or three occasions during the year when he went to see his mother. on his birthday, one year, germinie unfolded a large parcel before him: she had had a tunic made for him; it is doubtful if twenty of his comrades in the whole school belonged to families in sufficiently easy circumstances to wear such garments. she spoiled him thus for several years, not allowing him to suffer with a longing for anything, encouraging the caprices and the pride of wealthy children in the poor child, softening for him the privations and hardships of that trade school, where children were formed for a laboring life, wore blouses and ate off plates of brown earthenware; a school that by its toilsome apprenticeship hardened the children of the people to lives of toil. meanwhile the boy was growing fast. germinie did not notice it: in her eyes he was still the child he had always been. from habit she always stooped to kiss him. one day she was summoned before the abbé who was at the head of the school. he spoke to her of expelling jupillon. obscene books had been found in his possession. germinie, trembling at the thought of the blows that awaited the child at his mother's hands, prayed and begged and implored; she succeeded at last in inducing the abbé to forgive the culprit. when she went down into the courtyard again she attempted to scold him; but at the first word of her moral lecture, bibi suddenly cast in her face a glance and smile in which there was no trace of the child that he was the day before. she lowered her eyes, and she was the one to blush. a fortnight passed before she went again to saint-nicholas. ix about the time that young jupillon left the boarding-school, a maid in the service of a kept woman who lived on the floor below mademoiselle sometimes passed the evening with germinie at madame jupillon's. a native of the grand duchy of luxembourg, which supplies paris with coupé drivers and lorettes' waiting-maids, this girl was what is called in vulgar parlance: "a great _bringue_;" she was an awkward, wild-eyed creature, with the eyebrows of a water carrier. she soon fell into the habit of going there every evening. she treated everybody to cakes and liquors, amused herself by showing off little jupillon, playing pat-a-cake with him, sitting on his knee, telling him to his face that he was a beauty, treating him like a child, playing the wanton with him and joking him because he was not a man. the boy, happy and proud of these attentions from the first woman who had ever taken notice of him, manifested before long his preference for adèle: so was the new-comer called. germinie was passionately jealous. jealousy was the foundation of her nature; it was the dregs of her affection and gave it its bitter taste. those whom she loved she wished to have entirely to herself, to possess them absolutely. she demanded that they should love no one but her. she could not permit them to take from her and bestow upon others the slightest fragment of their affection: as she had earned it, it no longer belonged to them; they were no longer entitled to dispose of it. she detested the people whom her mistress seemed to welcome more cordially than others, and with whom she was on most intimate terms. by her ill-humor and her sullen manner she had offended, had almost driven from the house, two or three of mademoiselle's old friends, whose visits wounded her; as if the old ladies came there for the purpose of abstracting something from the rooms, of taking a little of her mistress from her. people of whom she had once been fond became odious to her: she did not consider that they were fond enough of her; she hated them for all the love she wanted from them. her heart was despotic and exacting in everything. as it gave all, it demanded all in return. at the least sign of coldness, at the slightest indication that she had a rival, she would fly into a rage, tear her hair, pass her nights in weeping, and execrate the whole world. seeing that other woman make herself at home in the shop and adopt a tone of familiarity with the young man, all germinie's jealous instincts were aroused and changed to furious rage. her hatred flew to arms and rebelled, with her disgust, against the shameless, brazen-faced creature, who could be seen on sunday sitting at table on the outer boulevards with soldiers, and who had blue marks on her face on monday. she did her utmost to induce madame jupillon to turn her away; but she was one of the best customers of the creamery, and the _crémière_ mildly refused to close her doors upon her. germinie had recourse to the son and told him that she was a miserable creature. but that only served to attach the young man the closer to the vile woman, whose evil reputation delighted him. moreover, he had the cruel mischievous instinct of youth, and he redoubled his attentions to her simply to see "the nose" that germinie made and to enjoy her despair. soon germinie discovered that the woman's intentions were more serious than she had at first supposed: she began to understand what she wanted of the child,--for the tall youth of seventeen was still a child in her eyes. thenceforward she hung upon their steps; she was always beside them, never left them alone for a moment, made one at all their parties, at the theatre or in the country, joined them in all their walks, was always at hand and in the way, seeking to hold adèle back, and to restore her sense of decency by a word in an undertone: "a mere boy! ain't you ashamed?" she would say to her. and the other would laugh aloud, as if it were a good joke. when they left the theatre, enlivened and heated by the feverish excitement of the performance and the place; when they returned from an excursion to the country, laden with a long day's sunshine, intoxicated with the blue sky and the pure air, excited by the wine imbibed at dinner, amid the sportive liberties in which the woman of the people, drunk with enjoyment and with the delights of unlimited good cheer, and with the senses keyed up to the highest pitch of joviality, makes bold to indulge at night, germinie tried to be always between the maid and jupillon. she never relaxed her efforts to break the lovers' hold upon each other's arms, to unbind them, to uncouple them. never wearying of the task, she was forever separating them, luring them away from each other. she placed her body between those bodies that were groping for each other. she glided between the hands outstretched to touch each other; she glided between the lips that were put forth in search of other proffered lips. but of all this that she prevented she felt the breath and the shock. she felt the pressure of the hands she held apart, the caresses that she caught on the wing and that missed their mark and went astray upon her. the hot breath of the kisses she intercepted blew upon her cheek. involuntarily, and with a feeling of horror, she became a party to the embracing, she was infected with the desires aroused by this constant friction and struggling, which diminished day by day the young man's restraint and respect for her person. it happened one day that she was less strong against herself than she had previously been. on that occasion she did not elude his advances so abruptly as usual. jupillon felt that she stopped short. germinie felt it even more keenly than he; but she was at the end of her efforts, exhausted with the torture she had undergone. the love which, coming from another, she had turned aside from jupillon, had slowly taken full possession of her own heart. now it was firmly rooted there, and, bleeding with jealousy, she found that she was incapable of resistance, weak and fainting, like a person fatally wounded, in presence of the joy that had come to her. she repelled the young man's audacious attempts, however, without a word. she did not dream of belonging to him otherwise than as a friend, or giving way farther than she had done. she lived upon the thought of love, believing that she could live upon it always. and in the ecstatic exaltation of her thoughts, she put aside all memory of her fall, and repressed her desires. she remained shuddering and pure, lost and suspended in abysses of affection, neither enjoying nor wishing for aught from the lover but a caress, as if her heart were made only for the joy of kissing. x this happy though unsatisfied love produced a strange physiological phenomenon in germinie's physical being. one would have said that the passion that was alive within her renewed and transformed her lymphatic temperament. she did not seem, as before, to extract her life, drop by drop, from a penurious spring: it flowed through her arteries in a full, generous stream; she felt the tingling sensation of rich blood over her whole body. she seemed to be filled with the warm glow of health, and the joy of living beat its wings in her breast like a bird in the sunlight. a marvelous animation had come to her. the miserable nervous energy that once sustained her had given place to healthy activity, to bustling, restless, overflowing gayety. she had no trace now of the weakness, the dejection, the prostration, the supineness, the sluggishness that formerly distinguished her. the heavy, drowsy feeling in the morning was a thing of the past; she awoke feeling fresh and bright, and alive in an instant to the cheer of the new day. she dressed in haste, playfully; her agile fingers moved of themselves, and she was amazed to be so bright and full of activity during the hours of faintness before breakfast, when she had so often felt her heart upon her lips. and throughout the day she had the same consciousness of physical well-being, the same briskness of movement. she must be always on the move, walking, running, doing something, expending her strength. at times all that she had lived through seemed to have no existence; the sensations of living that she had hitherto experienced seemed to her like a far-off dream, or as if dimly seen in the background of a sleeping memory. the past lay behind her, as if she had traversed it, covered with a veil like one in a swoon, or with the unconsciousness of a somnambulist. it was the first time that she had experienced the feeling, the impression, at once bitter and sweet, violent and celestial, of the game of life brilliant in its plenitude, its regularity and its power. she ran up and downstairs for a nothing. at a word from mademoiselle she would trip down the whole five flights. when she was seated, her feet danced on the floor. she brushed and scrubbed and beat and shook and washed and set to rights, without rest or reprieve, always at work, filling the apartment with her goings and comings, and the incessant bustle that followed her about.--"mon dieu!" her mistress would say, stunned by the uproar she made, just like a child,--"you're turning things upside down, germinie! that will do for that!" one day, when she went into germinie's kitchen, mademoiselle saw a little earth in a cigar box on the leads.--"what's that?" she asked.--"that's grass--that i planted--to look at," said germinie.--"so you're in love with grass now, eh? all you need now is to have canaries!" xi in the course of a few months, germinie's life, her whole life belonged to the _crémière_. mademoiselle's service was not exacting and took but little time. a whiting or a cutlet--that was all the cooking there was to be done. mademoiselle might have kept her with her in the evening for company: she preferred, however, to send her away, to drive her out of doors, to force her to take a little air and diversion. she asked only that she would return at ten o'clock to help her to bed; and yet when germinie was a little late, mademoiselle undressed herself and went to bed alone very comfortably. every hour that her mistress left her at leisure, germinie passed in the shop. she fell into the habit of going down to the creamery in the morning, when the shutters were removed, and generally carried them inside; she would take her _café au lait_ there and remain until nine o'clock, when she would go back and give mademoiselle her chocolate; and between breakfast and dinner she found excuses for returning two or three times, delaying and chattering in the back-shop on the slightest pretext. "what a magpie you are getting to be!" mademoiselle would say, in a scolding voice, but with a smiling face. at half past five, when her mistress's little dinner was cleared away, she would run down the stairs four at a time, install herself at mère jupillon's, wait until ten o'clock, clamber up the five flights, and in five minutes undress her mistress, who submitted unresistingly, albeit she was somewhat astonished that germinie should be in such haste to go to bed; she remembered the time when she had a mania for moving her sleepy body from one easy-chair to another, and was never willing to go up to her room. while the candle was still smoking on mademoiselle's night table, germinie would be back at the creamery, this time to remain until midnight, until one o'clock; often she did not go until a policeman, noticing the light, tapped on the shutters and made them close up. in order to be always there and to have the right to be always there, to make herself a part of the shop, to keep her eyes constantly upon the man she loved, to hover about him, to keep him, to be always brushing against him, she had become the servant of the establishment. she swept the shop, she prepared the old woman's meals and the food for the dogs. she waited upon the son; she made his bed, she brushed his clothes, she waxed his boots, happy and proud to touch what he touched, thrilling with pleasure when she placed her hand where he placed his body, and ready to kiss the mud upon the leather of his boots, because it was his! she did the menial work, she kept the shop, she served the customers. madame jupillon rested everything upon her shoulders; and while the good-natured girl was working and perspiring, the bulky matron, assuming the majestic, leisurely air of an annuitant, anchored upon a chair in the middle of the sidewalk and inhaling the fresh air of the street, fingered and rattled the precious coin in the capacious pocket beneath her apron--the coin that rings so sweetly in the ears of the petty tradesmen of paris, that the retired shopkeeper is melancholy beyond words at first, because he no longer has the chinking and the tinkling under his hand. xii when the spring came, germinie said to jupillon almost every evening: "suppose we go as far as the beginning of the fields?" jupillon would put on his flannel shirt with red and black squares, and his black velvet cap; and they would start for what the people of the quarter call "the beginning of the fields." they would go up the chaussée clignancourt, and, with the flood of parisians from the faubourg hurrying to drink a little fresh air, would walk on toward the great patch of sky that rose straight from the pavements, at the top of the ascent, between the two lines of houses, unobstructed except by an occasional omnibus. the air was growing cooler and the sun shone only upon the roofs of the houses and the chimneys. as from a great door opening into the country, there came from the end of the street and from the sky beyond, a breath of boundless space and liberty. at the château-rouge they found the first tree, the first foliage. then, at rue du château, the horizon opened before them in dazzling beauty. the fields stretched away in the distance, glistening vaguely in the powdery, golden haze of seven o'clock. all nature trembled in the daylight dust that the day leaves in its wake, upon the verdure it blots from sight and the houses it suffuses with pink. frequently they descended the footpath covered with the figures of the game of hop-scotch marked out in charcoal, by long walls with an occasional overhanging branch, by lines of detached houses with gardens between. at their left rose tree-tops filled with light, clustering foliage pierced by the beams of the setting sun, which cast lines of fire across the bars of the iron gateways. after the gardens came hedgerows, estates for sale, unfinished buildings erected upon the line of projected streets and stretching out their jagged walls into empty space, with heaps of broken bottles at their feet; large, low, plastered houses, with windows filled with bird-cages and cloths, and with the y of the sink-pipes at every floor; and openings into enclosures that resembled barnyards, studded with little mounds on which goats were browsing. they would stop here and there and smell the flowers, inhale the perfume of a meagre lilac growing in a narrow lane. germinie would pluck a leaf in passing and nibble at it. flocks of joyous swallows flew wildly about in circles and in fantastic figures over her head. the birds called. the sky answered the cages. she heard everything about her singing, and glanced with a glad eye at the women in chemisettes at the windows, the men in their shirt sleeves in the little gardens, the mothers on the doorsteps with their little ones between their legs. [illustration: chapter xii _but at the fortifications her pleasure returned. she would go with jupillon and sit upon the slope of the embankment. beside her were families innumerable, workmen lying flat upon their faces, small annuitants gazing at the horizon through spy-glasses, philosophers of want, bent double, with their hands upon their knees, the greasy coats characteristic of old men, and black hats worn as red as their red beards._] at the foot of the slope the pavement came to an end. the street was succeeded by a broad, white, chalky, dusty road, made of débris, old pieces of plaster, crumbs of lime and bricks; a sunken road, with deep ruts, polished on the edges, made by the iron tires of the huge great wheels of carts laden with hewn stone. at that point began the things that collect where paris ends, the things that grow where grass does not grow, one of those arid landscapes that large cities create around them, the first zone of suburbs _intra muros_ where nature is exhausted, the soil used up, the fields sown with oyster shells. beyond was a wilderness of half-enclosed yards displaying numbers of carts and trucks with their shafts in the air against the sky, stone-cutters' sheds, factories built of boards, unfinished workmen's houses, full of gaps and open to the light, and bearing the mason's flag, wastes of gray and white sand, kitchen gardens marked out with cords, and, on the lower level, bogs to which the embankment of the road slopes down in oceans of small stones. soon they would reach the last lantern hanging on a green post. people were still coming and going about them. the road was alive and amused the eyes. they met women carrying their husband's canes, lorettes in silk dresses leaning on the arms of their blouse-clad brothers, old women in bright-colored ginghams walking about with folded arms, enjoying a moment's rest from labor. workmen were drawing their children in little wagons, urchins returning with their rods from fishing at saint-ouen, and men and women dragging branches of flowering acacia at the ends of sticks. sometimes a pregnant woman would pass, holding out her arms to a yet small child, and casting the shadow of her pregnancy upon the wall. and everyone moved tranquilly, blissfully, at a pace that told of the wish to delay, with the awkward ease and the happy indolence of those who walk for pleasure. no one was in a hurry, and against the unbroken horizon line, crossed from time to time by the white smoke of a railroad train, the groups of promenaders were like black spots, almost motionless, in the distance. behind montmartre, they came to those great moats, as it were, those sloping squares, where narrow, gray, much-trodden paths cross and recross. a few blades of shriveled, yellow grass grew thereabout, softened by the rays of the setting sun, which they could see, all ablaze, between the houses. and germinie loved to watch the wool-combers at work there, the quarry horses at pasture in the bare fields, the madder-red trousers of the soldiers who were playing at bowls, the children flying kites that made black spots in the clear air. passing all these, they turned to cross the bridge over the railroad by the wretched settlement of ragpickers, the stonemasons' quarter at the foot of clignancourt hill. they would walk quickly by those houses built of materials stolen from demolished buildings, and exuding the horrors they conceal; the wretched structures, half cabin, half burrow, caused germinie a vague feeling of terror: it seemed to her as if all the crimes of night were lurking there. but at the fortifications her pleasure returned. she would go with jupillon and sit upon the slope of the embankment. beside her were families innumerable, workmen lying flat upon their faces, small annuitants gazing at the horizon through spy-glasses, philosophers of want, bent double, with their hands upon their knees, the greasy coats characteristic of old men, and black hats worn as red as their red beards. the air was full of rich harmonies. below her, in the moat, a musical society was playing at each corner. before her eyes was a multi-colored crowd, white blouses, children in blue aprons running around, a game of riding at the ring in progress, wine shops, cake shops, fried fish stalls, and shooting galleries half hidden in clumps of verdure, from which arose staves bearing the tricolor; and farther away, in a bluish haze, a line of tree tops marked the location of a road. to the right she could see saint-denis and the towering basilica; at her left, above a line of houses that were becoming indistinct, the sun was setting over saint-ouen in a disk of cherry-colored flame, and projecting upon the gray horizon shafts of light like red pillars that seemed to support it tremblingly. often a child's balloon would pass swiftly across the dazzling expanse of sky. they would go down, pass through the gate, walk along by the lorraine sausage shops, the dealers in honeycomb, the board _cabarets_, the verdureless, still unpainted arbors, where a noisy multitude of men and women and children were eating fried potatoes, mussels and prawns, until they reached the first field, the first living grass: on the edge of the grass there was a handcart laden with gingerbread and peppermint lozenges, and a woman selling hot cocoa on a table in the furrow. a strange country, where everything was mingled--the smoke from the frying-pan and the evening vapor, the noise of quoits on the head of a cask and the silence shed from the sky, the city barrier and the idyllic rural scene, the odor of manure and the fresh smell of green wheat, the great human fair and nature! germinie enjoyed it, however; and, urging jupillon to go farther, walking on the very edge of the road, she would constantly step in among the grain to enjoy the fresh, cool sensation of the stalks against her stockings. when they returned she always wanted to go upon the slope once more. the sun had by that time disappeared and the sky was gray below, pink in the centre and blue above. the horizon grew dark; from green the trees became a dark brown and melted into the sky; the zinc roofs of the wine shops looked as if the moon were shining upon them, fires began to appear in the darkness, the crowd became gray, and the white linen took on a bluish tinge. little by little everything would fade away, be blotted out, lose its form and color in a dying remnant of colorless daylight, and through the increasing darkness the voices of a class whose life begins at night, and the voice of the wine beginning to sing, would arise, mingled with the din of the rattles. upon the slope the tops of the tall grass waved to and fro in the gentle breeze. germinie would make up her mind to go. she would wend her way homeward, filled with the influence of the falling night, abandoning herself to the uncertain vision of things half-seen, passing the dark houses, and finding that everything along her road had turned paler, as it were--wearied by the long walk over rough roads, and content to be weary and slow and half-fainting, and with a feeling of peace at her heart. at the first lighted lanterns on rue du château, she would fall from her dream to the pavement. xiii madame jupillon's face always wore a pleased expression when germinie appeared; when she kissed her she was very effusive, when she spoke to her her voice was caressing, when she looked at her her glance was most amiable. the huge creature's kind heart seemed, when with her, to abandon itself to the emotion, the affection, the trustfulness of a sort of maternal tenderness. she took germinie into her confidence as to her business, as to her woman's secrets, as to the most private affairs of her life. she seemed to open her heart to her as to a person of her own blood, whom she desired to make familiar with matters of interest to the family. when she spoke of the future, she always referred to germinie as one from whom she was never to be separated, and who formed a part of the household. often she allowed certain discreet, mysterious smiles to escape her, smiles which made it appear that she saw all that was going on and was not angry. sometimes, too, when her son was sitting by germinie's side, she would let her eyes, moist with a mother's tears, rest upon them, and would embrace them with a glance that seemed to unite her two children and call down a blessing on their heads. without speaking, without ever uttering a word that could be construed as an engagement, without divulging her thoughts or binding herself in any way, and all the time repeating that her son was still very young to think of being married, she encouraged germinie's hopes and illusions by her whole bearing, her airs of secret indulgence and of complicity, so far as her heart was concerned; by those meaning silences when she seemed to open to her a mother-in-law's arms. and displaying all her talents in the way of hypocrisy, drawing upon her hidden mines of sentiment, her good-natured shrewdness, and the consummate, intricate cunning that fat people possess, the corpulent matron succeeded in vanquishing germinie's last resistance by dint of this tacit assurance and promise of marriage; and she finally allowed the young man's ardor to extort from her what she believed that she was giving in advance to the husband. xiv as germinie was going down the servant's staircase one day, she heard adèle's voice calling her over the banister and telling her to bring her two sous' worth of butter and ten of absinthe. "oh! you can sit down a minute, you know you can," said adèle, when she brought her the absinthe and the butter. "i never see you now, you'll never come in. come! you have plenty of time to be with your old woman. for my part, i couldn't live with an antichrist's face like hers! so stay. this is the house without work to-day. there isn't a sou--madame's abed. whenever there's no money, she goes to bed, does madame; she stays in bed all day, reading novels. have some of this?"--and she offered her her glass of absinthe.--"no? oh! no, you don't drink. you're very foolish. it's a funny thing not to drink. say, it would be very nice of you to write me a little line for my dearie. hard work, you know. i have told you about it. see, here's madame's pen--and her paper--it smells good. are you ready? he's a good fellow, my dear, and no mistake! he's in the butcher line as i told you. ah! my word! i mustn't rub him the wrong way! when he's had a glass of blood after killing his beasts, he's like a madman--and if you're obstinate with him--dame! why then he thumps you! but what would you have? he does that to make him strong. if you could see him thump himself on the breast--blows that would kill an ox, and say: 'that's a wall, that is!' ah! he's a gentleman, i tell you! are you thinking about the letter, eh? make it one of the fetching kind. say nice things to him, you know--and a little sad--he adores that. at the theatre he doesn't like anything that doesn't make him cry. look here! imagine that you're writing to a lover of your own." germinie began to write. "say, germinie! have you heard? madame's taken a strange idea into her head. it's a funny thing about women like her, who can hold their heads up with the greatest of 'em, who can have everything, hobnob with kings if they choose! and there's nothing to be said--when one is like madame, you know, when one has such a body as that! and then the way they load themselves down with finery, with their tralala of dresses and lace everywhere and everything else--how do you suppose anyone can resist them? and if it isn't a gentleman, if it's someone like us--you can see how much more all that will catch him; a woman in velvet goes to his brain. yes, my dear, just fancy, here's madame gone daft on that _gamin_ of a jupillon! that's all we needed to make us die of hunger here!" germinie, with her pen in the air over the letter she had begun, looked up at adèle, devouring her with her eyes. "that brings you to a standstill, doesn't it?" said adèle, sipping her absinthe, her face lighted up with joy at sight of germinie's discomposed features. "oh! it is too absurd, really; but it's true, 'pon my word it's true. she noticed the _gamin_ on the steps of the shop the other day, coming home from the races. she's been there two or three times on the pretence of buying something. she'll probably have some perfumery sent from there--to-morrow, i think.--bah! it's sickening, isn't it? it's their affair. well! what about my letter? is it what i told you that makes you so stupid? you played the prude--i didn't know--oh! yes, yes, now i remember; that's what it is--what was it you said to me about the little one? i believe you didn't want anyone to touch him! idiot!" at a gesture of denial from germinie, she continued: "nonsense, nonsense! what do i care? the kind of a child that, if you blew his nose, milk would come out! thanks! that's not my style. however, that's your business. come, now for my letter, eh?" germinie leaned over the sheet of paper. but she was burning up with fever; the quill cracked in her nervous fingers. "there," she said, throwing it down after a few seconds, "i don't know what's the matter with me to-day. i'll write it for you another time." "as you like, little one--but i rely on you. come to-morrow, then.--i'll tell you some of madame's nonsense. we'll have a good laugh at her!" and, when the door was closed, adèle began to roar with laughter: it had cost her only a little _blague_ to unearth germinie's secret. xv so far as young jupillon was concerned, love was simply the satisfaction of a certain evil curiosity, which sought, in the knowledge and possession of a woman, the privilege and the pleasure of despising her. just emerging from boyhood, the young man had brought to his first _liaison_ no other ardor, no other flame than the cold instincts of rascality awakened in boys by vile books, the confidences of their comrades, boarding-school conversation, the first breath of impurity which debauches desire. the sentiment with which the young man usually regards the woman who yields to him, the caresses, the loving words, the affectionate attentions with which he envelops her--nothing of all that existed in jupillon's case. woman was to him simply an obscene image; and a passion for a woman seemed to him desirable as being prohibited, illicit, vulgar, cynical and amusing--an excellent opportunity for trickery and sarcasm. sarcasm--the low, cowardly, despicable sarcasm of the dregs of the people--was the beginning and the end of this youth. he was a perfect type of those parisians who bear upon their faces the mocking scepticism of the great city of _blague_ in which they are born. the smile, the shrewdness and the mischief of the parisian physiognomy were always mocking and impertinent in him. jupillon's smile had the jovial expression imparted by a wicked mouth, a mouth that was almost cruel at the corners of the lips, which curled upward and were always twitching nervously. his face was pale with the pallor that nitric acid strong enough to eat copper gives to the complexion, and in his sharp, pert, bold features were mingled bravado, energy, recklessness, intelligence, impudence and all sorts of rascally expressions, softened, at certain times, by a cat-like, wheedling air. his trade of glove-cutter--he had taken up with that trade after two or three unsuccessful trials as an apprentice in other crafts--the habit of working in the shop-windows, of being on exhibition to the passers-by, had given to his whole person the self-assurance and the dandified airs of a _poseur_. sitting in the work-shop on the street, with his white shirt, his little black cravat _à la colin_, and his skin-tight pantaloons, he had adopted an awkward air of nonchalance, the pretentious carriage and _canaille_ affectations of the workman who knows he is being stared at. and various little refinements of doubtful taste, the parting of the hair in the middle and brushing it down over the temples, the low shirt collars that left the whole neck bare, the striving after the coquettish effects that properly belong to the other sex, gave him an uncertain appearance, which was made even more ambiguous by his beardless face, marred only by a faint suggestion of a moustache, and his sexless features to which passion and ill-temper imparted all the evil quality of a shrewish woman's face. but in germinie's eyes all these airs and this jupillon style were of the highest distinction. thus constituted, with nothing lovable about him and incapable of a genuine attachment even through his passions, jupillon was greatly embarrassed and bored by this adoration which became intoxicated with itself, and waxed greater day by day. germinie wearied him to death. she seemed to him absurd in her humiliation, and laughable in her devotion. he was weary, disgusted, worn out with her. he had had enough of her love, enough of her person. and he had no hesitation about cutting loose from her, without charity or pity. he ran away from her. he failed to keep the appointments she made. he pretended that he was kept away by accident, by errands to be done, by a pressure of work. at night, she waited for him and he did not come; she supposed that he was detained by business: in fact he was at some low billiard hall, or at some ball at the barrier. xvi there was a ball at the _boule-noire_ one thursday. the dancing was in full blast. the ball-room had the ordinary appearance of modern places of amusement for the people. it was brilliant with false richness and tawdry splendor. there were paintings there, and tables at which wine was sold, gilded chandeliers and glasses that held a quartern of brandy, velvet hangings and wooden benches, the shabbiness and rusticity of an ale-house with the decorations of a cardboard palace. garnet velvet lambrequins with a fringe of gold lace hung at the windows and were economically copied in paint beneath the mirrors, which were lighted by three-branched candelabra. on the walls, in large white panels, pastoral scenes by boucher, surrounded with painted frames, alternated with prud'hon's _seasons_, which were much astonished to find themselves in such a place; and above the windows and doors dropsical loves gamboled among five roses protruding from a pomade jar of the sort used by suburban hair-dressers. square pillars, embellished with meagre arabesques, supported the ceiling in the centre of the hall, where there was a small octagonal stand containing the orchestra. an oaken rail, waist high, which served as a back to a cheap red bench, enclosed the dancers. and against this rail, on the outside, were tables painted green and two rows of benches, surrounding the dance with a café. in the dancers' enclosure, beneath the fierce glare and the intense heat of the gas, were women of all sorts, dressed in dark, worn, rumpled woolens, women in black tulle caps, women in black _paletots_, women in _caracos_ worn shiny at the seams, women in fur tippets bought of open-air dealers and in shops in dark alleys. and in the whole assemblage not one of the youthful faces was set off by a collar, not a glimpse of a white skirt could be seen among the whirling dancers, not a glimmer of white about these women, who were all dressed in gloomy colors, the colors of want, to the ends of their unpolished shoes. this absence of linen gave to the ball an aspect as of poverty in mourning; it imparted to all the faces a touch of gloom and uncleanness, of lifelessness and earthiness--a vaguely forbidding aspect, in which there was a suggestion of the hôtel-dieu and the mont-de-piété! an old woman in a wig with the hair parted at the side passed in front of the tables, with a basket filled with pieces of savoy cake and red apples. from time to time the dance, in its twisting and turning, disclosed a soiled stocking, the typical jewish features of a street pedlar of sponges, red fingers protruding from black mitts, a swarthy moustached face, an under-petticoat soiled with the mud of night before last, a second-hand-skirt, stiff and crumpled, of flowered calico, the cast-off finery of some kept mistress. the men wore _paletots_, small, soft caps pulled down over their ears, and woolen comforters untied and hanging down their backs. they invited the women to dance by pulling them by the cap ribbons that fluttered behind them. some few, in hats and frockcoats and colored shirts, had an insolent air of domesticity and a swagger befitting grooms in some great family. everybody was jumping and bustling about. the women frisked and capered and gamboled, excited and stimulated by the spur of bestial pleasure. and in the evolutions of the contra-dance, one could hear brothel addresses given: _impasse du dépotoir_. germinie entered the hall just at the conclusion of a quadrille to the air of _la casquette du père bugeaud_, in which the cymbals, the sleigh-bells and the drum had infected the dancers with the giddiness and madness of their uproar. at a glance she embraced the whole room, all the men leading their partners back to the places marked by their caps: she had been misled; _he_ was not there, she could not see him. however, she waited. she entered the dancers' enclosure and sat down on the end of a bench, trying not to seem too much embarrassed. from their linen caps she judged that the women seated in line beside her were servants like herself: comrades of her own class alarmed her less than the little brazen-faced hussies, with their hair in nets and their hands in the pockets of their _paletots_, who strolled humming about the room. but soon she aroused hostile attention, even on her bench. her hat--only about a dozen women at the ball wore hats--her flounced skirt, the white hem of which could be seen under her dress, the gold brooch that secured her shawl awakened malevolent curiosity all about her. glances and smiles were bestowed upon her that boded her no good. all the women seemed to be asking one another where this new arrival had come from, and to be saying to one another that she would take their lovers from them. young women who were walking about the hall in pairs, with their arms about one another's waists as if for a waltz, made her lower her eyes as they passed in front of her, and then went on with a contemptuous shrug, turning their heads to look back at her. she changed her place: she was met with the same smiles, the same whispering, the same hostility. she went to the further end of the hall; all the women looked after her; she felt as if she were enveloped in malicious, envious glances, from the hem of her dress to the flowers on her hat. her face flushed. at times she feared that she should weep. she longed to leave the place, but she lacked courage to walk the length of the hall all alone. she began mechanically to watch an old woman who was slowly making the circuit of the hall with a noiseless step, like a bird of night flying in a circle. a black hat, of the hue of charred paper, confined her _bandeaux_ of grizzled hair. from her square, high masculine shoulders, hung a sombre-hued scotch tartan. when she reached the door, she cast a last glance about the hall, that embraced everyone therein, with the eye of a vulture seeking in vain for food. suddenly there was an outcry: a police officer was ejecting a diminutive youth who tried to bite his hands and clung to the tables, against which, as he was dragged along, he struck with a noise like breaking furniture. as germinie turned her head she spied jupillon: he was sitting between two women at a green table in a window-recess, smoking. one of the two was a tall blonde with a small quantity of frizzled flaxen hair, a flat, stupid face and round eyes. a red flannel chemise lay in folds on her back, and she had both hands in the pockets of a black apron which she was flapping up and down on her dark red skirt. the other, a short, dark creature, whose face was still red from having been scrubbed with soap, was enveloped as to her head, with the coquetry of a fishwoman, in a white knitted hood with a blue border. jupillon had recognized germinie. when he saw her rise and approach him, with her eyes fixed upon his face, he whispered something to the woman in the hood, rested his elbows defiantly on the table and waited. "hallo! you here," he exclaimed when germinie stood before him, erect, motionless and mute. "this is a surprise!--waiter! another bowl!" and, emptying the bowl of sweetened wine into the two women's glasses, he continued: "come, don't make up faces--sit down there." and, as germinie did not budge: "go on! these ladies are friends of mine--ask them!" "mélie," said the woman in the hood to the other woman, in a voice like a diseased crow's, "don't you see? she's monsieur's mother. make room for the lady if she'd like to drink with us." germinie cast a murderous glance at the woman. "well! what's the matter?" the woman continued; "that don't suit you, madame, eh? excuse me! you ought to have told me beforehand. how old do you suppose she is, mélie, eh? _sapristi!_ you select young ones, my boy, you don't put yourself out!" jupillon smiled internally, and simpered and sneered externally. his whole manner displayed the cowardly delight that evil-minded persons take in watching the suffering of those who suffer because of loving them. "i have something to say to you--to you!--not here--outside," said germinie. "much joy to you! coming, mélie?" said the woman in the hood, lighting the stub of a cigar that jupillon had left on the table beside a piece of lemon. "what do you want?" said jupillon, impressed, in spite of himself, by germinie's tone. "come!" and she walked on ahead of him. as she passed, the people crowded about her, laughing. she heard voices, broken sentences, subdued hooting. xvii jupillon promised germinie not to go to the ball again. but he was just beginning to make a name for himself at la brididi, among the low haunts near the barrier, the _boule-noire_, the _reine-blanche_ and the _ermitage_. he had become one of the dancers who make the guests leave their seats, who keep a whole roomful of people hanging on the soles of their boots as they toss them two inches above their heads, and whom the fair dancers of the locality invite to dance with them and sometimes pay for their refreshment to that end. the ball to him was not a ball simply; it was a stage, an audience, popularity, applause, the flattering murmur of his name among the groups of people, an ovation accorded to saltatory glory in the glare of the reverberators. on sunday he did not go to the _boule-noire_; but on the following thursday he went there again; and germinie, seeing plainly enough that she could not prevent him from going, decided to follow him and to stay there as long as he did. sitting at a table in the background, in the least brilliantly lighted corner of the ball-room, she would follow him eagerly with her eyes throughout the whole contra-dance; and when it was at an end, if he held back, she would go and seize him, take him almost by force from the hands and caresses of the women who persisted in trying to pull him back, to detain him by wicked wiles. as they soon came to know her, the insulting remarks in her neighborhood ceased to be vague and indistinct and muttered under the breath, as at the first ball. the words were thrown in her face, the laughter spoke aloud. she was obliged to pass her three hours amid a chorus of derision that pointed its finger at her, called her by name and cast her age in her face. at every turn she was forced to submit to the appellation of: _old woman!_ which the young hussies spat at her over their shoulders as they passed. but they did at least look at her; often, however, dancing women invited by jupillon to drink, and brought by him to the table at which germinie was, would sit with their elbows on the table and their cheeks resting on their hands, drinking the bowl of mulled wine for which she paid, apparently unaware that there was another woman there, crowding into her place as if it were unoccupied, and making no reply when she spoke to them. germinie could have killed these creatures whom jupillon forced her to entertain and who despised her so utterly that they did not even notice her presence. the time arrived, when, having endured all she could endure and being sickened by the humiliation she was forced to swallow, she conceived the idea of dancing herself. she saw no other way to avoid leaving her lover to others, to keep him by her all the evening, and perhaps to bind him more closely to her by her success, if she had any chance of succeeding. throughout a whole month she worked, in secret, to learn to dance. she rehearsed the figures and the steps. she forced her body into unnatural attitudes, she wore herself out trying to master the contortions and the manipulations of the skirt that she saw were applauded. at the end of the month she made the venture; but everything tended to disconcert her and added to her awkwardness; the hostility that she could feel in the atmosphere, the smiles of astonishment and pity that played about the lips of the spectators when she took her place in the dancers' enclosure. she was so absurd and so laughed at, that she had not the courage to make a second attempt. she buried herself gloomily in her dark corner, only leaving it to hunt up jupillon and carry him off, with the mute violence of a wife dragging her husband out of the wineshop and leading him home by the arm. it was soon rumored in the street that germinie went to these balls, that she never missed one of them. the fruit woman, at whose shop adèle had already held forth, sent her son "to see;" he returned with a confirmation of the rumor, and told of all the petty annoyances to which germinie was subjected, but which did not keep her from returning. thereafter there was no more doubt in the quarter as to the relations between mademoiselle's servant and jupillon--relations which some charitable souls had hitherto persisted in denying. the scandal burst out, and in a week the poor girl, berated by all the slanderous tongues in the quarter, baptized and saluted by the vilest names in the language of the streets, fell at a blow from the most emphatically expressed esteem to the most brutally advertised contempt. thus far her pride--and it was very great--had procured for her the respect and consideration which is bestowed, in the lorette quarters, upon a servant who honestly serves a virtuous mistress. she had become accustomed to respect and deference and attention. she stood apart from her comrades. her unassailable probity, her conduct, as to which not a word could be said, her confidential relations with mademoiselle, which caused her mistress's honorable character to be reflected upon her, led the shopkeeper to treat her on a different footing from the other maids. they addressed her, cap in hand; they always called her _mademoiselle germinie_. they hurried to wait upon her; they offered her the only chair in the shop when she had to wait. even when she contended over prices they were still polite with her and never called her _haggler_. jests that were somewhat too broad were cut short when she appeared. she was invited to the great banquets, to family parties, and consulted upon business matters. everything changed as soon as her relations with jupillon and her assiduous attendance at the _boule-noire_ were known. the quarter took its revenge for having respected her. the brazen-faced maids in the house accosted her as one of their own kind. one, whose lover was at mazas, called her: "my dear." the men accosted her familiarly, and with all the intimacy of thee and thou in glance and gesture and tone and touch. the very children on the sidewalk, who were formerly trained to courtesy politely to her, ran away from her as from a person of whom they had been told to be afraid. she felt that she was being maligned behind her back, handed over to the devil. she could not take a step without walking through scorn and receiving a blow from her shame upon the cheek. it was a horrible affliction to her. she suffered as if her honor were being torn from her, shred by shred, and dragged in the gutter. but the more she suffered, the closer she pressed her love to her heart and clung to him. she bore him no ill-will, she uttered no word of reproach to him. she attached herself to him by all the tears he caused her pride to shed. and now, in the street through which she passed but a short time ago, proudly and with head erect, she could be seen, bent double as if crouching over her fault, hurrying furtively along, with oblique glances, dreading to be recognized, quickening her pace in front of the shops that swept their slanders out upon her heels. xviii jupillon was constantly complaining that he was tired of working for others, that he could not set up for himself, that he could not find fifteen or eighteen hundred francs in his mother's purse. he needed no more than that, he said, to hire a couple of rooms on the ground floor and set up as a glover in a small way. indeed he was already dreaming of what he might do and laying out his plans: he would open a shop in the quarter, an excellent quarter for his business, as it was full of purchasers, and of makers of wretched gloves at five francs. he would soon add a line of perfumery and cravats to his gloves; and then, when he had made a tidy sum, he would sell out and take a fine shop on rue de richelieu. whenever he mentioned the subject germinie asked him innumerable questions. she wanted to know everything that was necessary to start in business. she made him tell her the names of the tools and appurtenances, give her an idea of their prices and where they could be bought. she questioned him as to his trade and the details of his work so inquisitively and persistently that jupillon lost his patience at last and said to her: "what's all this to you? the work sickens me enough now; don't mention it to me!" one sunday she walked toward montmartre with him. instead of taking rue frochot she turned into rue pigalle. "why, this ain't the way, is it?" said jupillon. "i know what i'm about," said she, "come on." she had taken his arm, and she walked on, turning her head slightly away from him so that he could not see what was taking place on her face. half way along rue fontaine saint-georges, she halted abruptly in front of two windows on the ground floor of a house, and said to him: "look!" she was trembling with joy. jupillon looked; he saw between the two windows, on a glistening copper plate: _magasin de ganterie._ jupillon. he saw white curtains at the first window. through the glass in the other he saw pigeon-holes and boxes, and, near the window, the little glover's cutting board, with the great shears, the jar for clippings, and the knife to make holes in the skins in order to stretch them. "the concierge has your key," she said. they entered the first room, the shop. she at once set about showing him everything. she opened the boxes and laughed. then she pushed open the door into the other room. "there, you won't be stifled there as you are in the loft at your mother's. do you like it? oh! it isn't handsome, but it's clean. i'd have liked to give you mahogany. do you like that little rug by the bed? and the paper--i didn't think of that----" she put a receipt for the rent in his hand. "see! this is for six months. dame! you must go to work right off and earn some money. the few sous i had laid by are all gone. oh! let me sit down. you look so pleased--it gives me a turn--it makes my head spin. i haven't any legs." and she sank into a chair. jupillon stooped over her to kiss her. "ah! yes, they're not there any longer," she said, seeing that he was looking for her earrings. "they've gone like my rings. d'ye see, all gone----" and she showed him her hands, bare of the paltry gems she had worked so long to buy. "they all went for the easy-chair, you see--but it's all horsehair." as jupillon stood in front of her with an embarrassed air, as if he were trying to find words with which to thank her, she continued: "why, you're a funny fellow. what's the matter with you? ah! it's on that account, is it?" and she pointed to the bedroom. "you're a stupid! i love you, don't i? well then?" germinie said the words simply, as the heart says sublime things. xix she became _enceinte_. at first she doubted, she dared not believe it. but when she was certain of the fact, she was filled with immeasurable joy, a joy that overflowed her heart. her happiness was so great and so overpowering that it stifled at a single stroke the anguish, the fear, the inward trembling that ordinarily disturb the maternity of unmarried women and poisons their anticipations of childbirth, the divine hope that lives and moves within them. the thought of the scandal caused by the discovery of her _liaison_, of the outcry in the quarter, the idea of the abominable thing that had always made her think of suicide: dishonor,--even the fear of being detected by mademoiselle and dismissed by her--nothing of all this could cast a shadow on her felicity. the child that she expected allowed her to see nothing but it, as if she had it already in her arms before her; and, hardly attempting to conceal her condition, she bore her woman's shame almost proudly through the streets, exulting and radiant in the thought that she was to be a mother. she was unhappy only because she had spent all her savings, and was not only without money but had been paid several months' wages in advance by her mistress. she bitterly deplored having to receive her child in a poor way. often, as she passed through rue saint-lazare, she would stop in front of a linen-draper's, in whose windows were displayed stores of rich baby-linen. she would devour with her eyes the pretty, dainty flowered garments, the piqué bibs, the long short-waisted dresses trimmed with english embroidery, the whole doll-like cherub's costume. a terrible longing,--the longing of a pregnant woman,--to break the glass and steal it all, would come upon her: the clerks standing behind the display framework became accustomed to seeing her take up her station there and would laughingly point her out to one another. again, at intervals, amid the happiness that overflowed her heart, amid the ecstasy that exalted her being, another disturbing thought passed through her mind. she would ask herself how the father would welcome his child. two or three times she had attempted to tell him of her condition but had not dared. at last, one day, seeing that his face wore the expression she had awaited so long as a preliminary to telling him everything, an expression in which there was a touch of affection, she confessed to him, blushing hotly and as if asking his forgiveness, what it was that made her so happy. "that's all imagination!" said jupillon. and when she had assured him that it was not imagination and that she was positively five months advanced in pregnancy: "just my luck!" the young man rejoined. "thanks!" and he swore. "would you mind telling me who's going to feed the sparrow?" "oh! never you fear! it sha'n't suffer, i'll look out for that. and then it'll be so pretty! don't be afraid, no one shall know anything about it. i'll fix myself up. see! the last part of the time i'll walk like this, with my head back--i won't wear any petticoats, and i'll pull myself in--you'll see! nobody shall notice anything, i tell you. just think of it! a little child of our own!" "well, as long as it's so, it's so, eh?" said the young man. "say," ventured germinie, timidly, "suppose you should tell your mother?" "ma? oh! no, i rather think not. you must lie in first. after that we'll take the brat to the house. it will give her a start, and perhaps she'll consent without meaning to." xx twelfth night arrived. it was the day on which mademoiselle de varandeuil gave a grand dinner-party regularly every year. she invited all the children of her own family or her old friends' families, great and small. the small suite would hardly hold them all. they were obliged to put part of the furniture on the landing, and a table was set in each of the two rooms which formed mademoiselle's whole suite. for the children, that day was a great festival to which they looked forward for a week. they came running up the stairway behind the pastry-cook's men. at table they ate too much without being scolded. at night, they were unwilling to go to bed, they climbed on the chairs and made a racket that always gave mademoiselle de varandeuil a sick headache the next day; but she bore them no grudge therefor: she had had the full enjoyment of a genuine grandmother's fête, in listening to them, looking at them, tying around their necks the white napkins that made them look so rosy. and not for anything in the world would she have failed to give this dinner-party, which filled her old maid's apartments with the fair-haired little imps of satan, and brought thither, in a single day, an atmosphere of activity and youth and laughter that lasted a whole year. germinie was preparing the dinner. she was whipping cream in an earthen bowl on her knees, when suddenly she felt the first pains. she looked at her face in the bit of a broken mirror that she had above her kitchen dresser, and saw that she was pale. she went down to adèle: "give me your mistress's rouge," she said. and she put some on her cheeks. then she went up again, and, refusing to listen to the voice of her suffering, finished cooking the dinner. it had to be served, and she served it. at dessert, she leaned against the furniture and grasped the backs of chairs as she passed the plates, hiding her torture with the ghastly set smile of people whose entrails are writhing. "how's this, are you sick?" said her mistress, looking sharply at her. "yes, mademoiselle, a little--it may be the charcoal or the hot kitchen." "go to bed--we don't need you any more, and you can clean up to-morrow." she went down to adèle once more. "it's come," she said; "call a cab quick. it was rue de la huchette where you said your midwife lives, wasn't it? opposite a copper planer's? haven't you a pen and paper?" and she sat down to write a line to her mistress. she told her that she was too ill to work, that she had gone to the hospital, but would not tell her where, because she would fatigue herself coming to see her; that she would come back within a week. "there you are!" said adèle, all out of breath, giving her the number of the cab. "i can stay there," said germinie; "not a word to mademoiselle. that's all. swear you won't say a word to her!" she was descending the stairs when she met jupillon. "hallo!" said he, "where are you going? going out?" "i am going to lie in----it took me during the day. there was a great dinner-party here----oh! but it was hard work! why do you come here? i told you never to come; i don't want you to!" "because----i'll tell you----because just now i absolutely must have forty francs. 'pon my word, i must." "forty francs! why i have just that for the midwife!" "that's hard luck----look out! what do you want to do?" and he offered his arm to assist her. "_cristi!_ i'm going to have hard work to get 'em all the same." he had opened the carriage door. "where do you want him to take you?" "to la bourbe," said germinie. and she slipped the forty francs into his hand. "no, no," said jupillon. "oh! nonsense----there or somewhere else! besides, i have seven francs left." the cab started away. jupillon stood for a moment motionless on the sidewalk, looking at the two napoleons in his hand. then he ran after the cab, stopped it, and said to germinie through the window: "at least, i can go with you?" "no, i am in too much pain, i'd rather be alone," she replied, writhing on the cushions of the cab. after an endless half hour, the cab stopped on rue de port-royal, in front of a black door surmounted by a violet lantern, which announced to such medical students as happened to pass through the street that there was that night, and at that moment, the curious and interesting spectacle of a difficult labor in progress at la maternité. the driver descended from his box and rang. the concierge, assisted by a female attendant, took germinie's arms and led her up-stairs to one of the four beds in the _salle d'accouchement_. once in bed, her pains became somewhat less excruciating. she looked about her, saw the other beds, all empty, and, at the end of the immense room, a huge country-house fireplace in which a bright fire was blazing, and in front of which, hanging upon iron bars, sheets and cloths and bandages were drying. half an hour later, germinie gave birth to a little girl. her bed was moved into another room. she had been there several hours, lost in the blissful after-delivery weakness which follows the frightful agony of childbirth, happy and amazed to find that she was still alive, swimming in a sea of blessed relief and deeply penetrated with the joy of having created. suddenly a loud cry: "i am dying!" caused her to turn her eyes in the direction from which it came: she saw one of her neighbors throw her arms around the neck of one of the assistant nurses, fall back almost instantly, move a moment under the clothes, then lie perfectly still. almost at the same instant, another shriek arose from a bed on the other side, a horrible, piercing, terrified shriek, as of one who sees death approaching: it was a woman calling the young assistant, with desperate gestures; the assistant ran to her, leaned over her, and fell in a dead faint upon the floor. thereupon silence reigned once more; but between the two dead bodies and the half-dead assistant, whom the cold floor did not restore to consciousness for more than an hour, germinie and the other women who were still alive in the room lay quiet, not daring even to ring the bell that hung beside each bed to call for help. thereafter la maternité was the scene of one of those terrible puerperal epidemics which breathe death upon human fecundity, of one of those cases of atmospheric poisoning which empty, in a twinkling and by whole rows, the beds of women lately delivered, and which once caused the closing of la clinique. they believed that it was a visitation of the plague, a plague that turns the face black in a few hours, carries all before it and snatches up the youngest and the strongest, a plague that issues from the cradle--the black plague of mothers! all about germinie, at all hours, especially at night, women were dying such deaths as the milk-fever causes, deaths that seemed to violate all nature's laws, agonizing deaths, accompanied by wild shrieks and troubled by hallucinations and delirium, death agonies that compelled the application of the strait-waistcoat, death agonies that caused the victims to leap suddenly from their beds, carrying the clothes with them, and causing the whole room to shudder at the thought that they were dead bodies from the amphitheatre! life departed as if it were torn from the body. the very disease assumed a ghastly shape and monstrous aspect. the bedclothes were lifted in the centre by the swelling caused by peritonitis, producing a vague, horrifying effect in the lamplight. for five days germinie, lying swathed and bandaged in her bed, closing her eyes and ears as best she could, had the strength to combat all these horrors, and yielded to them only at long intervals. she was determined to live, and she clung to her strength by thinking of her child and of mademoiselle. but, on the sixth day, her energy was exhausted, her courage forsook her. a cold wave flowed into her heart. she said to herself that it was all over. the hand that death lays upon one's shoulder, the presentiment of death, was already touching her. she felt the first breath of the epidemic, the belief that she was its destined victim, and the impression that she was already half-possessed by it. although unresigned, she succumbed. her life, vanquished beforehand, hardly made an effort to struggle. at that crisis a head bent over her pillow, like a ray of light. it was the head of the youngest of the pupil-assistants, a fair head, with long golden locks and blue eyes so soft and sweet that the dying saw heaven opening its gates therein. when they saw her, delirious women said: "look! the blessed virgin!" "my child," she said to germinie, "you must ask for your discharge at once. you must go away from here. you must dress warmly. you must wrap up well. as soon as you're at home and in bed, you must take a hot draught of something or other. you must try to take a sweat. then, it won't do you any harm. but go away from here. it wouldn't be healthy for you here to-night," she said, glancing around at the beds. "don't say that i told you to go: you would get me discharged if you should." xxi germinie recovered in a few days. the joy and pride of having given birth to a tiny creature in whom her flesh was mingled with the flesh of the man she loved, the bliss of being a mother, saved her from the natural results of a confinement in which she did not receive proper care. she was restored to health and had an apparent pleasure in living that her mistress had never before seen her manifest. every sunday, no matter what the weather might be, she left the house about eleven o'clock; mademoiselle believed that she went to see a friend in the country, and was delighted that her maid derived so much benefit from these days passed in the open air. germinie would capture jupillon, who allowed himself to be taken in tow without too much resistance, and they would start for pommeuse where the child was, and where a good breakfast ordered by the mother awaited them. once in the carriage on the mulhouse railway, germinie would not speak or reply when spoken to. she would lean out of the window, and all her thoughts seemed to be upon what lay before her. she gazed, as if her longing were striving to outrun the steam. the train would hardly have stopped before she had leaped out, tossed her ticket to the ticket-taker, and started at a run on the pommeuse road, leaving jupillon behind. she drew nearer and nearer, she could see the house, she was there: yes, there was the child! she would pounce upon her, snatch her from the nurse's arms with jealous hands--a mother's hands!--hug her, strain her to her heart, kiss her, devour her with kisses and looks and smiles! she would gaze admiringly at her for an instant and then, distraught with joy, mad with love, would cover her with kisses to the tips of her little bare toes. breakfast would be served. she would sit at the table with the child on her knees and eat nothing: she had kissed her so much that she had not yet looked at her, and she would begin to seek out points of resemblance to themselves in the little one. one feature was his, another hers:--"she has your nose and my eyes. her hair will be like yours in time. it will curl! look, those are your hands--she is all you." and for hours she would continue the inexhaustible and charming prattle of a woman who is determined to give a man his share of their daughter. jupillon submitted to it all with reasonably good grace, thanks to divers three-sou cigars germinie always produced from her pocket and gave to him one by one. then he had found a means of diversion; the morin flowed at the foot of the garden. jupillon was a true parisian: he loved to fish with a pole and line. and when summer came they stayed there all day, at the foot of the garden, on the bank of the stream--jupillon on a laundry board resting on two stakes, pole in hand, and germinie sitting, with the child in her skirts, under the medlar tree that overhung the stream. on pleasant days, the sun poured down upon the broad sparkling current, from which beams of light arose as from a mirror. it was like a display of fireworks from the sky and the stream, amid which germinie would hold the little girl upon her feet and let her trample upon her with her little bare pink legs, in her short baby dress, her skin shimmering in spots in the sunlight, her flesh mottled with sunbeams like the flesh of angels germinie had seen in pictures. she had a divinely sweet sensation when the little one, with the active hands of children that cannot talk, touched her chin and mouth and cheeks, persisted in putting her fingers in her eyes, rested them playfully on the lids, and kept them moving over her whole face, tickling and tormenting her with the dear little digits that seem to grope in the dark for a mother's features: it was as if her child's life and warmth were wandering over her face. from time to time she would bestow half of her smile on jupillon over the little one's head, and would call to him: "do look at her!" then the child would fall asleep with the open mouth that laughs in sleep. germinie would lean over her and listen to her breathing in repose. and, soothed by the peaceful respiration, she would gradually forget herself as she gazed dreamily at the poor abode of her happiness, the rustic garden, the apple-trees with their leaves covered with little yellow snails and the red-cheeked apples on the southern limbs, the poles, at whose feet the beanstalks, twisted and parched, were beginning to climb, the square of cabbages, the four sunflowers in the little circle in the centre of the path; and, close beside her, on the edge of the stream, the patches of grass covered with dog's mercury, the white heads of the nettles against the wall, the washerwomen's boxes, the bottles of lye and the bundle of straw scattered about by the antics of a puppy just out of the water. she gazed and dreamed. she thought of the past, having her future on her knees. with the grass and the trees and the river that were before her eyes, she reconstructed, in memory, the rustic garden of her rustic childhood. she saw again the two stones reaching down to the water, from which her mother, when she was a little child, used to wash her feet before putting her to bed in summertime. "look you, père remalard," said jupillon from his board, on one of the hottest days in august, to the peasant who was watching him,--"do you know they won't bite at the red worm worth a sou?" "you must try the gentle," rejoined the peasant sententiously. "all right, i'll have my revenge with the gentle! père remalard, you must get some calf's lights thursday. you hang 'em up in that tree, and sunday we'll see." on the sunday jupillon had miraculous success with his fishing, and germinie heard the first syllable issue from her daughter's mouth. xxii on wednesday morning, when she came downstairs, germinie found a letter for herself. in that letter, written on the back of a laundry receipt, the remalard woman informed her that her child had fallen sick almost immediately after her departure; that she had grown steadily worse; that she had consulted the doctor; that he said some insect had stung the child; that she had been to him a second time; that she did not know what more to do; that she had had pilgrimages made for her. the letter concluded thus: "if you could see how troubled i am for your little one--if you could see how good she is when she isn't suffering!" this letter produced upon germinie the effect of a push from behind. she went out and instinctively walked toward the railroad that would take her to her little one. her hair was uncombed and she was in her slippers, but she did not think of that. she must see her child, she must see her instantly. then she would come back. she thought of mademoiselle's breakfast for a moment, then forgot it. suddenly, half-way to the station, she saw a clock at a cab office and noticed the hour: she remembered that there was no train at that time. she retraced her steps, saying to herself that she would hurry the breakfast and then make some excuse to be given her liberty for the rest of the day. but when the breakfast was served she could find none: her mind was so full of her child that she could not invent a falsehood; her imagination was benumbed. and then, if she had spoken, if she had made the request, she would have betrayed herself; she could feel the words upon her lips: "i want to go and see my child!" at night she dared not make her escape; mademoiselle had been a little indisposed the night before; she was afraid that she might need her. the next morning when she entered mademoiselle's room with a fable she had invented during the night, all ready to ask for leave of absence, mademoiselle said to her, looking up from a letter that had just been sent up to her from the lodge: "ah! my old friend de belleuse wants you for the whole day to-day, to help her with her preserves. come, give me my two eggs, post-haste, and off with you. eh? what! doesn't that suit you? what's the matter?" "with me? why nothing at all!" germinie found strength to say. all that endless day she passed standing over hot stewpans and sealing up jars, in the torture known only to those whom the chances of life detain at a distance from the sick bed of those dear to them. she suffered such heart-rending agony as those unhappy creatures suffer who cannot go where their anxiety calls them, and who, in the extremity of despair caused by separation and uncertainty, constantly imagine that death will come in their absence. as she received no letter thursday evening and none friday morning, she took courage. if the little one were growing worse the nurse would have written her. the little one was better: she imagined her saved, cured. children are forever coming near dying, and they get well so quickly! and then hers was strong. she decided to wait, to be patient until sunday, which was only forty-eight hours away, deceiving the remainder of her fears with the superstitions that say yes to hope, persuading herself that her daughter had "escaped," because the first person she met in the morning was a man, because she had seen a red horse in the street, because she had guessed that a certain person would turn into a certain street, because she had ascended a flight of stairs in so many strides. on saturday, in the morning, when she entered mère jupillon's shop, she found her weeping hot tears over a lump of butter that she was covering with a moist cloth. "ah! it's you, is it?" said mère jupillon. "that poor charcoal woman! see, i'm actually crying over her! she just went away from here. you don't know--they can't get their faces clean in their trade with anything but butter. and here's her love of a daughter--she's at death's door, you know, the dear child. that's the way it is with us! ah! _mon dieu_, yes!--well, as i was saying, she said to her just now like this: 'mamma, i want you to wash my face in butter right away--for the good god.'" and mère jupillon began to sob. germinie had fled. all that day she was unable to keep still. again and again she went up to her chamber to prepare the few things she proposed to take to her little one the next day, to dress her cleanly, to make a little special toilet for her in honor of her recovery. as she went down in the evening to put mademoiselle to bed, adèle handed her a letter that she had found for her below. xxiii mademoiselle had begun to undress, when germinie entered her bedroom, walked a few steps, dropped upon a chair, and almost immediately, after two or three long-drawn, deep, heart-breaking sighs, mademoiselle saw her throw herself backward, wringing her hands, and at last roll from the chair to the floor. she tried to lift her up, but germinie was shaken by such violent convulsions that the old woman was obliged to let the frantic body fall again upon the floor; for all the limbs, which were for a moment contracted and rigid, lashed out to right and left, at random, with the sharp report of the trigger of a rifle, and threw down whatever they came in contact with. at mademoiselle's shrieks on the landing, a maid ran to a doctor's office near by but did not find him; four other women employed in the house assisted mademoiselle to lift germinie up and carry her to the bed in her mistress's room, on which they laid her after cutting her corset lacings. the terrible convulsions, the nervous contortions of the limbs, the snapping of the tendons had ceased; but her neck and her breast, which was uncovered where her dress was unbuttoned, moved up and down as if waves were rising and falling under the skin, and the rustling of the skirts showed that the movement extended to her feet. her head thrown back, her face flushed, her eyes full of melancholy tenderness, of the patient agony we see in the eyes of the wounded, the great veins clearly marked under her chin, germinie, breathing hard and paying no heed to questions, raised her hands to her neck and throat and clawed at them; she seemed to be trying to tear out the sensation of something rising and falling within her. in vain did they make her inhale ether and drink orange-flower water; the waves of grief that flowed through her body did not cease their action; and her face continued to wear the same expression of gentle melancholy and sentimental anxiety, which seemed to place the suffering of the heart above the suffering of the flesh in every feature. for a long time everything seemed to wound her senses and to produce a painful effect upon them--the bright light, the sound of voices, the odor of the things about her. at last, after an hour or more, a deluge of tears suddenly poured from her eyes and put an end to the terrible crisis. after that there was nothing more than an occasional convulsive shudder in the overburdened body, soon quieted by weariness and by general prostration. it was possible to carry germinie to her own room. the letter adèle handed her contained the news of her daughter's death. xxiv as a result of this crisis, germinie fell into a state of dumb, brutish sorrow. for months she was insensible to everything; for months, completely possessed and absorbed by the thought of the little creature that was no more, she carried her child's death in her entrails as she had carried her life. every evening, when she went up to her chamber, she took the poor darling's little cap and dress from the trunk at the foot of her bed. she would gaze at them and touch them; she would lay them out on the bed; she would sit for hours weeping over them, kissing them, talking to them, saying the things that a mother's bitter sorrow is wont to say to a little daughter's ghost. while weeping for her daughter the unhappy creature wept for herself as well. a voice whispered to her that she was saved had the child lived; that to have that child to love was her providence; that all that she dreaded in herself would be expended upon that dear head and be sanctified there--her affections, her unreasoning impulses, her ardor, all the passions of her nature. it seemed to her that she had felt her mother's heart soothing and purifying her woman's heart. in her daughter she saw a sort of celestial vision that would redeem her and make her whole, a little angel of deliverance as it were, issuing from her errors to fight for her and rescue her from the evil influences which pursued her and by which she sometimes thought that she was possessed. when she began to recover from the first prostration of despair, when, as the consciousness of life and the perception of objects returned to her, she looked about her with eyes that saw, she was aroused from her grief by a more poignant cause of bitterness of spirit. madame jupillon, who had become too stout and too heavy to do what it was necessary for her to do at the creamery, notwithstanding all the assistance rendered by germinie, had sent to her province for a niece of hers. she was the embodiment of the blooming youth of the country, a woman in whom there was still something of the child, active and vivacious, with black eyes full of sunlight, lips as round and red as cherries, the summer heat of her province in her complexion, the warmth of perfect health in her blood. impulsive and ingenuous as she was, the girl had, at first, drawn near to her cousin, simply and naturally, obeying the law of attraction that draws the young toward the young. she had met his friendly advances with the immodesty of innocence, artless effrontery, the liberties taught by life in the country, the happy folly of a nature abounding in high spirits, and with all sorts of ignorant hardihood, unblushing ingenuousness and rustic coquetry, against which her cousin's vanity was without means of defence. the child's presence deprived germinie of all hope of repose. mere girl as she was, she wounded her every minute in the day by her presence, her touch, her caresses, everything in her amorous body that spoke of love. her preoccupation with jupillon, the work that kept them constantly together, the provincial wonderment that she constantly exhibited, the half-confidences she allowed to come to her lips when the young man had gone, her gayety, her jests, her healthy good-humor--everything helped to exasperate germinie and to arouse a sullen wrath within her; everything wounded that jealous heart, so jealous that the very animals caused it a bitter pang by seeming to love someone whom it loved. she dared not speak to mère jupillon and denounce the little one to her, for fear of betraying herself; but whenever she found herself alone with jupillon she vented her feelings in recriminations, complaints and quarrels. she would remind him of an incident, a word, something he had done or said, some answer he had made, a trifle forgotten by him but still bleeding in her heart. "are you mad?" jupillon would say to her; "a slip of a girl!"--"a slip of a girl, eh? nonsense!--when she has such eyes that all the men stare at her in the street! i went out with her the other day--i was ashamed--i don't know how she did it, but we were followed by a gentleman all the time."--"well, what if you were? she's a pretty girl, you know!"--"pretty! pretty!" and at that word germinie would hurl herself, figuratively speaking, at the girl's face, and claw it to pieces with frantic words. often she would end by saying to jupillon: "look here! you love her!"--"well! what then?" he would retort, highly entertained by these disputes, by the opportunity to watch the antics of this fierce wrath which he fanned with pretended sulkiness, and by the excitement of trifling with the woman, whom he saw to be half insane under his sarcasms and his indifference, stumbling wildly about and running her head against stone walls in the first paroxysms of madness. as a result of these scenes, repeated almost every day, a revolution took place in that excitable, extreme character, which knew no middle course, in that heart in which the most violent passions were constantly clashing. love, in which poison had long been at work, became decomposed and changed to hate. germinie began to detest her lover and to seek out every possible pretext for hating him more. and her thoughts recurred to her daughter, to the loss of her child, to the cause of her death, and she persuaded herself that he had killed her. she looked upon him as an assassin. she conceived a horror of him, she avoided him, fled from him as from the evil genius of her life, with the terror that one has of a person who is one's bane! xxv one morning, after a night passed by her in turning over and over in her mind all her despairing, hate-ridden thoughts, germinie went to the creamery for her four sous' worth of milk and found in the back-shop three or four maids from the neighborhood engaged in "taking an eye-opener." they were seated at a table, gossiping and sipping liqueurs. "aha!" said adèle, striking the table with her glass; "you here already, mademoiselle de varandeuil?" "what's this?" said germinie, taking adèle's glass; "i'd like some myself." "are you so thirsty as all that this morning? brandy and absinthe, that's all!--my soldier boy's _tap_, you know,--he never drank anything else. it's a little stiff, eh?" "ah! yes," said germinie, contracting her lips and winking like a child who is given a glass of liqueur with the dessert at a grand dinner-party. "it's good, all the same." her spirits rose. "madame jupillon, let's have the bottle--i'll pay." and she tossed money on the table. after the third glass, she cried: "i am _tight_!" and she roared with laughter. mademoiselle de varandeuil had gone out that morning to collect her half-yearly income. when she returned at eleven o'clock, she rang once, twice! no one came. "ah!" she said to herself, "she must have gone down." she opened the door with her key, went to her bedroom and looked in: the mattress and bedclothes lay in a heap on two chairs, and germinie was stretched out across the straw under-mattress, sleeping heavily, like a log, in the utterly relaxed condition following a sudden attack of lethargy. at the noise made by mademoiselle, germinie sprang to her feet and passed her hand over her eyes.--"yes?" she said, as if some one had called her; her eyes were wandering. "what's happened?" said mademoiselle de varandeuil in alarm; "did you fall? is anything the matter with you?" "with me? no," germinie replied; "i fell asleep. what time is it? nothing's the matter. ah! what a fool!" and she began to shake the mattress, turning her back to her mistress to hide the flush of intoxication on her face. xxvi one sunday morning jupillon was dressing in the room germinie had furnished for him. his mother was sitting by, gazing at him with the wondering pride expressed in the eyes of mothers among the common people in presence of a son who dresses like a _monsieur_. "you're dressed up like the young man on the first floor!" she said. "i should think it was his coat. i don't mean to say fine things don't look well on you, too----" jupillon, intent upon tying his cravat, made no reply. "you'll play the deuce with the poor girls to-day!" continued mère jupillon, giving to her voice an accent of insinuating sweetness: "look you, bibi, let me tell you this, you great bad boy: if a young woman goes wrong, so much the worse for her! that's their look-out. you're a man, aren't you? you've got the age and the figure and everything. i can't always keep you in leading-strings. so, i said to myself, as well one as another. that one will do. and i fixed her so that she wouldn't see anything. yes, germinie would do, as you seemed to like her. that prevented you from wasting your money on bad women--and then i didn't see anything out of the way in the girl till now. but now it won't do at all. they're telling stories in the quarter--a heap of horrible things about us. a pack of vipers! we're above all that, i know. when one has been an honest woman all her life, thank god! but you never know what will happen--mademoiselle would only have to put the end of her nose into her maid's affairs. why there's the law--the bare idea gives me a turn. what do you say to that, bibi, eh?" "_dame_, mamma,--whatever you please." "ah! i knew you loved your dear darling mamma!" exclaimed the monstrous creature embracing him. "well! invite her to dinner to-night. you can get up two bottles of our lunel--at two francs--the heady kind. and be sure she comes. make eyes at her, so that she'll think to-day's the great day. put on your fine gloves: they'll make you look more dignified." germinie arrived at seven o'clock, happy and bright and hopeful, her head filled with blissful dreams by the mysterious air with which jupillon delivered his mother's invitation. they dined and drank and made merry. mère jupillon began to cast glances expressive of deep emotion, drowned in tears, upon the couple sitting opposite her. when the coffee was served, she said, as if for the purpose of being left alone with germinie: "bibi, you know you have an errand to do this evening." jupillon went out. madame jupillon, as she sipped her coffee, turned to germinie the face of a mother seeking to learn her daughter's secret, and, in her indulgence, forgiving her in advance of her confession. for a moment the two women sat thus, silent, one waiting for the other to speak, the other with the cry of her heart on her lips. suddenly germinie rushed from her chair into the stout woman's arms. "if you knew, madame jupillon!" she talked and wept and embraced her all at once. "oh! you won't be angry with me! well! yes, i love him--i've had a child by him. it's true, i love him. three years ago----" at every word madame jupillon's face became sterner and more icy. she coldly pushed germinie away, and in her most doleful voice, with an accent of lamentation and hopeless desolation, she began, like a person who is suffocating: "oh! my god--you!--tell me such things as that!--me!--his mother!--to my face! my god, must it be? my son--a child--an innocent child! you've had the face to ruin him for me! and now you tell me that you did it! no, it ain't possible, my god! and i had such confidence. there's nothing worth living for. there's no trusting anybody in this world! all the same, mademoiselle, i wouldn't ever 'a' believed it of you. _dame!_ such things give me a turn. ah! this upsets me completely. i know myself, and i'm quite likely to be sick after this----" "madame jupillon! madame jupillon!" germinie murmured in an imploring tone, half dead with shame and grief on the chair on which she had fallen. "i beg you to forgive me. it was stronger than i was. and then i thought--i believed----" "you believed! oh! my god; you believed! what did you believe? that you'd be my son's wife, eh? ah! lord god! is it possible, my poor child?" and adopting a more and more plaintive and lamentable tone as the words she hurled at germinie cut deeper and deeper, mère jupillon continued: "but, my poor girl, you must have a reason, let's hear it. what did i always tell you? that it would be all right if you'd been born ten years earlier. let's see, your date was , you told me, and now it's ' . you're getting on toward thirty, you see, my dear child. i say! it makes me feel bad to say that to you--i'd so much rather not hurt you. but a body only has to look at you, my poor young lady. what can i do? it's your age--your hair--i can lay my finger in the place where you part it." "but," said germinie, in whose heart black wrath was beginning to rumble, "what about what your son owes me? my money? the money i took out of the savings bank, the money i borrowed for him, the money i----" "money? he owes you money? oh! yes, what you lent him to begin business with. well! what about it? do you think we're thieves? does anyone want to cheat you out of your old money, although there wasn't any paper--i know it because the other day--it just occurs to me--that honest man of a child of mine wanted to write it down for fear he might die. but the next minute we're pickpockets, as glib as you please! oh! my god, it's hardly worth while living in such times as these! ah! i'm well paid for getting attached to you! but i see through it now. you're a politician, you are! you wanted to pay yourself with my son, for his whole life! excuse me! no, thank you! it costs less to give back your money! a café waiter's leavings! my poor dear boy! god preserve him from it!" germinie had snatched her shawl and hat from the hook and was out of doors. xxvii mademoiselle was sitting in her large armchair at the corner of the fireplace, where a few live embers were still sleeping under the ashes. her black cap was pulled down over her wrinkled forehead almost to her eyes. her black dress, cut in the shape of a child's frock, was draped in scanty folds about her scanty body, showing the location of every bone, and fell straight from her knees to the floor. she wore a small black shawl crossed on her breast and tied behind her back, as they are worn by little girls. her half-open hands were resting on her hips, with the palms turned outward--thin, old woman's hands, awkward and stiff, and swollen with gout at the knuckles and finger joints. sitting in the huddled, crouching posture that compels old people to raise their heads to look at you and speak to you, she seemed to be buried in all that mass of black, whence nothing emerged but her face, to which preponderance of bile had imparted the yellow hue of old ivory, and the flashing glance of her brown eyes. one who saw her thus, her bright, sparkling eyes, the meagre body, the garb of poverty and the noble air with which she bore all the burdens of age, might well have fancied that he was looking at a fairy on the stage of the petits-ménages. germinie was by her side. the old lady began: "the list is still under the door, eh, germinie?" "yes, mademoiselle." "do you know, my girl," mademoiselle de varandeuil resumed, after a pause, "do you know that when one is born in one of the finest houses on rue royale--when one has been in a fair way to own the grand and petit-charolais--when one has almost had the château of clichy-la-garenne for a country house--and when it took two servants to carry the silver platter on which the joint was served at your grandmother's--do you know that it takes no small amount of philosophy"--and mademoiselle with difficulty raised a hand to her shoulder--"to see yourself end like this, in this devilish nest of rheumatism, where, in spite of all the list in the world, you can't keep out of draughts.--that's it, stir up the fire a little." she put out her feet toward germinie, who was kneeling in front of the fireplace, and laughingly placed them under her nose: "do you know that that takes no small amount of philosophy--to wear stockings out at heel! simpleton! i'm not scolding you; i know well enough that you can't do everything. so you might as well have a woman come to do the mending. that's not very much to do. why don't you speak to that little girl that came here last year? she had a face that i remember." "oh! she's black as a mole, mademoiselle." "bah! i knew it. in the first place you never think well of anybody. that isn't true, you say? why, wasn't she a niece of mère jupillon's? we might take her for one or two days a week." "that hussy shall never set foot here." "nonsense, more fables! you're a most astonishing creature, to adore people and then not want to see them again. what has she done to you?" "she's a lost creature, i tell you!" "bah! what does my linen care for that?" "but, mademoiselle." "all right! find me someone else then. i don't care about her particularly. but find me someone." "oh! the women that come in like that don't do any work. i'll mend your clothes. you don't need any one." "you!--oh! if we have to rely on your needle!" said mademoiselle jocosely; "and then, will mère jupillon ever give you the time?" "madame jupillon? oh! for all the dust i shall ever leave in her house again!" "hoity-toity! what's that? she too! so she's on your black books, is she? oho! hurry up and make another acquaintance, or else, _bon dieu de dieu_! we shall have some bad days here!" xxviii the winter of that year should certainly have assured mademoiselle de varandeuil a share of paradise hereafter. she had to undergo the reflex action of her maid's chagrin, her nervous irritability, the vengeance of her embittered, contradictory moods, which the approaching spring would ere long infect with that species of malignant madness which the critical season, the travail of nature and the restless, disturbing fructification of the summer cause in unhealthily sensitive organizations. germinie was forever wiping eyes which no longer wept, but which had once wept copiously. she was always ready with an everlasting: "nothing's the matter, mademoiselle!" uttered in the tone that covers a secret. she adopted dumb, despairing, funereal attitudes, the airs by which a woman's body diffuses melancholy and makes her very shadow a bore. with her face, her glance, her mouth, the folds of her dress, her presence, the noise she made at work in the adjoining room, even with her silence, she enveloped mademoiselle in the despair that exhaled from her person. at the slightest word she would bristle up. mademoiselle could not address an observation to her, ask her the most trivial question, give her an order or express a wish: everything was taken by her as a reproach. and thereupon she would act like a madwoman. she would wipe her eyes and grumble: "oh! i am very unfortunate! i can see that mademoiselle doesn't care for me any more!" her spite against various people vented itself in sublimely ingenious complaints. "that woman always comes when it rains!" she would say, upon discovering a bit of mud that madame de belleuse had left on the carpet. during the week following new year's day, the week when all of mademoiselle de varandeuil's remaining relatives and friends, rich and poor alike, climbed the five flights and waited on the landing at her door for their turns to occupy the six chairs in her bedroom, germinie redoubled her ill-humor, her impertinent remarks, her sulky muttering. inventing grievances against her mistress, she punished her constantly by a persistent silence, which it was impossible to break. then there would be periods of frenzied industry. mademoiselle would hear through the partitions on all sides furious manipulation of the broom and duster, the sharp, vicious scrubbing and slamming of the servant whom one imagines muttering to herself as she maltreats the furniture: "oh! yes, i'll do your work for you!" old people are patient with servants who have been long in their service. long habit, the weakening will-power, the horror of change, the dread of new faces,--everything disposes them to weakness and cowardly concessions. notwithstanding her quick temper, her promptness to lose her head, to fly into a rage, to breathe fire and flame, mademoiselle said nothing. she acted as if she saw nothing. she pretended to be reading when germinie entered the room. she waited, curled up in her easy-chair, until the maid's ill-humor had blown over or burst. she bent her back before the storm; she said no word, had no thought of bitterness against her. she simply pitied her for causing herself so much suffering. in truth germinie was not mademoiselle de varandeuil's maid; she was devotion, waiting to close her eyes. the solitary old woman, overlooked by death, alone at the end of her life, dragging her affections from grave to grave, had found her last friend in her servant. she had rested her heart upon her as upon an adopted daughter, and she was especially unhappy because she was powerless to comfort her. moreover, at intervals, germinie returned to her from the depths of her brooding melancholy and her savage humor, and threw herself on her knees before her kind heart. suddenly, at a ray of sunlight, a beggar's song, or any one of the nothings that float in the air and expand the heart, she would burst into tears and demonstrations of affection; her heart would overflow with burning emotions, she would seem to feel a pleasure in embracing her mistress, as if the joy of living again had effaced everything. at other times some trifling ailment of mademoiselle's would bring about the change; a smile would come to the old servant's face and gentleness to her hands. sometimes, at such moments, mademoiselle would say: "come, my girl--something's the matter. tell me what it is." and germinie would reply: "no, mademoiselle, it's the weather."--"the weather!" mademoiselle would repeat with a doubtful air, "the weather!" xxix one evening in march the jupillons, mother and son, were talking together by the stove in their back-shop. jupillon had been drafted. the money his mother had put aside to purchase his release had been used up as a result of six months of poor business and by credits given to certain _lorettes_ on the street, who had left the key under their door-mat one fine morning. he had not prospered, in a business way, himself, and his stock in trade had been taken on execution. he had been that day to ask a former employer to advance him the money to purchase a substitute. but the old perfumer had not forgiven him for leaving him and setting up for himself, and he refused point-blank. mère jupillon, in despair, was complaining tearfully. she repeated the number drawn by her son: "twenty-two! twenty-two!" and she said: "and yet i sewed a black spider into your _paletot_ with his web; a _velvety_ fellow he was! oh, dear! i ought to have done as they told me and made you wear the cap you were baptized in. ah! the good god ain't fair! there's the fruit woman's son drew a lucky number! that comes of being honest! and those two sluts at number eighteen must go and hook it with my money! i might have known they meant something by the way they shook hands. they did me out of more than seven hundred francs, did you know it? and the black creature opposite--and that infernal girl as had the face to eat pots of strawberries at twenty francs! they might as well have taken me too, the hussies! but you haven't gone yet all the same. i'd rather sell the creamery--i'll go out to work again, do cooking or housekeeping,--anything! why, i'd draw money from a stone for you!" jupillon smoked and let his mother do the talking. when she had finished, he said: "that'll do for talk, mamma!--all that's nothing but words. you'll spoil your digestion and it ain't worth while. you needn't sell anything--you needn't strain yourself at all--i'll buy my substitute and it sha'n't cost you a sou;--do you want to bet on it?" "jesus!" ejaculated madame jupillon. "i have an idea." after a pause, jupillon continued: "i didn't want to make trouble with you on account of germinie--you know, at the time the stories about us were going round; you thought it was time for me to break with her--that she would be in our way--and you kicked her out of the house, stiff. that wasn't my idea--i didn't think she was so bad as all that for the family butter. but, however, you thought best to do it. and perhaps, after all, you did the best thing; instead of cooling her off, you warmed her up for me--yes, warmed her up--i've met her once or twice--and she's changed, i tell you. gad! how she's drying up!" "but you know very well she hasn't got a sou." "i don't say she has, of her own. but what's that got to do with it? she'll find it somewhere. she's good for twenty-three hundred shiners yet!" "but suppose you get mixed up in it?" "oh! she won't steal 'em----" "the deuce she won't!" "well! if she does, it won't be from anyone but her mistress. do you suppose her mademoiselle would have her pinched for that? she'll turn her off, and that'll be the end of it. we'll advise her to try the air in another quarter--off she goes!--and we sha'n't see her again. but it would be too stupid for her to steal. she'll arrange it somehow, she'll hunt round and turn things over. i don't know how, not i! but that's her affair, you understand. this is the time for her to show her talents. by the way, perhaps you don't know, they say her old woman's sick. if the dear lady should happen to step out and leave her all the stuff, as the story goes in the quarter--why, it wouldn't be a bad thing to have played see-saw with her, eh, mamma? we must put on gloves, you see, mamma, when we're dealing with people who may have four or five thousand a year come tumbling into their aprons." "oh! my god! what are you talking about? but after the way i treated her--oh! no, she'll never come back here." "well! i tell you i'll bring her back--and to-night at the latest," said jupillon, rising, and rolling a cigarette between his fingers. "no excuses, you know," he said to his mother, "they won't do any good--and be cold to her. act as if you received her only on my account, because you are weak. no one knows what may happen, we must always keep an anchor to windward." xxx jupillon was walking back and forth on the sidewalk in front of germinie's house when she came out. "good-evening, germinie," he said, behind her. she turned as if she had been struck, and, without answering his greeting, instinctively moved on a few steps as if to fly from him. "germinie!" jupillon said nothing more than that; he did not follow her, he did not move. she came back to him like a trained beast when his rope is taken off. "what is it?" said she. "do you want more money? or do you want to tell me some of your mother's foolish remarks?" "no, but i am going away," said jupillon, with a serious face. "i am drafted--and i am going away." "you are going away?" said she. she seemed as if her mind was not awake. "look here, germinie," jupillon continued. "i have made you unhappy. i haven't been very kind to you, i know. my cousin's been a little to blame. what do you want?" "you're going away?" rejoined germinie, taking his arm. "don't lie to me--are you going away?" "i tell you, yes--and it's true. i'm only waiting for marching orders. you have to pay more than two thousand francs for a substitute this year. they say there's going to be a war: however, there's a chance." as he spoke he was leading germinie down the street. "where are you taking me?" said she. "to mother's, of course--so that you two can make up and put an end to all this nonsense." "after what she said to me? never!" and germinie pushed jupillon's arm away. "well, if that's the way it is, good-bye." and jupillon raised his cap. "shall i write to you from the regiment?" germinie was silent, hesitating, for a moment. then she said, abruptly: "come on!" and, motioning to jupillon to walk beside her, she turned back up the street. and so they walked along, side by side, without a word. they reached a paved road that stretched out as far as the eye could see, between two lines of lanterns, between two rows of gnarled trees that held aloft handfuls of bare branches and cast their slender, motionless shadows on high blank walls. there, in the keen air, chilled by the evaporation of the snow, they walked on and on for a long time, burying themselves in the vague, infinite, unfamiliar depths of a street that follows the same wall, the same trees, the same lanterns, and leads on to the same darkness beyond. the damp, heavy air that they breathed smelt of sugar and tallow and carrion. from time to time a vivid flash passed before their eyes: it was the lantern of a butcher's cart that shone upon slaughtered cattle and huge pieces of bleeding meat thrown upon the back of a white horse; the light upon the flesh, amid the darkness, resembled a purple conflagration, a furnace of blood. "well! have you reflected?" said jupillon. "this little avenue trudaine isn't a very cheerful place, do you know?" "come on," germinie replied. and, without another word, she set out again at the same fierce, jerky gait, agitated by all the tumult raging in her heart. her thoughts were expressed in her gestures. her feet went astray, madness attacked her hands. at times her shadow, seen from behind, reminded one of a woman from la salpêtrière. two or three passers-by stopped for a moment and looked after her; then, remembering that they were in paris, passed on. suddenly she stopped, and with the gesture of one who has made a desperate resolution, she said: "ah! my god! another pin in the cushion!--let us go!" and she took jupillon's arm. "oh! i know very well," said jupillon, when they were near the creamery, "my mother wasn't fair to you. you see, the woman has been too virtuous all her life. she don't know, she don't understand. and then, d'ye see, i'll tell you the whole secret: she loves me so much she's jealous of any woman who loves me. so go in, do!" and he pushed her into the arms of madame jupillon, who kissed her, mumbled a few words of regret, and made haste to weep in order to relieve her own embarrassment and make the scene more affecting. throughout the evening germinie sat with her eyes fixed on jupillon, almost terrifying him with her expression. "come, come," he said, as he walked home with her, "don't be so down in the mouth as all this. we must have a little philosophy in this world. well! here i am a soldier--that's all! to be sure they don't all come back. but then--look here! i propose that we enjoy ourselves for the fortnight that's left, because it will be so much gained--and if i don't come back--well, at all events, i shall leave you a pleasant memory of me." germinie made no reply. xxxi for a whole week germinie did not set foot in the shop again. the jupillons, when she did not return, began to despair. at last, one evening about half past ten, she pushed the door open, entered the shop without a word of greeting, walked up to the little table where the mother and son were sitting half asleep, and placed upon it, beneath her hand which was closed like a claw, an old piece of cloth that gave forth a ringing sound. "there it is!" said she. and, letting go the corners of the cloth, she emptied its contents on the table: forth came greasy bank-notes, patched on the back, fastened together with pins, old tarnished louis d'or, black hundred-sou pieces, forty-sou pieces, ten-sou pieces, the money of the poor, the money of toil, money from christmas-boxes, money soiled by dirty hands, worn out in leather purses, rubbed smooth in the cash drawer filled with sous--money with a flavor of perspiration. for a moment she gazed at the display as if to assure her own eyes; then she said to madame jupillon in a sad voice, the voice of her sacrifice: "there it is--there's the two thousand three hundred francs for him to buy a substitute." "oh! my dear germinie!" said the stout woman, almost suffocated by emotion; and she threw herself upon germinie's neck, who submitted to be embraced. "oh! you must take something with us--a cup of coffee--" "no, thank you," said germinie; "i am done up. _dame!_ i've had to fly around, you know, to get them. i'm going to bed now. some other time." and she went away. she had had to "fly around," as she said, to scrape together such a sum, to accomplish that impossibility: to raise two thousand three hundred francs--two thousand three hundred francs, of which she had not the first five! she had collected them, begged them, extorted them piece by piece, almost sou by sou. she had picked them up, scraped them together here and there, from this one and from that one, by loans of two hundred, one hundred, fifty, twenty francs, or whatever sum anyone would lend. she had borrowed from her concierge, her grocer, her fruit woman, her poulterer, her laundress; she had borrowed from all the dealers in the quarter, and from the dealers in the quarters where she had previously lived with mademoiselle. she had made up the amount with money drawn from every source, even from her poor miserable water-carrier. she had gone a-begging everywhere, importuned humbly, prayed, implored, invented fables, swallowed the shame of lying and of seeing that she was not believed. the humiliation of confessing that she had no money laid by, as was supposed, and as, through pride, she had encouraged people to suppose, the sympathy of people she despised, the refusals, the alms, she had undergone everything, endured what she would not have endured to procure bread for herself, and not once only, with a single person, but with thirty, forty, all those who had given her something or from whom she had hoped for something. [illustration: chapter xxxi _at last, one evening about half past ten, she pushed the door open, entered the shop without a word of greeting, walked up to the little table where the mother and son were sitting half asleep, and placed upon it, beneath her hand which was closed like a claw, an old piece of cloth that gave forth a ringing sound._ _"there it is!" said she._] at last she had succeeded in collecting the money; but it was her master and had possession of her forever. her life thenceforth belonged to the obligations she had entered into with all these people, to the service her dealers had rendered her, knowing very well what they were doing. she belonged to her debt, to the sum she would have to pay every year. she knew it; she knew that all her wages would go in that way; that with the rates of interest, which she had left entirely at the discretion of her creditors, and the written obligations demanded by them, mademoiselle's three hundred francs would hardly suffice to pay the interest on the twenty-three hundred she had borrowed. she knew that she was in debt, that she should be in debt forever, that she was doomed forever to privation and embarrassment, to the strictest economy in her manner of living and her dress. she had hardly any more illusions as to the jupillons than as to her own future. she had a presentiment that her money was lost so far as they were concerned. she had not even based any hopes on the possibility that this sacrifice would touch the young man. she had acted on the impulse of the moment. if she had been told to die to prevent his going, she would have died. the idea of seeing him a soldier, the idea of the battlefield, the cannon, the wounded, in presence of which a woman shuts her eyes in terror, had led her to do something more than die; to sell her life for that man, to consign herself to everlasting poverty. xxxii disorders of the nervous system frequently result in disarranging the natural sequence of human joys and sorrows, in destroying their proportion and equilibrium, and in carrying them to the greatest possible excess. it seems that, under the influence of this disease of sensitiveness, the sharpened, refined, spiritualized sensations exceed their natural measure and limits, reach a point beyond themselves, and, as it were, make the enjoyment and suffering of the individual infinite. so the infrequent joys that germinie still knew were insane joys, from which she emerged drunk, and with the physical symptoms of drunkenness.--"why, my girl," mademoiselle sometimes could not forbear saying, "anyone would think you were tipsy."--"mademoiselle makes you pay dear for a little amusement once in a while!" germinie would reply. and when she relapsed into her sorrowful, disappointed, restless condition, her desolation was more intense, more frantic and delirious than her gayety. the moment had arrived when the terrible truth, which she had suspected before, at last became clear to her. she saw that she had failed to lay hold of jupillon by the devotion her love had manifested, by stripping herself of all she possessed, by all the pecuniary sacrifices which involved her life in the toils and embarrassment of a debt it was impossible for her to pay. she felt that he gave her his love grudgingly, a love to which he imparted all the humiliation of an act of charity. when she told him that she was again _enceinte_, the man whom she was about to make a father once more said to her: "well, women like you are amusing creatures! always full or just empty!" she conceived the ideas, the suspicions that come to genuine love when it is betrayed, the presentiments of the heart that tell women they are no longer in undisputed possession of their lovers, and that there is another because there is likely to be another. she complained no more, she wept no more, she indulged no more in recrimination. she abandoned the struggle with this man, armed with indifference, who, with the cold-blooded sarcasm of the vulgar cad, was so expert in insulting her passion, her unreasoning impulses, her wild outbursts of affection. and so, in agonizing resignation, she set herself the task of waiting--for what? she did not know: perhaps until he would have no more of her. heart-broken and silent, she kept watch upon jupillon; she followed him about and never lost sight of him; she tried to make him speak by interjecting remarks in his fits of distraction. she hovered about him, but she saw nothing wrong, she could lay hold of nothing, detect nothing; and yet she was convinced that there was something and that what she feared was true; she felt a woman's presence in the air. one morning, as she went down the street rather earlier than usual, she spied him a few yards before her on the sidewalk. he was dressed up, and constantly looked himself over as he walked along. from time to time he raised his trouser leg a little to see the polish on his boots. she followed him. he went straight on without looking back. she was not far behind him when he reached place bréda. there was a woman walking on the square beside the cabstand. germinie could see nothing of her but her back. jupillon went up to her and she turned: it was his cousin. they began to walk side by side, up and down the square; then they started through rue bréda toward rue de navarin. there the girl took jupillon's arm; she did not lean on it at first, but little by little, as they proceeded, she leaned toward him, with the movement of a branch when it is bent, and drew closer and closer. they walked slowly, so slowly that at times germinie was obliged to stop in order to keep at a safe distance from them. they ascended rue des martyrs, passed through rue de la tour d'auvergne, and went down rue montholon. jupillon was talking earnestly; the cousin said nothing, but listened to jupillon, and walked on with the absent-minded air of a woman smelling of a bouquet, now and then darting a little vague glance on one side or the other--the glance of a frightened child. when they reached rue lamartine, opposite the passage des deux-soeurs, they turned. germinie had barely time to throw herself in at a hall door. they passed without seeing her. the little one was very serious and walked slowly. jupillon was talking into her ear. they stopped for a moment; jupillon gesticulated earnestly; the girl stared fixedly at the pavement. germinie thought they were about to part; but they resumed their walk together and made four or five turns, passing back and forth by the end of the passage. at last they turned in; germinie darted from her hiding-place and rushed after them. from the gateway of the passage she saw the skirt of a dress disappear through the door of a small furnished lodging-house, beside a wine shop. she ran to the door, looked into the hall and could see nothing. thereupon all her blood rushed to her head, with one thought, a single thought that her lips kept repeating like an idiot: "vitriol! vitriol! vitriol!" and as her thoughts were instantly transformed into the act of which she thought, and her delirium transported her abruptly to the crime she contemplated, she said to herself that she would go up the stairs with the bottle well hidden under her shawl; she would knock at the door very loud and continuously. he would come at last and would open the door a crack. she would say nothing to him, not her name even. she would go in without heeding him. she was strong enough to kill him! and she would go to the bed, to _her_! she would take her by the arm and say: "yes it's me--this is for your life!" and over her face, her throat, her skin, over everything about her that was youthful and attractive and that invited love, germinie watched the vitriol sear and seam and burn and hiss, transforming her into a horrible object that filled germinie's heart to overflowing with joy! the bottle was empty, and she laughed! and, in her frightful dream, her body also dreaming, her feet began to move. she walked unconsciously down the passage, into the street and to a grocer's shop. ten minutes she stood motionless at the counter, with eyes that did not see, the vacant, wandering eyes of one who has murder in his heart. "well, well, what do you want?" said the grocer's wife testily, almost frightened by the bearing of this woman who did not stir. "what do i want?" said germinie. she was so filled, so possessed with the thought of what she wanted that she believed she had asked for vitriol. "what do i want?"--she passed her hand across her forehead.--"ah! i don't know now." and she left the shop, stumbling as she went. xxxiii in the torment of the life she was leading, in which she suffered the horrors of death and of unsatisfied passion, germinie, seeking to deaden her ghastly thoughts, had remembered the glass she had taken from adèle's hand one morning, which gave her a whole day of oblivion. from that day she had taken to drink. she had begun with the little morning draughts to which the maids of kept women are addicted. she had drunk with this one and with that one. she had drunk with men who came to breakfast at the creamery; she had drunk with adèle, who drank like a man and who took a base delight in seeing this virtuous woman's maid descend as low as herself. at first she had needed excitement, company, the clinking of glasses, the encouragement of speech, the inspiration of the challenge, in order to arouse the desire to drink; but she had soon reached the point where she drank alone. then it was that she began to carry home a half-filled glass under her apron and hide it in a corner of the kitchen; that she had taken to drinking those mixtures of white wine and brandy, of which she would take draught upon draught until she had found that for which she thirsted--sleep. for what she craved was not the fevered brain, the happy confusion, the living folly, the delirious, waking dream of drunkenness; what she needed, what she sought was the negative joy of sleep, lethean, dreamless sleep, a leaden sleep falling upon her like the blow of the sledge upon the ox's head: and she found it in those compounds which struck her down and stretched her out face downward on the waxed cover of the kitchen table. to sleep that overpowering sleep, to wallow, by day, in that midnight darkness, had come to mean to her a truce, deliverance from an existence that she had not the courage to continue or to end. an overwhelming longing for oblivion was all she felt when she awoke. the hours of her life that she passed in possession of her faculties, contemplating herself, examining her conscience, looking on at her own shame, seemed to her so execrable! she preferred to kill them. there was nothing in the world but sleep to make her forget everything--the congested sleep of intoxication, which lulls its victim with the arms of death. in that glass, from which she forced herself to drink, and which she emptied in a sort of frenzy, her sufferings, her sorrows, all her horrible present would be drowned and disappear. in a half hour, her mind would have ceased to think, her life would have ceased to exist; nothing of her surroundings would have any being for her, there would be no more time even, so far as she was concerned. "i drink away my troubles!" she said to a woman who told her that she would wreck her health by drinking. and as, in the periods of reaction that followed her debauches, there came to her a more painful feeling of her own shame, a greater sense of desolation and a fiercer detestation of her mistakes and her sins, she sought stronger decoctions of alcohol, more fiery brandy, and even drank pure absinthe, in order to produce a more deathly lethargy, and to make her more utterly oblivious to everything. she ended by attaining in this way whole half days of unconsciousness, from which she emerged only half awake, with benumbed intelligence, blunted perceptions, hands that did things by force of habit, the motions of a somnambulist, a body and a mind in which thought, will, memory seemed still to retain the drowsiness and vagueness of the confused waking hours of the morning. xxxiv half an hour after the horrible meeting when--her mind having dabbled in crime as if with her fingers--she had determined to disfigure her rival with vitriol and had believed that she had done so, germinie returned to rue de laval with a bottle of brandy procured at the grocer's. for two weeks she had been mistress of the apartment, free to indulge her brutish appetite. mademoiselle de varandeuil, who as a general rule hardly stirred from her chair, had gone, strangely enough, to pass six weeks with an old friend in the country; and she decided not to take germinie with her for fear of setting a bad example to the other servants, and arousing their jealousy of a maid who was accustomed to very light duties and was treated on a different footing from themselves. germinie went into mademoiselle's bedroom and took no more time than was necessary to throw her shawl and hat on the floor before she began to drink, with the neck of the bottle between her teeth, pouring down the liquid hurriedly until everything in the room was whirling around her, and she remembered nothing of the day. thereupon, staggering, feeling that she was about to fall, she tried to throw herself on her mistress's bed to sleep; but her dizziness threw her against the night table. from that she fell to the floor and lay without moving; she simply snored. but the blow was so violent that during the night she had a miscarriage, followed by one of those hemorrhages in which the life often ebbs away. she tried to rise and go out on the landing to call; she tried to stand up: she could not. she felt that she was gliding on to death, entering its portals and descending with gentle moderation. at last, summoning all her strength for a final effort, she dragged herself as far as the hall door; but it was impossible for her to lift her head to the keyhole, impossible to cry out. and she would have died where she lay had not adèle, as she was passing in the morning, heard a groan, and, in her alarm, fetched a locksmith to open the door, and afterward a midwife to attend to the dying woman. when mademoiselle returned a month later, she found germinie up and about, but so weak that she was constantly obliged to sit down, and so pale that she seemed to have no blood left in her body. they told her that she had had a hemorrhage of which she nearly died: mademoiselle suspected nothing. xxxv germinie welcomed mademoiselle's return with melting caresses, wet with tears. her affectionate manner was like a sick child's; she had the same clinging gentleness, the imploring expression, the melancholy of timid, frightened suffering. she sought excuses for touching her mistress with her white blue-veined hands. she approached her with a sort of trembling and fervent humility. very often, as she sat facing her upon a stool, and looked up at her with eyes like a dog's, she would rise and go and kiss some part of her dress, then resume her seat, and in a moment begin again. there was heart-rending entreaty in these caresses, these kisses of germinie's. death, whose footsteps she had heard approaching her as if it were a living person; the hours of utter prostration, when, as she lay in her bed, alone with herself, she had reviewed her whole past life; the consciousness of the shame of all she had concealed from mademoiselle de varandeuil; the fear of a judgment of god, rising from the depths of her former religious ideas; all the reproaches, all the apprehensions that whisper in the ear of a dying agony had aroused a horrible dread in her conscience; and remorse,--the remorse that she had never been able to put down,--was now alive and crying aloud in her enfeebled, broken body, as yet but partially restored to life, as yet scarcely firm in the persuasion that it was alive. germinie's was not one of those fortunate natures that do wrong and leave the memory of it behind them, and never feel a twinge of regret. she had not, like adèle, one of those vulgar material organizations, which never allow themselves to be affected by any but animal impulses. she was not blessed with one of those consciences which escape suffering by virtue of mere brutishness, or of that dense stupidity in which a woman vegetates, sinning because she knows no better. in her case, an unhealthy sensitiveness, a sort of cerebral excitement, a disposition on the part of the brain to be always on the alert, to work itself into a frenzy of bitterness, anxiety and discontent with itself, a moral sense that stood erect, as it were, after every one of her backslidings, all the characteristics of a sensitive mind, predestined to misfortune, united to torture her, and to renew day after day, more openly and more cruelly in her despair, the agony due to acts that would hardly have caused such long-continued suffering in many women in her station. germinie yielded to the impulse of passion; but as soon as she had yielded to it she despised herself. even in the excitement of pleasure she could not entirely forget and lose herself. the image of mademoiselle always arose before her, with her stern, motherly face. germinie did not become immodest in the same degree that she abandoned herself to her passions and sank lower and lower in vice. the degrading depths to which she descended did not fortify her against her disgust and horror of herself. habit did not harden her. her defiled conscience rejected its defilement, struggled fiercely in its shame, rent itself in its repentance and did not for one second permit itself the full enjoyment of vice, was never completely stunned by its fall. and so when mademoiselle, forgetting that she was a servant, leaned over to her with the brusque familiarity of tone and gesture that went straight to her heart, germinie, confused and overcome with blushing timidity, was speechless and seemed bereft of sense under the horrible torture caused by the consciousness of her own unworthiness. she would fly from the room, she would invent some pretext to escape from that affection which she so shamefully betrayed, and which, when it touched her, stirred her remorse to shuddering activity. xxxvi the miraculous part of this disorderly, abandoned life, this life of shame and misery, was that it did not become known. germinie allowed no trace of anything to appear outside; she allowed nothing to rise to her lips, nothing to be seen in her face, nothing to be noticed in her manner, and the accursed background of her existence remained hidden from her mistress. it had, indeed, sometimes occurred to mademoiselle in a vague way that her maid had some secret, something that she was concealing from her, something that was obscure in her life. she had had moments of doubt, of suspicion, an instinctive feeling of uneasiness, confused glimpses of something wrong, a faint scent that eluded her and vanished in the gloom. she had thought at times that she had stumbled upon sealed, unresponsive recesses in the girl's heart, upon a mystery, upon some unlighted passage of her life. again, at times it had seemed to her that her maid's eyes did not say what her mouth said. involuntarily, she had remembered a phrase that germinie often repeated: "a sin hidden, a sin half forgiven." but the thing that filled her thoughts above all else was amazement that germinie, despite the increase in her wages and the little gifts that she gave her almost every day, never purchased anything for her toilet, had no new dresses or linen. where did her money go? she had almost admitted having withdrawn her eighteen hundred francs from the savings bank. mademoiselle ruminated over it, then said to herself that that was the whole of her maid's mystery; it was about money, she was short of funds, doubtless on account of some obligations she had entered into long ago for her family, and perhaps she had been sending more money to "her _canaille_ of a brother-in-law." she was so kind-hearted and had so little system! she had so little idea of the value of a hundred-sou piece! that was all there was to it: mademoiselle was sure of it; and as she knew the girl's obstinate nature and had no hope of inducing her to change her mind, she said nothing to her. if this explanation did not fully satisfy mademoiselle, she attributed what there was strange and mysterious in her maid's behavior to her somewhat secretive nature, which retained something of the characteristic distrust of the peasant, who is jealous of her own petty affairs and takes delight in burying a corner of her life away down in her heart, as the villager hoards his sous in a woolen stocking. or else she persuaded herself that it was her ill health, her state of continual suffering that was responsible for her whims and her habit of dissimulation. and her mind, in its interested search for motives, stopped at that point, with the indolence and a little of the selfishness of old people's minds, who, having an instinctive dread of final results and of the real characters of their acquaintances, prefer not to be too inquisitive or to know too much. who knows? perhaps all this mystery was nothing but a paltry matter, unworthy to disturb or to interest her, some petty woman's quarrel. she went to sleep thereupon, reassured, and ceased to cudgel her brains. in truth, how could mademoiselle have guessed germinie's degradation and the horror of her secret! in her most poignant suffering, in her wildest intoxication, the unhappy creature retained the incredible strength necessary to suppress and keep back everything. from her passionate, overcharged nature, which found relief so naturally in expansion, never a word escaped or a syllable that cast a ray of light upon her secret. mortification, contempt, disappointment, self-sacrifice, the death of her child, the treachery of her lover, the dying agony of her love, all remained voiceless within her, as if she stifled their cries by pressing her hands upon her heart. her rare attacks of weakness, when she seemed to be struggling with pains that strangled her, the fierce, feverish caresses lavished upon mademoiselle de varandeuil, the sudden paroxysms, as if she were trying to give birth to something, always ended without words and found relief in tears. even illness, with its resulting weakness and enervation, forced nothing from her. it could make no impression on that heroic resolution to keep silent to the end. hysterical attacks extorted shrieks from her and nothing but shrieks. when she was a girl she dreamed aloud; she forced her dreams to cease speaking, she closed the lips of her sleep. as mademoiselle might have discovered from her breath that she had been drinking, she ate shallots and garlic, and concealed the fumes of liquor with their offensive odors. she even trained her intoxication, her drunken torpor to awake at her mistress's footstep, and remain awake in her presence. thus she led, as it were, two lives. she was like two women, and by dint of energy, adroitness and feminine diplomacy, with a self-assurance that never failed her even in the mental confusion caused by drink, she succeeded in separating those two existences, in living them both without mingling them, in never allowing the two women that lived in her to be confounded with each other, in continuing to be, with mademoiselle de varandeuil, the virtuous, respectable girl she had been, in emerging from her orgies without carrying away the taste of them, in displaying, when she left her lover, a sort of old-maidish modesty, shocked by the scandalous courses of other maids. she never uttered a word or bore herself in a way to arouse a suspicion of her clandestine life; nothing about her conveyed a hint as to the way her nights were passed. when she placed her foot upon the door-mat outside mademoiselle de varandeuil's apartments, when she approached her, when she stood before her, she adopted the tone and the attitude, even to a certain way of holding the dress, which relieve a woman from so much as a suspicion of having aught to do with men. she talked freely upon all subjects, as if she had nothing to blush for. she spoke with bitterness of the misdoings and shame of others, as if she were herself beyond reproach. she joked with her mistress about love, in a jovial, unembarrassed, indifferent tone; to hear her you would have thought she was talking of an old acquaintance of whom she had lost sight. and in the eyes of all those who saw her only as mademoiselle de varandeuil did and at her home, there was a certain atmosphere of chastity about her thirty-five years, the odor of stern, unimpeachable virtue, peculiar to middle-aged maid-servants and plain women. and yet all this falsehood in the matter of appearances was not hypocrisy in germinie. it did not arise from downright duplicity, from corrupt striving for effect: it was her affection for mademoiselle that made her what she was with her. she was determined at any price to save her the grief of seeing her as she was, of going to the bottom of her character. she deceived her solely in order to retain her affection,--with a sort of respect; and a feeling of veneration, almost of piety, stole into the ghastly comedy she was playing, like the feeling a girl has who lies to her mother in order not to rend her heart. xxxvii to lie! nothing was left for her but that. she felt that it was an impossibility to draw back from her present position. she did not even entertain the idea of an attempt to escape from it, it seemed such a hopeless task, she was so cowardly, so crushed and degraded, and she felt that she was still so firmly bound to that man by all sorts of vile, degrading chains, even by the contempt that he no longer tried to conceal from her! sometimes, as she reflected upon her plight, she was dismayed. the simple ideas and terrors of the peasantry recurred to her mind. and the superstitions of her youth whispered to her that the man had cast a spell upon her, that he had perhaps given her enchanted bread to eat. otherwise would she have been what she was? would she have felt, at the mere sight of him, that thrill of emotion through her whole frame, that almost brute-like sensation of the approach of a master? would she have felt her whole body, her mouth, her arms, her loving and caressing gestures involuntarily go out to him? would she have belonged to him so absolutely? long and bitterly she dwelt upon all that should have cured her, rescued her: the man's disdain, his insults, the degrading concessions he had forced from her; and she was compelled to admit that there had been nothing too precious for her to sacrifice to him, and that for him she had swallowed the things she loathed most bitterly. she tried to imagine the degree of degradation to which her love would refuse to descend, and she could conceive of none. he could do what he chose with her, insult her, beat her, and she would remain under his heel! she could not think of herself as not belonging to him. she could not think of herself without him. to have that man to love was necessary to her existence; she derived warmth from him, she lived by him, she breathed him. there seemed to be no parallel case to hers among the women of her condition whom she knew. no one of her comrades carried into a _liaison_ the intensity, the bitterness, the torture, the enjoyment of suffering that she found in hers. no one of them carried into it that which was killing her and which she could not dispense with. to herself she appeared an extraordinary creature, of an exceptional nature, with the temperament of animals whom ill-treatment binds the closer to their masters. there were days when she did not know herself, and when she wondered if she were still the same woman. as she went over in her mind all the base deeds to which jupillon had induced her to stoop, she could not believe that it was really she who had submitted to it. had she, violent and impulsive as she knew herself to be, boiling over with fiery passions, rebellious and hotheaded, exhibited such docility and resignation? she had repressed her wrath, forced back the murderous thoughts that had crowded to her brain so many times! she had always obeyed, always possessed her soul in patience, always hung her head! she had forced her nature, her instincts, her pride, her vanity, and more than all else, her jealousy, the fierce passions of her heart, to crawl at that man's feet! for the sake of keeping him she had stooped to share him, to allow him to have mistresses, to receive him from the hands of others, to seek a part of his cheek on which his cousin had not kissed him! and now, after all these sacrifices, with which she had wearied him, she retained her hold upon him by a still more distasteful sacrifice: she drew him to her by gifts, she opened her purse to him to induce him to keep appointments with her, she purchased his good-humor by gratifying his whims and his caprices; she paid this brute, who haggled over the price of his kisses and demanded _pourboires_ of love! and she lived from day to day in constant dread of what the miserable villain would demand of her on the morrow. xxxviii "he must have twenty francs," germinie mechanically repeated the sentence to herself several times, but her thoughts did not go beyond the words she uttered. the walk and the climb up five flights of stairs had made her dizzy. she fell in a sitting posture on the greasy couch in the kitchen, hung her head, and laid her arms on the table. her ears were ringing. her ideas went and came in a disorderly throng, stifling one another in her brain, and of them all but one remained, more and more distinct and persistent: "he must have twenty francs! twenty francs! twenty francs!" and she looked as if she expected to find them somewhere there, in the fireplace, in the waste-basket, under the stove. then she thought of the people who owed her, of a german maid who had promised to repay her more than a year before. she rose and tied her capstrings. she no longer said: "he must have twenty francs;" she said: "i will get them." she went down to adèle: "you haven't twenty francs for a note that just came, have you? mademoiselle has gone out." "nothing here," said adèle; "i gave madame my last twenty francs last night to get her supper. the jade hasn't come back yet. will you have thirty sous?" she ran to the grocer's. it was sunday, and three o'clock in the afternoon: the grocer had closed his shop. there were a number of people at the fruitwoman's; she asked for four sous' worth of herbs. "i haven't any money," said she. she hoped that the woman would say: "do you want some?" instead of that, she said: "what an idea! as if i was afraid of you!" there were other maids there, so she went out without saying anything more. "is there anything for us?" she said to the concierge. "ah! by the way, my pipelet, you don't happen to have twenty francs about you, do you? it will save my going way up-stairs again." "forty, if you want----" she breathed freely. the concierge went to a desk at the back of the lodge. "_sapristi!_ my wife has taken the key. why! how pale you are!" "it isn't anything." and she rushed out into the courtyard toward the door of the servant's staircase. this is what she thought as she went up-stairs: "there are people who find twenty-franc pieces. he needed them to-day, he told me. mademoiselle gave me my money not five days ago, and i can't ask her. after all, what are twenty francs more or less to her? the grocer would surely have lent them to me. i had another grocer on rue taitbout: he didn't close till evening sundays." she was in front of her own door. she leaned over the rail of the other staircase, looked to see if anyone was coming up, entered her room, went straight to mademoiselle's bedchamber, opened the window and breathed long and hard with her elbows on the window-sill. sparrows hastened to her from the neighboring chimneys, thinking that she was going to toss bread to them. she closed the window and glanced at the top of the commode--first at a vein of marble, then at a little sandal-wood box, then at the key--a small steel key left in the lock. suddenly there was a ringing in her ears; she thought that the bell rang. she ran and opened the door: there was no one there. she returned with the certainty that she was alone, went to the kitchen for a cloth and began to rub a mahogany armchair, turning her back to the commode; but she could still see the box, she could see it lying open, she could see the coins at the right where mademoiselle kept her gold, the papers in which she wrapped it, a hundred francs in each;--her twenty francs were there! she closed her eyes as if the light dazzled them. she felt a dizziness in her conscience; but immediately her whole being rose in revolt against her, and it seemed to her as if her heart in its indignation rose to her throat. in an instant the honor of her whole life stood erect between her hand and that key. her upright, unselfish, devoted past, twenty years of resistance to the evil counsels and the corruption of that foul quarter, twenty years of scorn for theft, twenty years in which her pocket had not held back a sou from her employers, twenty years of indifference to gain, twenty years in which temptation had never come near her, her long maintained and natural virtue, mademoiselle's confidence in her--all these things came to her mind in a single instant. her youthful years clung to her and took possession of her. from her family, from the memory of her parents, from the unsullied reputation of her wretched name, from the dead from whom she was descended, there arose a murmur as of guardian angels hovering about her. for one second she was saved. and then, insensibly, evil thoughts glided one by one into her brain. she sought for subjects of bitterness, for excuses for ingratitude to her mistress. she compared with her own wages the wages of which the other maids in the house boasted vaingloriously. she concluded that mademoiselle was very fortunate to have her in her service, and that she should have increased her wages more since she had been with her. "and then," she suddenly asked herself, "why does she leave the key in her box?" and she began to reflect thereupon that the money in the box was not used for living expenses, but had been laid aside by mademoiselle to buy a velvet dress for a goddaughter.--"sleeping money," she said to herself. she marshaled her reasons with precipitation, as if to make it impossible to discuss them. "and then, it's only for once. she would lend them to me if i asked her. and i will return them." she put out her hand and turned the key. she stopped; it seemed to her that the intense silence round about was listening to her and looking at her. she raised her eyes: the mirror threw back her face at her. before that face, her own, she was afraid; she recoiled in terror and shame as if before the face of her crime: it was a thief's head that she had upon her shoulders! she fled into the corridor. suddenly she turned upon her heel, went straight to the box, turned the key, put in her hand, fumbled under the hair trinkets and souvenirs, felt in a roll of five louis and took out one piece, closed the box and rushed into the kitchen. she had the little coin in her hand and dared not look at it. xxxix then it was that germinie's abasement and degradation began to be visible in her personal appearance, to make her stupid and slovenly. a sort of drowsiness came over her ideas. she was no longer keen and prompt of apprehension. what she had read and what she had learned seemed to escape her. her memory, which formerly retained everything, became confused and unreliable. the sharp wit of the parisian maid-servant gradually vanished from her conversation, her retorts, her laughter. her face, once so animated, was no longer lighted up by gleams of intelligence. in her whole person you would have said that she had become once more the stupid peasant girl that she was when she came from her province, when she went to a stationer's for gingerbread. she seemed not to understand. as mademoiselle expressed it, she made faces like an idiot. she was obliged to explain to her, to repeat two or three times things that germinie had always grasped on the merest hint. she asked herself, when she saw how slow and torpid she was, if somebody had not exchanged her maid for another.--"why, you're getting to be a perfect imbecile!" she would sometimes say to her testily. she remembered the time when germinie was so useful about finding dates, writing an address on a card, telling her what day they had put in the wood or broached the cask of wine,--all of which were things that her old brain could not remember. now germinie remembered nothing. in the evening, when she went over her accounts with mademoiselle, she could not think what she had bought in the morning; she would say: "wait!" but she would simply pass her hand vaguely across her brow; nothing would come to her mind. mademoiselle, to save her tired old eyes, had fallen into the habit of having germinie read the newspaper to her; but she got to stumbling so and reading with so little intelligence, that mademoiselle was compelled to decline her services with thanks. as her faculties failed, she abandoned and neglected her body in a like degree. she gave no thought to her dress, nor to cleanliness even. in her indifference she retained nothing of a woman's natural solicitude touching her personal appearance; she did not dress decently. she wore dresses spotted with grease and torn under the arms, aprons in rags, worn stockings in shoes that were out at heel. she allowed the cooking, the smoke, the coal, the wax, to soil her hands and face and simply wiped them as she would after dusting. formerly she had had the one coquettish and luxurious instinct of poor women, a love for clean linen. no one in the house had fresher caps than she. her simple little collars were always of that snowy whiteness that lights up the skin so prettily and makes the whole person clean. now she wore frayed, dirty caps which looked as if she had slept in them. she went without ruffles, her collar made a band of filth against the skin of her neck, and you felt that she was less clean beneath than above. an odor of poverty, rank and musty, arose from her. sometimes it was so strong that mademoiselle de varandeuil could not refrain from saying to her: "go and change your clothes, my girl--you smell of the poor!" in the street she no longer looked as if she belonged to any respectable person. she had not the appearance of a virtuous woman's maid. she lost the aspect of a servant who, by dint of displaying her self-esteem and self-respect even in her garb, reflects in her person the honor and the pride of her masters. from day to day she sank nearer to the level of that abject, shameless creature whose dress drags in the gutter--a dirty slattern. as she neglected herself, so she neglected everything about her. she kept nothing in order, she did no cleaning or washing. she allowed dirt and disorder to make their way into the apartments, to invade mademoiselle's own sanctum, with whose neatness mademoiselle was formerly so well pleased and so proud. the dust collected there, the spiders spun their webs behind the frames, the mirrors were as if covered with a veil; the marble mantels, the mahogany furniture, lost their lustre; moths flew up from the carpets which were never shaken, worms ensconced themselves where the brush and broom no longer came to disturb them; neglect spread a film of dust over all the sleeping, neglected objects that were formerly awakened and enlivened every morning by the maid's active hand. a dozen times mademoiselle had tried to spur germinie's self-esteem to action; but thereupon, for a whole day, there was such a frantic scrubbing, accompanied by such gusts of ill-humor, that mademoiselle would take an oath never to try again. one day, however, she made bold to write germinie's name with her finger in the dust on her mirror; germinie did not forgive her for a week. at last mademoiselle became resigned. she hardly ventured to remark mildly, when she saw that her maid was in good humor: "confess, germinie, that the dust is very well treated with us!" to the wondering observations of the friends who still came to see her and whom germinie was forced to admit, mademoiselle would reply, in a compassionate, sympathetic tone: "yes, it is filthy, i know! but what can you expect? germinie's sick, and i prefer that she shouldn't kill herself." sometimes, when germinie had gone out, she would venture to rub a cloth over a commode or touch a frame with the duster, with her gouty hands. she would do it hurriedly, afraid of being scolded, of having a scene, if the maid should return and detect her. germinie did almost no work; she barely served mademoiselle's meals. she had reduced her mistress's breakfast and dinner to the simplest dishes, those which she could cook most easily and quickly. she made her bed without raising the mattress, _à l'anglaise_. the servant that she had been was not to be recognized in her, did not exist in her, except on the days when mademoiselle gave a small dinner party, the number of covers being always considerable on account of the party of children invited. on those days germinie emerged, as if by enchantment, from her indolence and apathy, and, putting forth a sort of feverish strength, she recovered all her former energy in face of her ovens and the lengthened table. and mademoiselle was dumfounded to see her, all by herself, declining assistance and capable of anything, prepare in a few hours a dinner for half a score of persons, serve it and clear the table afterwards, with the nimble hands and all the quick dexterity of her youth. xl "no--not this time, no," said germinie, rising from the foot of jupillon's bed where she was sitting. "there's no way. why, you know perfectly well that i haven't a sou--anything you can call a sou! you've seen the stockings i wear, haven't you?" she lifted her skirt and showed him her stockings, all full of holes and tied together with strings. "i haven't a change of anything. money? why, i didn't even have enough to give mademoiselle a few flowers on her birthday. i bought her a bunch of violets for a sou! oh! yes, money, indeed! that last twenty francs--do you know where i got them? i took them out of mademoiselle's box! i've put them back. but that's done with. i don't want any more of that kind of thing. it will do for once. where do you expect me to get money now, just tell me that, will you? you can't pawn your skin at the mont-de-piété--unless!----but as to doing anything of that sort again, never in my life! whatever else you choose, but no stealing! i won't do it again. oh! i know very well what you will do. so much the worse!" "well! have you worked yourself up enough?" said jupillon. "if you'd told me that about the twenty francs, do you suppose i'd have taken it? i didn't suppose you were as hard up as all that. i saw that you went on as usual. i fancied it wouldn't put you out to lend me a twenty-franc piece, and i'd have returned it in a week or two with the others. but you don't say anything? oh! well, i'm done, i won't ask you for any more. but that's no reason we should quarrel, as i can see." and he added, with an indefinable glance at germinie: "till thursday, eh?" "till thursday!" said germinie, desperately. she longed to throw herself into jupillon's arms, to ask his pardon for her poverty, to say to him: "you see, i can't do it!" she repeated: "till thursday!" and took her leave. when, on thursday, she knocked at the door of jupillon's apartment on the ground floor, she thought she heard a man's hurried step at the other end of the room. the door opened; before her stood jupillon's cousin with her hair in a net, wearing a red jacket and slippers, and with the costume and bearing of a woman who is at home in a man's house. her belongings were tossed about here and there: germinie saw them on the chairs she had paid for. "whom does madame wish to see?" demanded the cousin, impudently. "monsieur jupillon?" "he has gone out." "i'll wait for him," said germinie, and she attempted to enter the other room. "you'll wait at the porter's lodge then;" and the cousin barred the way. "when will he return?" "when the hens have teeth," said the girl, seriously, and shut the door in her face. "well! this is just what i expected of him," said germinie to herself, as she walked along the street. the pavement seemed to give way beneath her trembling legs. xli when she returned that evening from a christening dinner, which she had been unable to avoid attending, mademoiselle heard talking in her room. she thought that there was someone with germinie, and, marveling thereat, she opened the door. in the dim light shed by an untrimmed, smoking candle she saw nothing at first; but, upon looking more closely, she discovered her maid lying in a heap at the foot of the bed. germinie was talking in her sleep. she was talking with a strange accent that caused emotion, almost fear. the vague solemnity of supernatural things, a breath from regions beyond this life, arose in the room, with those words of sleep, involuntary, fugitive words, palpitating, half-spoken, as if a soul without a body were wandering about a dead man's lips. the voice was slow and deep, and had a far-off sound, with long pauses of heavy breathing, and words breathed forth like sighs, with now and then a vibrating, painful note that went to the heart,--a voice laden with mystery and with the nervous tremor of the darkness, in which the sleeper seemed to be groping for souvenirs of the past and passing her hand over faces. "oh! she loved me dearly," mademoiselle heard her say. "and if he had not died we should be very happy now, shouldn't we? no! no! but it's done, worse luck, and i don't want to tell of it." the words were followed by a nervous contraction of her features as if she sought to seize her secret on the edge of her lips and force it back. mademoiselle, with something very like terror, leaned over the poor, forlorn body, powerless to direct its own acts, to which the past returned as a ghost returns to a deserted house. she listened to the confessions that were all ready to rush forth but were instinctively checked, to the unconscious mind that spoke without restraint, to the voice that did not hear itself. a sensation of horror came over her: she felt as if she were beside a dead body haunted by a dream. after a pause of some duration, and what seemed to be a sort of conflict between the things that were present in her mind, germinie apparently turned her attention to the circumstances of her present life. the words that escaped her, disjointed, incoherent words, were, as far as mademoiselle could understand them, addressed to some person by way of reproach. and as she talked on, her language became as unrecognizable as her voice, which had taken on the tone and accent of the dreamer. it rose above the woman, above her ordinary style, above her daily expressions. it was the language of the people, purified and transfigured by passion. germinie accentuated words according to their orthography; she uttered them with all their eloquence. the sentences came from her mouth with their proper rhythm, their heart-rending pathos and their tears, as from the mouth of an admirable actress. there were bursts of tenderness, interlarded with shrieks; then there were outbreaks of rebellion, fierce bursts of passion, and the most extraordinary, biting, implacable irony, always merging into a paroxysm of nervous laughter that repeated the same result and prolonged it from echo to echo. mademoiselle was confounded, stupefied, and listened as at the theatre. never had she heard disdain hurled down from so lofty a height, contempt so tear itself to tatters and gush forth in laughter, a woman's words express such a fierce thirst for vengeance against a man. she ransacked her memory: such play of feature, such intonations, such a dramatic and heart-rending voice as that voice of a consumptive coughing away her life, she could not remember since the days of mademoiselle rachel. at last germinie awoke abruptly, her eyes filled with the tears of her dream, and jumped down from the bed, seeing that her mistress had returned. "thanks," said mademoiselle, "don't disturb yourself! wallow about on my bed all you please!" "oh! mademoiselle," said germinie, "i wasn't lying where you put your head. i have made it nice and warm for your feet." "indeed! suppose you tell me what you've been dreaming? there was a man in it--you were having a dispute with him----" "dream?" said germinie, "i don't remember." she silently set about undressing her mistress, trying to recall her dream. when she had put her in bed, she said, drawing near to her: "ah! mademoiselle, won't you give me a fortnight, for once, to go home? i remember now." xlii soon after this, mademoiselle was amazed to notice an entire change in her maid's manner and habits. germinie no longer had her sullen, savage moods, her outbreaks of rebellion, her fits of muttering words expressive of discontent. she suddenly threw off her indolence and became once more an energetic worker. she no longer passed hours in doing her marketing; she seemed to avoid the street. she ceased to go out in the evening; indeed, she hardly stirred from mademoiselle's side, hovering about her and watching her from the time she rose in the morning until she went to bed at night, lavishing continuous, incessant, almost irritating attentions upon her, never allowing her to rise or even to put out her hand for anything, waiting upon her and keeping watch of her as if she were a child. at times mademoiselle was so worn out with her, so weary of this constant fussing about her person, that she would open her mouth to say: "come, come! aren't you almost ready to clear out!" but germinie would look up at her with a smile, a smile so sad and sweet that it checked the impatient exclamation on the old maid's lips. and so she stayed on with her, going about with a sort of fascinated, divinely stolid air, in the impassibility of profound adoration, buried in almost idiotic contemplation. at that period all the poor girl's affection turned to mademoiselle. her voice, her gestures, her eyes, her silence, her thoughts, went out to her mistress with the fervor of expiation, with the contrition of a prayer, the rapt intensity of a cult. she loved her with all the loving violence of her nature. she loved her with all the deceptive ardor of her passion. she strove to give her all that she had not given her, all that others had taken from her. every day her love clung more closely, more devoutly, to the old maid, who was conscious of being enveloped, embraced, agreeably warmed by the heat from those two arms that were thrown about her old age. xliii but the past and its debts were still there, and whispered to her every hour: "if mademoiselle knew!" she lived in the constant panic of a guilty woman, trembling with dread from morning till night. there was never a ring at the door that she did not say to herself: "it has come at last!" letters in a strange handwriting filled her with anxiety. she would feel of the wax with her fingers, bury the letters in her pocket, hesitate about delivering them, and the moment when mademoiselle unfolded the terrible paper and scanned its contents with the inexpressive eye of elderly people was as full of suspense to her as if she were awaiting sentence of death. she felt that her secret and her falsehood were in everybody's hand. the house had seen her and might speak. the quarter knew her as she was. of all about her, there was no one but her mistress whose esteem she could still steal. as she went in and out, the concierge looked at her with a smile and a glance, that said: "i know." she no longer dared to call him: "my pipelet." when she returned home he looked into her basket. "i am so fond of that!" his wife would say, when it contained some tempting morsel. at night she would take down what was left. she ate nothing herself. she ended by supplying them with food. the whole street frightened her no less than the hall and the porter's lodge. there was a face in every shop that reflected her shame and commented on her sins. at every step she had to purchase silence by groveling humility. the dealers she had not been able to repay had her in their clutches. if she said that anything was too dear, she was reminded in a bantering way that they were her masters, and that she must pay the price unless she chose to be denounced. a jest or an allusion drove the color from her cheeks. she was bound to them, compelled to trade with them and to allow them to empty her pockets as if they were accomplices. the successor of madame jupillon, who had gone into the grocery business at bar-sur aube,--the new _crémière_,--gave her bad milk, and when she suggested that mademoiselle complained about it, and that she was found fault with every morning, the woman replied: "much you care for your mademoiselle!" and at the fish-stall, if she smelt of a fish, and said: "this has been frozen," the reply would be: "bah! tell me next, will you, that i let the moon shine on their gills, so's to make 'em look fresh! so these are hard days for you, eh, my duck?" mademoiselle wanted her to go to the _halle centrale_ one day for her dinner, and she mentioned the fact in the fish-woman's presence. "oho! yes, yes, to the _halle_! i'd like to see you go to the _halle_!" and she bestowed a glance upon her in which germinie saw a threat to send her account to her mistress. the grocer sold her coffee that smelt of snuff, rotten prunes, dried rice and old biscuit. if she ventured to remonstrate, "nonsense!" he would say; "an old customer like you wouldn't want to make trouble for me. don't i tell you i give you good weight?" and he would coolly give her false weight of the goods that she ordered, and that he forced her to order. xliv it was a very great trial to germinie--a trial that she sought, however--to have to pass through a street where there was a school for young girls, when she went out before dinner to buy an evening paper for mademoiselle. she often happened to be at the door when the school was dismissed; she tried to run away--and stood still. at first there would be a sound like that made by a swarm of bees, a buzzing and humming, one of those great outbursts of childish joy that wake the echoes in the streets of paris. from the dark and narrow passageway leading to the schoolroom the children would rush forth as if escaping from an open cage, and run about and frolic in the sunlight. they would push and jostle one another, and toss their empty baskets in the air. then some would call to one another and form little groups; tiny hands would go forth to meet other tiny hands; friends would take one another by the arm or put their arms around one another's waists or necks, and walk along nibbling at the same tart. soon the whole band would be in motion, walking slowly up the filthy street with loitering step. the larger ones, ten years old at most, would stop and talk, like little women, at the _portes cochères_. others would stop to drink from their luncheon bottles. the smaller ones would amuse themselves by dipping the soles of their shoes in the gutter. and there were some who made a headdress of a cabbage leaf picked up from the ground,--a green cap sent by the good god, beneath which the fresh young face smiled brightly. germinie would gaze at them all and walk along with them; she would go in among them in order to feel the rustling of their aprons. she could not take her eyes off the little arms under which the school satchels leaped about, the little pea-green dresses, the little black leggings, the little legs in the little woolen stockings. in her eyes there was a sort of divine light about all those little flaxen heads, with the soft hair of the child jesus. a little stray lock upon a little neck, a bit of baby flesh above a chemise or at the end of a sleeve--at times she saw nothing but that; it was to her all the sunshine of the street--and the sky! gradually the troop dwindled away. each street took some children away to neighboring streets. the school dispersed along the road. the gaiety of all the tiny footsteps died away little by little. the little dresses disappeared one by one. germinie followed the last, she attached herself to those who went the farthest. on one occasion, as she was walking along thus, devouring with her eyes the memory of her daughter, she was suddenly seized with a frenzied longing to embrace something; she rushed at one of the little girls and grasped her arm just as a kidnapper of children would do. "mamma! mamma!" the little one cried, and wept as she pulled her arm away. germinie fled. xlv to germinie all days were alike, equally gloomy and desolate. she had reached a point at last where she expected nothing from chance and asked nothing from the unforeseen. her life seemed to her to be forever encaged in her despair; it would always be the same implacable thing, the same straight, monotonous road to misfortune, the same dark path with death at the end. in all the time to come there was no future for her. and yet, in the depths of despair in which she was crouching, thoughts passed through her mind at times which made her raise her head and look before her to a point beyond the present. at times the illusion of a last hope smiled upon her. it seemed to her that she might even yet be happy, and that if certain things should come to pass, she would be. thereupon she imagined that those things did happen. she arranged incidents and catastrophes. she linked the impossible to the impossible. she reconstructed the opportunities of her life. and her fevered hope, setting about the task of creating events according to her desire on the horizon of the future, soon became intoxicated with the insane vision of her suppositions. then the delirious hope would gradually fade away. she would tell herself that it was impossible, that nothing of what she dreamed of could happen, and she would sink back in her chair and think. after a moment or two she would rise and walk, slowly and uncertainly, to the fireplace, toy with the coffee-pot on the mantelpiece, and at last decide to take it: she would learn what the rest of her life was to be. her good fortune, her ill fortune, everything that was to happen to her was there, in that fortune-telling device of the woman of the people, on the plate on which she was about to pour the coffee-grounds. she drained the water from the grounds, waited a few minutes, breathed upon them with the religious breath with which her lips, as a child, touched the paten at the village church. then she leaned over them, with her head thrust forward, terrifying in her immobility, with her eyes fixed intently upon the black dust scattered in patches over the plate. she sought what she had seen fortune-tellers find in the granulations and the almost imperceptible traces left by the coffee as it trickled away. she fatigued her eyes by gazing at the innumerable little spots, and deciphered shapes and letters and signs therein. she put aside some grains with her finger in order to see them more clearly and more sharply defined. she turned the plate slowly in her hands, this way and that, questioned its mystery on all sides, and hunted down, within its circular rim, apparitions, images, rudiments of names, shadowy initials, resemblances to different people, rough outlines of objects, omens in embryo, symbols of trifles, which told her that she would be _victorious_. she wanted to see these things and she compelled herself to discover them. under her tense gaze the porcelain became alive with the visions of her insomnia; her disappointments, her hatreds, the faces she detested, arose gradually from the magic plate and the designs drawn thereon by chance. by her side the candle, which she forgot to snuff, gave forth an intermittent, dying light: it sank lower and lower in the silence, night came on apace, and germinie, as if turned to stone in her agony, always remained rooted there, alone and face to face with her fear of the future, trying to decipher in the dregs of the coffee the confused features of her destiny, until she thought she could detect a cross, beside a woman who resembled jupillon's cousin--a cross, that is to say, _a speedy death_. xlvi the love which she lacked, and which it was her determination to deny herself, became the torment of her life, incessant, abominable torture. she had to defend herself against the fevers of her body and the irritations from without, against the easily aroused emotions and the indolent cowardice of her flesh, against all the solicitations of nature by which she was assailed. she had to contend with the heat of the day, with the suggestions of the darkness, with the moist warmth of stormy weather, with the breath of her past and her memories, with the pictures suddenly thrown upon the background of her mind, with the voices that whispered caressingly in her ear, with the emotions that sent a thrill of tenderness into her every limb. weeks, months, years, the frightful temptation endured, and she did not yield or take another lover. fearful of herself, she avoided man and fled from his sight. she continued her domestic, unsocial habits, always closeted with mademoiselle, or else above in her own room. on sundays she did not leave the house. she had ceased to consort with the other maids in the house, and, in order to occupy her time and forget herself, she plunged into vast undertakings in the way of sewing, or buried herself in sleep. when musicians came into the courtyard she closed the windows in order not to hear them: the sensuousness of music moved her very soul. in spite of everything, she could not calm or cool her passions. her evil thoughts rekindled themselves, lived and flourished upon themselves. at every moment the fixed idea of desire arose from her whole being, became throughout her body the fierce torment that knows no end, that delirium of the senses, obsession,--the obsession that nothing can dispel and that constantly returns, the shameless, implacable obsession, swarming with images, the obsession that brings love close to the woman's every sense, that touches with it her closed eyes, forces it smoking into her brain and pours it, hot as fire, into her arteries! at length, the nervous exhaustion caused by these constant assaults, the irritation of this painful continence, began to disturb germinie's faculties. she fancied that she could see her temptations: a ghastly hallucination brought the realization of her dreams near to her senses. it happened that at certain moments the things she saw in her room, the candlesticks, the legs of the chairs, everything about her assumed impure appearances and shapes. obscenity arose from everything before her eyes and approached her. at such times she would look at her kitchen clock, and would say, like a condemned man whose body no longer belongs to himself: "in five minutes i am going down into the street." and when the five minutes had passed she would stay where she was. xlvii the time came at last in this life of torture when germinie abandoned the conflict. her conscience yielded, her will succumbed, she bowed her head beneath her destiny. all that remained to her of resolution, energy, courage, vanished before the feeling, the despairing conviction, of her powerlessness to save herself from herself. she felt that she was being borne along on a resistless current, that it was useless, almost impious, to try to stop. that great power of the world that causes suffering, the malevolent power that bears the name of a god on the marble of the antique tragedies, and is called _no chance_ on the tattooed brow of the galley-slave--fatality--was trampling upon her, and germinie lowered her head beneath its foot. when, in her hours of discouragement, the bitter experiences of her past recurred to her memory, when she followed, from her infancy, the links in the chain of her deplorable existence, that long line of afflictions that had followed her years and grown heavier with them; all the incidents that had succeeded one another in her life, as if by preconcerted arrangement on the part of misery, without her having ever caught a glimpse of the hand of the providence of which she had heard so much--she said to herself that she was one of those miserable creatures who are destined from their birth to an eternity of misery, one of those for whom happiness was not made, and who know it only because they envy it in others. she fed and nourished herself on that thought, and by dint of yielding to the despair it tended to produce, by dint of brooding over the unbroken chain of her misfortunes and the endless succession of her disappointments, she reached the point where she looked upon the most trifling annoyances of her life and her service as a part of the persecution of her evil genius. a little money that she loaned and that was not repaid, a counterfeit coin that was put off upon her in a shop, an errand that she failed to perform satisfactorily, a purchase in which she was cheated--all these things were in her opinion due neither to her own fault nor to chance. it was the sequel of what had gone before. life was in a conspiracy against her and persecuted her everywhere, in everything, great and small, from her daughter's death to bad groceries. there were days when she broke everything she touched; she thereupon imagined that she was accursed to her finger-tips. accursed! almost damned; she persuaded herself that she was so in very truth, when she questioned her body, when she probed her feelings. did she not feel, in the fire in her blood, in the appetite of her organs, in her passionate weakness, the spur of the fatality of love, the mystery and obsession of a disease, stronger than her modesty and her reason, having already delivered her over to the shameful excesses of passion, and destined--she had a presentiment that it was so--to deliver her again in the same way? and so she had one sentence always in her mouth, a sentence that was the refrain of her thought: "what can you expect? i am unlucky. i have had no chance. from the beginning nothing ever succeeded with me!" she said it in the tone of a woman who has abandoned hope. with the persuasion, every day more firm, that she was born under an unlucky star, that she was in the power of hatred and vengeance that were more powerful than she, germinie had come to be afraid of everything that happens in ordinary life. she lived in that state of cowardly unrest wherein the unexpected is dreaded as a possible calamity, wherein a ring at the bell causes alarm, wherein one turns a letter over and over, weighing the mystery it contains, not daring to open it, wherein the news you are about to hear, the mouth that opens to speak to you, cause the perspiration to start upon your temples. she was in that state of suspicion, of shuddering fear, of trembling awe in face of destiny, wherein misfortune sees naught but misfortune, and wherein one would like to check the current of his life so that it should not go forward whither all the endeavors and the attacks of others are forcing it. at last, by virtue of the tears she shed, she arrived at that supreme disdain, that climax of suffering, where the excess of pain seems a satire, where chagrin, exceeding the utmost limits of human strength, exceeds its sensibility as well, and the stricken heart, which no longer feels the blows, says to the heaven it defies: "go on!" xlviii "where are you going in that rig?" said germinie one sunday morning to adèle, as she passed in grand array along the corridor on the sixth floor, in front of her open door. "ah! there you are! i'm going to a swell wedding, my dear! there's a crowd of us--big marie, the _great bully_, you know--elisa, from , the two badiniers, big and little--and men, too! in the first place, there's my _dealer in sudden death_. yes, and--oh! didn't you know--my new flame, the master-at-arms of the th--and a friend of his, a painter, a real father joy. we're going to vincennes. everyone carries something. we shall dine on the grass--the men will pay for the wine. and there'll be plenty of it, i promise you!" "i'll go, too," said germinie. "you? nonsense! you don't go to parties any more." "but i tell you i'll go," said germinie, in a sharp, decided tone. "just give me time to tell mademoiselle and put on a dress. if you'll wait i'll go and get half a lobster." half an hour later the two women left the house; they skirted the city wall and found the rest of the party sitting outside a café on boulevard de la chopinette. after taking a glass of currant wine, they entered two large cabs and rode away. when they arrived at the fortress at vincennes they alighted and the whole party walked along the bank of the moat. as they were passing under the wall of the fort, the master-at-arms' friend, the painter, shouted to an artilleryman, who was doing sentry duty beside a cannon: "say! old fellow, you'd rather drink one than stand guard over it, eh?"[ ] "isn't he funny?" said adèle to germinie, nudging her with her elbow. soon they were fairly in the forest of vincennes. narrow paths crossed and recrossed in every direction on the hard, uneven, footprint-covered ground. in the spaces between all these little roads there was here and there a little grass, but down-trodden, withered, yellow, dead grass, strewn about like bedding for cattle, its straw-colored blades were everywhere mingled with briars, amid the dull green of nettles. it was easily recognizable as one of the rural spots to which the great faubourgs resort on sundays to loll about in the grass, and which resemble a lawn trampled by a crowd after a display of fireworks. gnarled, misshapen trees were scattered here and there; dwarf elms with gray trunks covered with yellow, leprous-like spots and stripped of branches to a point higher than a man's head; scraggy oaks, eaten by caterpillars so that their leaves were like lacework. the verdure was scant and sickly and entirely unshaded, the leaves above had a very unhealthy look; the stunted, ragged, parched foliage made only faint green lines against the sky. clouds of dust from the high-roads covered the bushes with a gray pall. everything had the wretched, impoverished aspect of trampled vegetation that has no chance to breathe, the melancholy effect of the grass at the barriers! nature seemed to sprout from beneath the pavements. no birds sang in the trees, no insects hummed about the dusty ground; the noise of the spring-carts stunned the birds; the hand-organ put the rustling of the trees to silence; the denizens of the street strolled about through the paths, singing. women's hats, fastened with four pins to a handkerchief, were hanging from the trees; the red plume of an artilleryman burst upon one at every moment through the scanty leaves; dealers in honey rose from the thickets; on the trampled greensward children in blouses were cutting twigs, workingmen's families idling their time away nibbling at _pleasure_, and little urchins catching butterflies in their caps. it was a forest after the pattern of the original bois de boulogne, hot and dusty, a much-frequented and sadly-abused promenade, one of those spots, avaricious of shade, to which the common people flock to disport themselves at the gates of great capitals--burlesque forests, filled with corks, where you find slices of melon and skeletons in the underbrush. the heat on this day was stifling; the sun was swimming in clouds, shedding a veiled diffuse light that was almost blinding to the eyes and that seemed to portend a storm. the air was heavy and dead; nothing stirred; the leaves and their tiny, meagre shadows did not move; the forest seemed weary and crushed, as it were, beneath the heavy sky. at rare intervals a breath of air from the south passed lazily along, sweeping the ground, one of those enervating, lifeless winds that blow upon the senses and fan the breath of desire into a flame. with no knowledge whence it came, germinie felt over her whole body a sensation like the tickling of the down on a ripe peach against the skin. they went gayly along, with the somewhat excited activity that the country air imparts to the common people. the men ran, the women tripped after them and caught them. they played at rolling on the grass. there was a manifest longing to dance and climb trees; the painter amused himself by throwing stones at the loop-holes in the gateways of the fortress, and he never missed his aim. at last they all sat down in a sort of clearing under a clump of oaks, whose shadows were lengthening in the setting sun. the men, lighting matches on the seats of their trousers, began to smoke. the women chattered and laughed and threw themselves backward in paroxysms of inane hilarity and noisy outbursts of delight. germinie alone did not speak or laugh. she did not listen or look. her eyes, beneath their lowered lids, were fixed upon the toes of her boots. so engrossed in thought was she that you would have said she was totally oblivious to time and place. lying at full length on the grass, her head slightly raised by a hammock, she made no other movement than to lay her hands, palm downwards, on the grass beside her; in a short time she would turn them on their backs and let them lie in that position, seeking the coolness of the earth to allay the fever of her flesh. "there's a lazybones! going to sleep?" said adèle. germinie opened wide her blazing eyes, without answering, and until dinner maintained the same position, the same silence, the same air of torpor, feeling about her for places where her burning hands had not rested. "come, old girl!" said a woman's voice, "sing us something." "oh! no," adèle replied, "i haven't got wind enough before eating." suddenly a great stone came hurtling through the air and struck the ground near germinie's head; at the same moment she heard the painter's voice shouting: "don't be afraid! that's your chair." one and all laid their handkerchiefs on the ground by way of tablecloth. eatables were produced from greasy papers. bottles were uncorked and the wine went round; the glasses were rested against tufts of grass, and they fell to upon bits of pork and sausages, with slices of bread for plates. the painter cut boats out of paper to hold the salt, and imitated the orders shouted out by waiters in a café. "_boum! pavillon! servez!_" he cried. the company gradually became animated. the open air, the patches of blue sky, the food and drink started the gayety of the table in full blast. hands approached one another, mouths met, coarse remarks were whispered from one to another, shirt sleeves crept around waists, and now and then energetic embraces were attended by greedy, resounding kisses. germinie drank, and said nothing. the painter, who had taken his place by her side, felt decidedly chilly and embarrassed beside his extraordinary neighbor, who amused herself "so entirely inside." suddenly he began to beat a tattoo with his knife against his glass, drowning the uproar of the party, and rose to his knees. "mesdames!" said he, with the voice of a paroquet that has sung too much, "here's the health of a man in hard luck: myself! perhaps it will bring me good luck! deserted, yes, mesdames; yes, i've been deserted! i'm a widower! you know the kind of widower, _razibus_! i was struck all of a heap. not that i cared much for her, but habit, that old villain, habit! the fact is i'm as bored as a bed-bug in a watch spring. for two weeks my life has been like a restaurant without a _pousse-café_! and when i love love as if it had made me! no wife! that's what i call weaning a grown man! that is to say, since i've known what it is, i take off my hat to the curés: i feel very sorry for them, 'pon my word! no wife! and there are so many of 'em! but i can't walk about with a sign: _vacant man to let. inquire within._ in the first place it would have to be stamped by m'sieu le préfet, and then, people are such fools, it would draw a crowd! all of which, mesdames, is intended to inform you, that if, among the people you have the honor of knowing, there should happen to be one who'd like to make an acquaintance--virtuous acquaintance--a pretty little left-handed marriage--why she needn't look any farther! i'm her man--victor-médéric gautruche! a home body, a genuine house-ivy for sentiment! she has only to apply at my former hotel, _la clef de sûreté_. and gay as a hunchback who's just drowned his wife! gautruche, called gogo-la-gaiété, egad! a pretty fellow who knows what's what, who doesn't beat about the bush, a good old body who takes things easy and who won't give himself the colic with that fishes' grog!" with that he took a bottle of water that stood beside him and hurled it twenty yards away. "long live the walls! they're the same to papa that the sky is to the good god! gogo-la-gaiété paints them through the week and beats them on monday![ ] and with all that not jealous, not ugly, not a wife-beater, but a real love of a man, who never harmed one of the fair sex in his life! if you want physique, _parbleu_! i'm your man!" he rose to his feet and, drawing up his wavering body, clad in an old blue coat with gilt buttons, to its full height, removing his gray hat so as to show his perspiring, polished, bald skull, and tossing his old plucked _gamin's_ head, he continued: "you see what it is! it isn't a very attractive piece of property; it doesn't help it to exhibit it. but it yields well, it's a little dilapidated, but well put together. dame! here i am with my little forty nine-years--no more hair than a billiard ball, a witchgrass beard that would make good herb-tea, foundations not too solid, feet as long as la villette--and with all the rest thin enough to take a bath in a musket-barrel. there's the bill of lading! pass the prospectus along! if any woman wants all that in a lump--any respectable person--not too young--who won't amuse herself by painting me too yellow--you understand, i don't ask for a princess of batignolles--why, sure as you're born, i'm her man!" germinie seized gautruche's glass, half emptied it at a draught and held out the side from which she had drunk to him. * * * * * at nightfall the party returned on foot. when they reached the fortifications, gautruche drew a large heart with the point of his knife on the stone, and all the names with the date were carved inside. in the evening gautruche and germinie were upon the outer boulevards, near barrière rochechouart. beside a low house with these words, in a plaster panel: _madame merlin_. _dresses cut and tried on, two francs_, they stopped at a stone staircase of three steps leading into a dark passage, at the end of which shone the red light of an argand lamp. at the entrance to the passage, these words were printed in black on a wooden sign: _hotel of the little blue hand._ xlix médérie gautruche was one of the wenching, idling, vagabond workmen who make their whole life a monday. filled with the love of wine, his lips forever wet with the last drop, his insides as thoroughly lined with tartar as an old wine cask, he was one of those whom the burgundians graphically call _boyaux rouges_.[ ] always a little tipsy, tipsy from yesterday when he had drunk nothing to-day, he looked at life through the sunbeam in his head. he smiled at his fate, he yielded to it with the easy indifference of the drunkard, smiling vaguely from the steps of the wineshop at things in general, at life and the road that stretched away into the darkness. _ennui_, care, want, had gained no hold upon him; and if by chance a grave or gloomy thought did come into his mind, he turned his head away, uttered an exclamation that sounded like _psitt_! which was his way of saying _pshaw_! and, raising his right arm, caricaturing the gesture of a spanish dancer, he would toss his melancholy over his shoulder to the devil. he had the superb after-drinking philosophy, the jovial serenity, of the bottle. he knew neither envy nor longing. his dreams served him as a cashbox. for three sous he was sure of a small glass of happiness; for twelve, of a bottle of ideal bliss. being content with everything, he liked everything, and found food for laughter and entertainment in everything. nothing in the world seemed sad to him--except a glass of water. with this drunkard's expansiveness, with the gayety of his excellent health and his temperament, gautruche combined the characteristic gayety of his profession, the good humor and the warm-heartedness of that free, unfatiguing life, in the open air, between heaven and earth, which seeks distraction in singing, and flings the workmen's _blague_ at passers-by, from its lofty perch upon a ladder. he was a house-painter and did lettering. he was the one man in paris who would attack a sign without a measure, with no other guide than a cord, without outlining the letters in white; he was the only one who could place each of the letters in position inside of the frame of a placard, and, without losing an instant in aligning them, dash off capitals off-hand. he was also renowned for fantastic letters, capricious letters, letters shaded in bronze or gold to imitate those cut in stone. thus he made fifteen to twenty francs on some days. but as he drank it all up, he was not wealthy, and he always had unpaid scores on the slate at the wine-shops. he was a man brought up in the street. the street had been his mother, his nurse and his school. the street had given him his self-assurance, his ready tongue and his wit. all that the keen mind of a man of the people can pick up upon the pavements of paris he had picked up. all that falls from the upper to the lower strata of a great city, the strainings and drippings, the crumbs of ideas and information, the things that float in the sensitive atmosphere and the brimming gutters, the contact with the covers of books, bits of _feuilletons_ swallowed between two glasses, odds and ends of plays heard on the boulevard, had endowed him with that accidental intelligence which, though without education, learns everything. he possessed an inexhaustible, imperturbable store of talk. his words gushed forth abundantly in original remarks, laughable images, the metaphors that flow from the comic genius of crowds. he had the natural picturesqueness of the unadulterated farce. he was brimming over with amusing stories and buffoonery, rich in the possession of the richest of all repertories of house-painter's nonsense. being a member of divers of the low haunts called _lists_, he knew all the new tunes and ballads, and he was never tired of singing. he was amusing, in short, from head to foot. and if you merely looked at him you laughed at him, as at a comic actor. a man of his cheerful, hearty temperament suited germinie. germinie was not a mere beast of burden with nothing but her work in her head. she was not the servant, who stands like a post, with the frightened face and doltish air of utter stupidity, when masters and mistresses are talking in her presence. she, too, had cast off her shell, fashioned herself and opened her mind to the education of paris. mademoiselle de varandeuil, having no occupation, and being interested after the manner of old maids in what was going on in the quarter, had long been in the habit of making germinie tell her what news she had gleaned, what she knew of the tenants, all the gossip of the house and the street; and this habit of narration, of talking with her mistress like a sort of companion, of describing people and drawing silhouettes of them, had eventually developed in her a facility of animated description, of happy, unconscious characterization, a piquancy and sometimes an acrimony in her remarks that were most remarkable in the mouth of a servant. she had progressed so far that she often surprised mademoiselle de varandeuil by her quickness of comprehension, her promptness at grasping things only half said, her good fortune and facility in selecting such words as good talkers use. she knew how to jest. she understood a play upon words. she expressed herself without _cuirs_,[ ] and when there was a discussion concerning orthography at the creamery, her opinion was listened to with as much deference as that of the clerk in the registry of deaths at the mayoralty who came there to breakfast. she had also that background of indiscriminate reading which women of her class have when they read at all. with the two or three kept women in whose service she had been, she had passed her nights devouring novels; since then she had continued to read the _feuilletons_ cut by her acquaintances from the bottom of newspapers, and she had gathered from them a vague idea of many things and of some of the kings of france. she had retained enough of such subjects to make her desire to talk of them with others. through a woman in the house who worked for an author on the street, she often had tickets to the play; when she came away she could remember the whole play and the names of the actors she had seen on the programme. she loved to buy ballads and one sou novels, and read them. the air, the keen breath of quartier bréda, full of the _verve_ of the artist and the studio, of art and vice, had sharpened these tastes of germinie's mind and had created in her new needs and demands. long before her disorderly life began, she had cut loose from the virtuous companionship of decent women of her rank and station, from the worthy creatures who were so uninteresting and stupid. she had quitted the circle of orderly, dull uprightness, of sleep-inducing conversations around the tea-table under the auspices of the old servants of mademoiselle's elderly acquaintances. she had shunned the wearisome society of maids whom their absorption in their employment and the fascination of the savings bank rendered unendurably stupid. she had reached the point where, before accepting the companionship of people, she must satisfy herself that they possessed a degree of intelligence corresponding to her own and were capable of understanding her. and now, when she emerged from her fits of brutishness, when she found her old self and was born again, in diversion and pleasure, she must for her enjoyment have kindred spirits of her own. she wanted men about her who would make her laugh, noisy gayety, the spirituous wit that intoxicated her with the wine that was poured into her glass. and thus it was that she sank to the level of the rascally bohemia of the common people, uproarious, maddening, intoxicating, like all bohemias: thus it was that she fell to the lot of a gautruche. l as germinie was returning to the house one morning at daybreak, she heard, from the shadows of the _porte-cochère_ as it closed behind her, a voice cry: "who's that?" she ran to the servants' staircase, but found that she was pursued, and as she turned a corner on the landing the concierge seized her. as soon as he recognized her, he said: "oh! is it you? excuse me; don't be frightened! what a giddy creature you are! it surprises you to see me up so early, eh? it's on account of the thieving that's going on these days in the cook's bedroom on the second. good-night to you! it's lucky for you i don't tell all i know." a few days later germinie learned through adèle that the husband of the cook who had been robbed said that there was no need to look very far; that the thief was in the house, and that he knew what he knew. adèle added that it was making a good deal of talk in the street and that there were plenty of people who would believe it and repeat it. germinie became very indignant and told her mistress all about it. mademoiselle was even more indignant than she, and, feeling personally outraged by the insult, wrote instantly to the cook's mistress that she must put a stop at once to the slanderous statements concerning a girl who had been in her service twenty years, and for whom she would answer as for herself. the cook was reprimanded. her husband in his wrath talked louder than ever. he made a great outcry and for several days filled the house with his project of going to the commissioner of police and calling upon him to question germinie as to where she procured the money to start the _crémière's_ son in business, as to where she procured the money to purchase a substitute for him, and how she paid the expenses of the men she kept. for a whole week the terrible threat hung over germinie's head. at last the thief was discovered and the threat fell to the ground. but it had had its effect on the poor girl. it had done all the injury it could do in that confused brain, where, under the sudden, overpowering rush of the blood, her reason was wavering and became overcast at the slightest shock. it had overturned that brain which was so prompt to go astray in fear or vexation, which lost so quickly the faculty of good judgment, of discernment, clear-sightedness and appreciation of its surroundings, which exaggerated its troubles, which plunged into foolish alarms, previsions of evil, despairing presentiments, which looked upon its terrors as realities, and was constantly lost in the pessimism of that species of delirium, at the end of which it could find nothing but this ejaculation and this phrase: "bah! i will kill myself!" throughout the week the fever in her brain caused her to experience all the effects of the things she thought might happen. by day and night she saw her shame laid bare and made public; she saw her secret, her cowardice, her wrong-doing, all that she carried about with her concealed and sewn in her heart--she saw it all uncovered, noised abroad, disclosed--disclosed to mademoiselle! her debts on jupillon's account, augmented by her debts for drink and for food for gautruche, by all that she purchased now on credit, her debt to the concierge and the shopkeepers would soon become known and ruin her! a cold shiver ran down her back at the thought: she could feel mademoiselle turning her away! throughout the week she constantly imagined herself standing before the commissioner of police. seven long days she brooded over that word and that idea: the law! the law as it appears to the imagination of the lower classes; something terrible, indefinable, inevitable, which is everywhere, and lurks in everyone's shadow; an omnipotent source of calamity which appears vaguely in the judge's black gown, between the police sergeant and the executioner, with the hands of the gendarme and the arms of the guillotine! she, who was subject to all the instinctive terrors of the common people, and who often repeated that she would much rather die than appear before the court--she imagined herself seated in the dock, between two gendarmes, in a court-room, surrounded by all the unfamiliar paraphernalia of the law, her ignorance of which made them objects of terror to her. throughout the week her ears heard footsteps on the stairs coming to arrest her! the shock was too violent for nerves as weak as hers. the mental upheaval of that week of agony possessed her with an idea that hitherto had only hovered about her--the idea of suicide. she began to listen, with her head in her hands, to the voice that spoke to her of deliverance. she opened her ears to the sweet music of death that we hear in the background of life like the fall of mighty waters in the distance, dying away in space. the temptations that speak to the discouraged heart of the things that put an end to life so quickly and so easily, of the means of quelling suffering with the hand, pursued and solicited her. her glance rested wistfully upon all the things about her that could cure the disease called life. she accustomed her fingers and her lips to them. she touched them, handled them, drew them near to her. she sought to test her courage upon them and to obtain a foretaste of death. she would remain for hours at her kitchen window with her eyes fixed on the pavements in the courtyard down at the foot of the five flights--pavements that she knew and could have distinguished from others! as the daylight faded she would lean farther out bending almost double over the ill-secured window-bar, hoping always that it would give way and drag her down with it--praying that she might die without having to make the desperate, voluntary leap into space to which she no longer felt equal. "why, you'll fall out!" said mademoiselle one day, grasping her skirt impulsively in her alarm. "what are you looking at down there in the courtyard?" "oh! nothing--the pavements." "in heaven's name, are you crazy? how you frightened me!" "oh! people don't fall that way," said germinie in a strange tone. "i tell you, mademoiselle, in order to fall one must have a mighty longing to do it!" li germinie had not been able to induce gautruche, who was haunted by a former mistress, to give her the key to his room. when he had not returned she was obliged to await his coming outside, in the cold, dark street. at first she would walk back and forth in front of the house. she would take twenty steps in one direction and twenty in the other. then, as if to prolong her period of waiting, she would take a longer turn, and, going farther and farther every time, would end by extending her walk to both ends of the boulevard. frequently she walked thus for hours, shamefaced and mud-stained, in the fog and darkness, amid the iniquitous and horrible surroundings of an avenue near the barriers, where darkness reigned. she followed the line of red-wine shops, the naked arbors, the _cabaret_ trellises supported by dead trees such as we see in bear-pits, low, flat hovels with curtainless windows cut at random in the walls, cap factories where shirts are sold, and wicked-looking hotels where a night's lodging may be had. she passed by closed, hermetically-sealed shops, black with bankruptcy, by fragments of condemned walls, by dark passageways with iron gratings, by walled-up windows, by doors that seemed to give admission to those abodes of murder, the plan of which is handed to the jury at the assizes. as she went on, there were gloomy little gardens, crooked buildings, architecture in its most degraded form, tall, mouldy _portes-cochères_, hedge-rows, within which could be vaguely seen the uncanny whiteness of stones in the darkness, corners of unfinished buildings from which arose the stench of nitrification, walls disfigured by disgusting placards and fragments of torn advertisements by which they were spotted with loathsome publications as by leprosy. from time to time, at a sharp turn in the street, she would come upon lanes that seemed to plunge into dark holes a few steps from their beginning, and from which a blast of damp air came forth as from a cellar; dark no-thoroughfares stood out against the sky with the rigidity of a great wall; streets stretched vaguely away in the distance, with the feeble gleam of a lantern twinkling here and there at long intervals upon the ghostly plaster fronts of the houses. germinie would walk on and on. she would cover all the territory where low debauchery fills its crop on mondays and finds its loves, between a hospital, a slaughter-house, and a cemetery; lariboisière, the abattoir and montmartre. the people who passed that way--the workman returning from paris whistling; the workingwoman, her day's work ended, hurrying on with her hands under her armpits to keep herself warm; the street-walker in her black cap--would stare at her as they passed. strange men acted as if they recognized her; the light made her ashamed. she would turn and run toward the other end of the boulevard and follow the dark, deserted footway along the city wall; but she was soon driven away by horrible shadows of men and by brutally familiar hands. she tried to go away; she insulted herself inwardly; she called herself a cowardly wretch; she swore to herself that each turn should be the last, that she would go as far as a certain tree, and that was all; if he had not returned, she would go away and put an end to the whole thing. but she did not go; she walked on and on; she waited, more consumed than ever, the longer he delayed, with the mad desire to see him. at last, as the hours flew by and the boulevard became empty, germinie, exhausted, overdone with weariness, would approach the houses. she would loiter from shop to shop, she would go mechanically where gas was still burning, and stand stupidly in the bright glare from the shop windows. she welcomed the dazzling light in her eyes, she tried to allay her impatience by benumbing it. the objects to be seen through the perspiring windows of the wine-shops--the cooking utensils, the bowls of punch flanked by two empty bottles with sprigs of laurel protruding from their necks, the show-cases in which the liquors combined their varied colors in a single beam, a cup filled with plated spoons--these things would hold her attention for a long while. she would read the old announcements of lottery drawings placarded on the walls of a saloon, the advertisements of _gloria_--coffee with brandy--the inscriptions in yellow letters: _new wine, pure blood, centimes._ for a whole quarter of an hour she would stand staring into a back room containing a man in a blouse sitting on a stool by a table, a stove-pipe, a slate, and two black tea-boards against the wall. her fixed, vacant stare would rest, through the reddish mist, upon the dark forms of shoemakers leaning over their benches. it fell and lingered heedlessly upon a counter that was being washed, upon hands that were counting the receipts of the day, upon a tunnel or jug that was being scoured with sandstone. she had ceased to think. she would simply stand there, nailed to the spot and growing weaker and weaker, feeling her courage vanish from the mere weariness of standing on her feet, seeing things only through a sort of film as in a swoon, hearing the noise made by the muddy cabs rolling over the wet pavements only as a buzzing in her ears, ready to fall and compelled again and again to lean against the wall for support. in her then condition of prostration and illness, with that semi-hallucination of vertigo that made her so timid of crossing the seine and impelled her to cling to the bridge railings, it happened that, on certain evenings, when it rained, these fits of weakness that she had upon the outer boulevard assumed the terrors of a nightmare. when the light from the lanterns, trembling in misty vapor, cast its varying, flickering reflection on the damp ground; when the pavements, the sidewalks, the earth, seemed to melt away and disappear under the rain, and there was no appearance of solidity anywhere in the aqueous darkness, the wretched creature, almost mad with fatigue, would fancy that she could see a flood rising in the gutter. a mirage of terror would show her suddenly the water all about her, and creeping constantly nearer to her. she would close her eyes, not daring to move, fearing to feel her feet slip from under her; she would begin to weep, and would weep on until someone passed by and offered to escort her to the _hotel of the little blue hand_. lii she would then ascend the stairs; that was her last place of refuge. she would fly from the rain and snow and cold, from fear, despair, and fatigue. she would go up and sit on the top step against gautruche's closed doors; she would draw her shawl and skirts closely about her in order to leave room for those who went and came up that long steep ladder, and would draw back as far as possible into the corner in order that her shame might fill but little space on the narrow landing. from the open doors the odor of unventilated closets, of families heaped together in a single room, the exhalations of unhealthy trades, the dense, greasy fumes of cooking done in chafing-dishes on the floor, the stench of rags and the faint damp smell of clothes drying in the house, came forth and filled the hall. the broken-paned window behind germinie wafted to her nostrils the fetid stench of a leaden pipe in which the whole house emptied its refuse and its filth. her stomach rose in revolt every moment at a puff of infection; she was obliged to take from her pocket a phial of melissa water that she always carried, and swallow a mouthful of it to avoid being ill. but the staircase had its passers, too: honest workmen's wives went up with a bushel of charcoal, or a pint of wine for supper. their feet would rub against her as they passed, and as they went farther up, germinie would feel their scornful glances resting upon her and falling upon her with more crushing force at every floor. the children--little girls in _fanchons_ who flitted up the dark stairway and brightened it as if with flowers, little girls in whom she saw, as she so often saw in dreams, her own little one, living and grown to girlhood--she saw them stop and look at her with wide open eyes that seemed to recoil from her; then the little creatures would turn and run breathlessly up-stairs, and, when they were well out of reach, would lean over the rail until they almost fell, and hurl impure jests at her, the insults of the children of the common people. insulting words, poured out upon her by those rosebud mouths, wounded germinie more deeply than all else. she would half rise for an instant; then, overwhelmed by shame, resigning herself to her fate, she would fall back into her corner, and, pulling her shawl over her head in order to bury herself therein out of sight, she would sit like a dead woman, crushed, inert, insensible, cowering over her own shadow, like a bundle tossed on the floor which everyone might tread upon--having no control of her faculties, dead to everything except the footsteps that she was listening for--and that did not come. at last, after long hours, hours that she could not count, she would fancy that she heard a stumbling walk in the street; then a vinous voice would mount the stairs, stammering "_canaille!_ _canaille_ of a saloon-keeper!--you sold me the kind of wine that goes to my head!" it was he. and almost every day the same scene was enacted. "ah! there y'are, my germinie," he would say as his eyes fell upon her. "it's like this--i'll tell you all about it. i'm a little bit under water." and, as he put the key in the lock: "i'll tell you all about it. it isn't my fault." he would enter the room, kick aside a turtle-dove with mangy wings that limped forward to greet him, and close the door. "it wasn't me, d'ye see. it was paillon, you know paillon? that little round fellow, fat as a mad dog. well, it was him, 'pon my honor. he insisted on paying for a sixteen-sous bottle for me. he offered to treat me, and i _proffered_ him thanks. thereupon we naturally _consoled_[ ] our coffee; when you're consoled, you console! and as one thing led to another, we fell upon each other! there was a very devil of a carnage! the proof of it is that that gallows-bird of a saloon-keeper threw us out-o'-doors like lobster shells!" germinie, during the explanation, would have lighted the candle, stuck in a yellow copper candlestick. by its flickering light the dirty paper on the walls could be seen, covered with caricatures from _charivari_, torn from the paper and pasted on the wall. "well, you're a love!" gautruche would exclaim, as he saw her place a cold fowl and two bottles of wine on the table. "for i must tell you all i've had in my stomach to-day--a plate of wretched soup--that's all. ah! it must have taken a stout master-at-arms to put that fellow's eyes out!" and he would begin to eat. germinie would sit with her elbows on the table, watching him and drinking, and her glance would grow dark. * * * * * "pshaw! all the négresses are dead,"[ ] gautruche would say at last, as he drained the bottles one by one. "put the children to bed!" * * * * * thereupon terrible, fierce, abhorrent outbursts of passion would ensue between those two strange creatures, savage ardor followed by savage satiety, frantic storms of lust, caresses that were impregnated with the fierce brutality of wine, kisses that seemed to seek the blood beneath the skin, like the tongue of a wild beast, and at the end, utter exhaustion that swallowed them up and left their bodies like corpses. germinie plunged into these debauches with--what shall i say?--delirium, madness, desperation, a sort of supreme frenzy. her ungovernable passions turned against themselves, and, going beyond their natural appetites, forced themselves to suffer. satiety exhausted them without extinguishing them; and, overpassing the widest limits of excess, they excited themselves to self-torture. in the poor creature's paroxysms of excitement, her brain, her nerves, the imagination of her maddened body, no longer sought pleasure in pleasure, but something sharper, keener, and more violent: pain in pleasure. and the words "to die" constantly escaped from her compressed lips, as if she were invoking death in an undertone and seeking to embrace it in the agonies of love. sometimes, in the night, she would suddenly sit up on the edge of the bed, rest her bare feet on the cold floor, and remain there, wild-eyed, listening to the things that breathe in a sleeping-chamber. and little by little the obscurity of the place and hour seemed to envelop her. she seemed to herself to fall and writhe helplessly in the blind unconsciousness of the night. her will became as naught. all sorts of black things, that seemed to have wings and voices, beat against her temples. the ghastly temptations that afford madness a vague glimpse of crime caused a red light, the flash of murder, to pass before her eyes, close at hand; and hands placed against her back pushed her toward the table where the knives lay. she would close her eyes and move one foot; then fear would lay hold of her and she would cling to the bedclothes; and at last she would turn around, fall back upon the bed, and go to sleep beside the man she had been tempted to murder; why? she had no idea; for nothing--for the sake of killing! and so, until daybreak, in that wretched furnished lodging, the fierce struggle of those fatal passions would continue, while the poor maimed, limping dove, the infirm bird of venus, nesting in one of gautruche's old shoes, would utter now and then, awakened by the noise, a frightened coo. [illustration: chapter lii _sometimes, in the night, she would suddenly sit up on the edge of the bed, rest her bare feet on the cold floor, and remain there, wild-eyed, listening to the things that breathe in a sleeping-chamber. the ghastly temptations that afford madness a vague glimpse of crime caused a red light, the flash of murder, to pass before her eyes, close at hand; and hands placed against her back pushed her toward the table where the knives lay._] liii in those days gautruche became a little disgusted with drinking. he felt the first pangs of the disease of the liver that had long been lurking in his heated, alcoholized blood, under his brick-red cheek bones. the horrible pains that gnawed at his side, and twisted the cords of his stomach for a whole week, caused him to reflect. there came to his mind, together with divers resolutions inspired by prudence, certain almost sentimental ideas of the future. he said to himself that he must put a little more water into his life, if he wanted to live to old age. while he lay writhing in bed and tying himself into knots, with his knees up to his chin to lessen the pain, he looked about at his den, the four walls within which he passed his nights, to which he brought his drunken body home in the evening, and from which he fled into the daylight in the morning; and he thought about making a real home for himself. he dreamed of a room, where he could keep a wife, a wife who would make him a good stew, look after him if he were ill, straighten out his affairs, keep his linen in order, prevent him from beginning a new score at the wine-shop; a wife, in short, who would combine all the useful qualities of a housekeeper, and who, in addition, would not be a stupid fool, but would understand him and laugh with him. such a wife was all found: germinie was the very one. she probably had a little hoard, a few sous laid by during the time she had been in her old mistress's service; and with what he earned they could "grub along" in comfort. he had no doubt of her consent; he was sure beforehand that she would accept his proposition. more than that, her scruples, if she had any, would not hold out against the prospect of marriage which he proposed to exhibit to her at the end of their _liaison_. one monday she had come to his room as usual. "say, germinie," he began, "what would you say to this, eh? a good room--not like this box--a real room, with a closet--at montmartre, and two windows, no less! rue de l'empereur--with a view an englishman would give five thousand francs to carry away with him. something first-class, bright, and cheerful, you know, a place where you could stay all day without hating yourself. because, i tell you i'm beginning to have enough of moving about here and there just to change fleas. and that isn't all, either: i'm tired of being cooped up in furnished lodgings, i'm tired of being all alone. friends don't make society. they fall on you like flies in your glass when you're to pay, and then, there you are! in the first place, i don't propose to drink any more, honor bright! no more for me, you'll see! you understand i don't intend to use myself up in this life, not if i know myself. not by any means! attention! we mustn't let drink get the better of us. it seemed to me those days as if i'd been swallowing corkscrews. and i've no desire to knock at the monument just yet. well, to go from the thread to the needle, this is what i thought: i'll make the proposition to germinie. i'll treat myself to a little furniture. you've got what you have in your room. you know i'm not much of a shirker, i haven't a lazy bone in my body where work's concerned. and then we might look to not always be working for others: we might take a lodging-house for country thieves. if you had a little something put aside, that would help. we would join forces in genteel fashion, and have ourselves straightened out some day before the mayor. that's not such a bad scheme, is it, old girl, eh? and you'll leave your old lady this time, won't you, for your dear old gautruche?" germinie, who had listened to him with her head thrust forward and her chin resting on the palm of her hand, threw herself back with a burst of strident laughter. "ha! ha! ha! you thought--and you have the face to tell me so!--you thought i'd leave her! mademoiselle? did you really think so? you're a fool, you know! why, you might have thousands and hundred thousands, you might be stuffed with gold, do you hear? all stuffed with it. you're joking, aren't you? mademoiselle? why, don't you know? haven't i ever told you? i would like to see her die and these hands not be there to close her eyes! i'd like to see it! come now, really, did you think so?" "damnation! i imagined, from the way you acted with me, i thought you cared more for me than that--that you loved me, in fact!" exclaimed the painter, disconcerted by the terrible, stinging irony of germinie's words. "ah! you thought that, too--that i loved you!" and, as if she were suddenly uprooting from the depths of her heart the remorse and suffering of her passions, she continued: "well, yes! i do love you--i love you as you love me! just as much! and that's all! i love you as one loves something that is close at hand--that one makes use of because it is there! i am used to you as one gets used to an old dress and wears it again and again. that's how i love you! how do you suppose i should care for you? i'd like you to tell me what difference it can make to me whether it's you or another? for, after all, what have you been to me more than any other man would be? in the first place, you took me. well? is that enough to make me love you? what have you done, then, to attach me to you, will you be kind enough to tell me? have you ever sacrificed a glass of wine to me? have you even so much as taken pity on me when i was tramping about in the mud and snow at the risk of my life? oh! yes! and what did people say to me and spit out in my face so that my blood boiled from one end of my body to the other! you never troubled your head about all the insults i've swallowed waiting for you! look you! i've been wanting to tell you all this for a long time--it's been choking me. tell me," she continued, with a ghastly smile, "do you flatter yourself you've driven me wild with your physical beauty, with your hair, which you've lost, with that head of yours? hardly! i took you--i'd have taken anyone, it didn't matter who! it was one of the times when i had to have someone! at those times i don't know anything or see anything. i'm not myself at all. i took you because it was a hot day!" she paused an instant. "go on," said gautruche, "iron me on all the seams. don't mind me as long as your hand's in." "so?" continued germinie, "how enchanted you imagined i was going to be to take up with you! you said to yourself: 'the good-natured fool! she'll be glad of the chance! and all i shall have to do will be to promise to marry her. she'll throw up her place. she'll leave her mistress in the lurch.' the idea! mademoiselle! mademoiselle, who has no one but me! ah! you don't know anything about such things. you wouldn't understand if i should tell you. mademoiselle, who is everything to me! why, since my mother died, i've had nobody but her, never been treated kindly by anybody but her! who beside her ever said to me when i was unhappy: 'are you unhappy?' and, when i was sick: 'don't you feel well?' no one! there's been no one but her to take care of me, to care what became of me. god! and you talk of loving on account of what there is between us! ah! mademoiselle has loved me! yes, loved me! and i'm dying of it, do you know? of having become such a miserable creature as i am, a----" she said the word. "and of deceiving her, of stealing her affection, of allowing her still to love me as her daughter! ah! if she should ever learn anything--but, no fear of that, it won't be long. there's one woman who would make a pretty leap out of a fifth-story window, as true as god is my master! but fancy--you are not my heart, you are not my life, you are only my pleasure. but i did have a man. ah! i don't know whether i loved him! but you could have torn me to pieces for him without a word from me. in short, he was the man that made me what i am. well, d'ye see, when my passion for him was at its hottest, when i breathed only as he wished me to, when i was mad over him and would have let him walk on my stomach if he'd wanted to--even then, if mademoiselle had been sick, if she had motioned to me with her little finger, i'd have gone back to her. yes, i would have left him for her! i tell you i would have left him!" "in that case--if that's the way things stand, my dear--if you're so fond of your old lady as that, i have only one piece of advice to give you: you'd better not leave your good lady, d'ye see!" "that's my dismissal, is it?" said germinie, rising. "faith! it's very like it." "well! adieu. that suits me!" she went straight to the door, and left the room without a word. liv after this rupture germinie fell where she was sure to fall, below shame, below nature itself. lower and lower the unhappy, passionate creature fell, until she wallowed in the gutter. she took up the lovers whose passions are exhausted in one night, those whom she passed or met on the street, those whom chance throws in the way of a wandering woman. she had no need to give herself time for the growth of desire: her caprice was fierce and sudden, kindled instantly. pouncing greedily upon the first comer, she hardly looked at him and could not have recognized him. beauty, youth, the physical qualities of a lover, in which the passion of the most degraded woman seeks to realize a base ideal, as it were--none of those things tempted her now or touched her. in all men her eyes saw nothing but man: the individual mattered naught to her. the last indication of decency and of human feeling in debauchery,--preference, selection,--and even that which represents all that prostitutes retain of conscience and personality,--disgust, even disgust,--she had lost! and she wandered about the streets at night, with the furtive, stealthy gait of wild beasts prowling in the shadow in quest of food. as if unsexed, she made the advances, she solicited brutes, she took advantage of drunkenness, and men yielded to her. she walked along, peering on every side, approaching every shadowy corner where impurity might lurk under cover of the darkness and solitude, where hands were waiting to swoop down upon a shawl. belated pedestrians saw her by the light of the street lanterns, an ill-omened, shuddering phantom, gliding along, almost crawling, bent double, slinking by in the shadow, with that appearance of illness and insanity and of utter aberration which sets the thoughtful man's heart and the physician's mind at work on the brink of deep abysses of melancholy. lv one evening when she was prowling about rue du rocher, as she passed a wine-shop at the corner of rue de labarde, she noticed the back of a man who was drinking at the bar: it was jupillon. she stopped short, turned toward the street with her back against the door of the wine-shop, and waited. the light in the shop was behind her, her shoulders against the bars, and there she stood motionless, her skirt gathered up in one hand in front, and her other hand falling listlessly at her side. she resembled a statue of darkness seated on a milestone. in her attitude there was an air of stern determination and the necessary patience to wait there forever. the passers-by, the carriages, the street--she saw them all indistinctly and as if they were far away. the tow-horse, waiting to assist in drawing the omnibuses up the hill,--a white horse, he was,--stood in front of her, worn out and motionless, sleeping on his feet, with his head and forefeet in the bright light from the door: she did not see him. there was a dense fog. it was one of those vile, detestable parisian nights when it seems as if the water that falls had become mud before falling. the gutter rose and flowed about her feet. she remained thus half an hour without moving, with her back to the light and her face in the shadow, a threatening, desperate, forbidding creature, like a statue of fatality erected by darkness at a wine-shop door! at last jupillon came out. she stood before him with folded arms. "my money?" she said. her face was that of a woman who has ceased to possess a conscience, for whom there is no god, no police, no assizes, no scaffold--nothing! jupillon felt that his customary _blague_ was arrested in his throat. "your money?" he repeated; "your money ain't lost. but i must have time. just now, you see, work ain't very plenty. that shop business of mine came to grief a long while ago, you know. but in three months' time, i promise. are you pretty well?" "_canaille!_ ah! i've got you now! ah! you'd sneak away, would you? but it was you, my curse! it was you who made me what i am, brigand! robber! sneak! it was you." germinie hurled these words in his face, pushing against him, forcing him back, pressing her body against his. she seemed to be rubbing against the blows that she invited and provoked, and as she leaned toward him thus, she cried: "come, strike me! what, then, must i say to you to make you strike me?" she had ceased to think. she did not know what she wanted; she simply felt that she needed to be struck. there had come upon her an instinctive, irrational desire to be maltreated, bruised, made to suffer in her flesh, to experience a violent shock, a sharp pain that would put a stop to what was going on in her brain. she could think of nothing but blows to bring matters to a crisis. after the blows, she saw, with the lucidity of an hallucination, all sorts of things come to pass,--the guard arriving, the gendarmes from the post, the commissioner! the commissioner to whom she could tell everything, her story, her misfortunes, how the man before her had abused her and what he had cost her! her heart collapsed in anticipation at the thought of emptying itself, with shrieks and tears, of everything with which it was bursting. "come, strike me!" she repeated, still advancing upon jupillon, who tried to slink away, and, as he retreated, tossed caressing words to her as you do to a dog that does not recognize you and seems inclined to bite. a crowd was beginning to collect about them. "come, old harridan, don't bother monsieur!" exclaimed a police officer, grasping germinie by the arm and swinging her around roughly. under that brutal insult from the hand of the law, germinie's knees wavered: she thought she should faint. then she was afraid, and fled in the middle of the street. lvi passion is subject to the most insensate reactions, the most inexplicable revivals. the accursed love that germinie believed to have been killed by all the wounds and blows jupillon had inflicted upon it came to life once more. she was dismayed to find it in her heart when she returned home. the mere sight of the man, his proximity for those few moments, the sound of his voice, the act of breathing the air that he breathed, were enough to turn her heart back to him and relegate her to the past. notwithstanding all that had happened, she had never been able to tear jupillon's image altogether from her heart: its roots were still imbedded there. he was her first love. she belonged to him against her own will by all the weaknesses of memory, by all the cowardice of habit. between them there were all the bonds of torture that hold a woman fast forever,--sacrifice, suffering, degradation. he owned her, body and soul, because he had outraged her conscience, trampled upon her illusions, made her life a martyrdom. she belonged to him, belonged to him forever, as to the author of all her sorrows. and that shock, that scene which should have caused her to think with horror of ever meeting him again, rekindled in her the frenzied desire to meet him again. her passion seized her again in its full force. the thought of jupillon filled her mind so completely that it purified her. she abruptly called a halt in the vagabondage of her passions: she determined to belong thenceforth to no one, as that was the only method by which she could still belong to him. she began to spy upon him, to make a study of his usual hours for going out, the streets he passed through, the places that he visited. she followed him to batignolles, to his new quarters, walked behind him, content to put her foot where he had put his, to be guided by his steps, to see him now and then, to notice a gesture that he made, to snatch one of his glances. that was all: she dared not speak to him; she kept at some distance behind, like a lost dog, happy not to be driven away with kicks. for weeks and weeks she made herself thus the man's shadow, a humble, timid shadow that shrank back and moved away a few steps when it thought it was in danger of being seen; then drew nearer again with faltering steps, and, at an impatient movement from the man, stopped once more, as if asking pardon. sometimes she waited at the door of a house which he entered, caught him up again when he came out and escorted him home, always at a distance, without speaking to him, with the air of a beggar begging for crumbs and thankful for what she was allowed to pick up. then she would listen at the shutters of the ground-floor apartment in which he lived, to ascertain if he was alone, if there was anybody there. when he had a woman on his arm, although she suffered keenly, she was the more persistent in following him. she went where they went to the end. she entered the public gardens and ballrooms behind them. she walked within sound of their laughter and their words, tore her heart to tatters looking at them and listening to them, and stood at their backs with every jealous instinct of her nature bleeding. lvii it was november. for three or four days germinie had not fallen in with jupillon. she went to hover about his lodgings, watching for him. when she reached the street on which he lived, she saw a broad beam of light struggling out through the closed shutters. she approached and heard bursts of laughter, the clinking of glasses, women's voices, then a song and one voice, that of the woman whom she hated with all the hatred of her heart, whom she would have liked to see lying dead before her, and whose death she had so often sought to discover in the coffee-grounds,--the cousin! she glued her ear to the shutter, breathing in what they said, absorbed in the torture of listening to them, pasturing her famished heart upon suffering. it was a cold, rainy winter's night. she did not feel the cold or rain. all her senses were engaged in listening. the voice she detested seemed at times to grow faint and die away beneath kisses, and the notes it sang died in her throat as if stifled by lips placed upon the song. the hours passed. germinie was still at her post. she did not think of going away. she waited, with no knowledge of what she was waiting for. it seemed to her that she must remain there always, until the end. the rain fell faster. the water from a broken gutter overhead beat down upon her shoulders. great drops glided down her neck. an icy shiver ran up and down her back. the water dripped from her dress to the ground. she did not notice it. she was conscious of no pain in any of her limbs except the pain that flowed from her heart. well on toward morning there was a movement in the house, and footsteps approached the door. germinie ran and hid in a recess in the wall some steps away, and from there saw a woman come out, escorted by a young man. as she watched them walk away, she felt something soft and warm on her hands that frightened her at first; it was a dog licking her, a great dog that she had held in her lap many an evening, when he was a puppy, in the _crémière's_ back shop. "come here, molosse!" jupillon shouted impatiently twice or thrice in the darkness. the dog barked, ran back, returned and gamboled about her, and at last entered the house. the door closed. the voices and singing lured germinie back to her former position against the shutter, and there she remained, drenched by the rain, allowing herself to be drenched, as she listened and listened, till morning, till daybreak, till the hour when the masons on their way to work, with their dinner loaf under their arms, began to laugh at her as they passed. lviii two or three days after that night in the rain, germinie's features were distorted with pain, her skin was like marble and her eyes blazing. she said nothing, made no complaints, but went about her work as usual. "here! girl, look at me a moment," said mademoiselle, and she led her abruptly to the window. "what does all this mean? this look of a dead woman risen from the grave? come, tell me honestly, are you sick? my god! how hot your hands are!" she grasped her wrist, and in a moment threw it down. "what a silly slut! you're in a burning fever! and you keep it to yourself!" "why no, mademoiselle," germinie stammered. "i think it's nothing but a bad cold. i went to sleep the other evening with my kitchen window open." "oh! you're a good one!" retorted mademoiselle; "you might be dying and you'd never as much as say: 'ouf!' wait." she put on her spectacles, and hastily moving her arm-chair to a small table by the fireplace, she wrote a few lines in her bold hand. "here," said she, folding the note, "you will do me the favor to give this to your friend adèle and have her send the concierge with it. and now to bed you go!" but germinie refused to go to bed. it was not worth while. she would not tire herself. she would sit down all day. besides, the worst of her sickness was over; she was getting better already. and then it always killed her to stay in bed. the doctor, summoned by mademoiselle's note, came in the evening. he examined germinie, and ordered the application of croton oil. the trouble in the chest was of such a nature that he could say nothing about it until he had observed the effect of his remedies. he returned a few days later, sent germinie to bed and sounded her chest for a long while. "it's a most extraordinary thing," he said to mademoiselle, when he went downstairs; "she has had pleurisy upon her and hasn't kept her bed for a moment! is she made of iron, in heaven's name? oh! the energy of some women! how old is she?" "forty-one." "forty-one! oh! it's not possible. are you sure? she looks fully fifty." "ah! as to that, she looks as old as you please. what can you expect? never in good health,--always sick, disappointment, sorrow,--and a disposition that can't help tormenting itself." "forty-one years old! it's amazing!" the physician repeated. after a moment's reflection, he continued: "so far as you know, is there any hereditary lung trouble in her family? has she had any relatives who have died young?" "she lost a sister by pleurisy; but she was older. she was forty-eight, i think." the doctor had become very grave. "however, the lung is getting freer," he said, in an encouraging tone. "but it is absolutely necessary that she should have rest. and send her to me once a week. let her come and see me. and let her take a pleasant day for it,--a bright, sunny day." lix mademoiselle talked and prayed and implored and scolded to no purpose: she could not induce germinie to lay aside her work for a few days. germinie would not even listen to the suggestion that she should have an assistant to do the heavier work. she declared that it was useless, impossible; that she could never endure the thought of another woman approaching her, waiting upon her, attending to her wants; that it would give her a fever simply to think of such a thing as she lay in bed; that she was not dead yet; and she begged that she might be allowed to go on as usual, so long as she could put one foot before the other. she said it in such an affectionate tone, her eyes were so beseeching, her feeble voice was so humble and so passionate in making the request, that mademoiselle had not the courage to force her to accept an assistant. she simply called her a "blockhead," who believed, like all country-people, that a few days in bed means death. keeping on her feet, with an apparent improvement due to the physician's energetic treatment, germinie continued to make mademoiselle's bed, accepting her assistance to turn the mattresses. she also continued to prepare her food, and that was an especially distasteful task to her. when she was preparing mademoiselle's breakfast and dinner, she felt as if she should die in her kitchen, one of the wretched little kitchens common in great cities, which are the cause of so much pulmonary trouble in women. the embers that she kindled, and from which a thread of suffocating smoke slowly arose, began to stir her stomach to revolt; soon the charcoal that she bought from the charcoal dealer next door, strong paris charcoal, full of half-charred wood, enveloped her in its stifling odor. the dirty, smoking funnel, the low chimney-piece poured back into her lungs the corroding heat of the waist-high oven. she suffocated, she felt the fiery heat of all her blood surge upward to her face and cause red blotches to appear on her forehead. her head whirled. in the half-asphyxiated condition of laundresses who pass back and forth through the vapor of their charcoal stoves, she would rush to the window and draw a few breaths of the icy outside air. she had other motives for suffering on her feet, for keeping constantly about her work despite her increasing weakness, than the repugnance of country-people to take to their beds, or her fierce, jealous determination that no one but herself should attend to mademoiselle's needs: she had a constant terror of denunciation, which might accompany the installation of a new servant. it was absolutely necessary that she should be there, to keep watch on mademoiselle and prevent anyone from coming near her. it was necessary, too, that she should show herself, that the quarter should see her, and that she should not appear to her creditors with the aspect of a dead woman. she must make a pretence of being strong, she must assume a cheerful, lively demeanor, she must impart confidence to the whole street with the doctor's studied words, with a hopeful air, and with the promise not to die. she must appear at her best in order to reassure her debtors and to prevent apprehensions on the subject of money from ascending the stairs and applying to mademoiselle. she acted up to her part in this horrible, but necessary, comedy. she was absolutely heroic in the way she made her whole body lie,--in drawing up her enfeebled form to its full height as she passed the shops, whose proprietors' eyes were upon her; in quickening her trailing footsteps; in rubbing her cheeks with a rough towel before going out in order to bring back the color of blood to them; in covering the pallor of her disease and her death-mask with rouge. despite the terrible cough that racked her sleepless nights, despite her stomach's loathing for food, she passed the whole winter conquering and overcoming her own weakness and struggling with the ups and downs of her disease. at every visit that he made, the doctor told mademoiselle that he was unable to find that any of her maid's vital organs were seriously diseased. the lungs were a little ulcerated near the top; but people recovered from that. "but her body seems worn out, thoroughly worn out," he said again and again, in a sad tone, with an almost embarrassed manner that impressed mademoiselle. and he always had something to say, at the end of his visit, about a change of air--about the country. lx when august arrived, the doctor had nothing but that to advise or prescribe--the country. notwithstanding the repugnance of elderly people to move, to change their abode and the habits and regular hours of their life; despite her domestic nature and the sort of pang that she felt at being torn from her hearthstone, mademoiselle decided to take germinie into the country. she wrote to the _chick's_ daughter, who lived, with a brood of children, on a small estate in a village of brie, and who had been, for many years, begging her to pay her a long visit. she requested her hospitality for a month or six weeks for herself and her sick maid. they set out. germinie was delighted. on their arrival she felt decidedly better. for some days her disease seemed to be diverted by the change. but the weather that summer was very uncertain, with much rain, sudden changes, and high winds. germinie had a chill, and mademoiselle soon heard again, overhead, just above the room in which she slept, the frightful cough that had been so painful and hard to bear at paris. there were hurried paroxysms of coughing that seemed almost to strangle her; spasms that would break off for a moment, then begin again; and the pauses caused the ear and the heart to experience a nervous, anxious anticipation of what was certain to come next, and always did come,--racking and tearing, dying away again, but still vibrating in the ear, even when it had ceased: never silent, never willing to have done. and yet germinie rose from those horrible nights with an energy and activity that amazed mademoiselle and at times reassured her. she was out of bed as early as anybody in the house. one morning, at five o'clock, she went with the man-servant in a _char-à-banc_ to a mill-pond three leagues away, for fish; at another time she dragged herself to the saint's day ball, with the maids from the house, and did not return until they did, at daybreak. she worked all the time; assisted the servants. she was always sitting on the edge of a chair, in a corner of the kitchen, doing something with her fingers. mademoiselle was obliged to force her to go out, to drive her into the garden to sit. then germinie would sit on the green bench, with her umbrella over her head, and the sun in her skirts and on her feet. hardly moving, she would forget herself utterly as she inhaled the light and air and warmth, passionately and with a sort of feverish joy. her distended lips would part to admit the fresh, clear air. her eyes burned, but did not move; and in the light shadow of the silk umbrella her gaunt, wasted, haggard face stared vacantly into space like an amorous death's head. weary as she was at night, no persuasion could induce her to retire before her mistress. she insisted upon being at hand to undress her. seated by her side, she would rise from time to time to wait upon her as best she could, assist her to take off a petticoat, then sit down again, collect her strength for a moment, rise again, and insist upon doing something for her. mademoiselle had to force her to sit down and order her to keep quiet. and all the time that the evening toilet lasted she had always upon her lips the same tiresome chatter about the servants of the house. "why, mademoiselle, you haven't an idea of the eyes they make at each other when they think no one sees them--the cook and the man--i mean. they keep quiet when i am by; but the other day i surprised them in the bakery. they were kissing, fancy! luckily madame here don't suspect it." "ah! there you are again with your tale-bearing! why, good god!" mademoiselle would exclaim, "what difference does it make to you whether they _coo_ or don't _coo_? they're kind to you, aren't they? that's all that's necessary." "oh! very kind, mademoiselle; as far as that's concerned i haven't a word to say. marie got up in the night last night to give me some water--and as for him, when there's any dessert left, it's always for me. oh! he's very polite to me--in fact, marie don't like it very well that he thinks so much about me. you understand, mademoiselle----" "come, come! go to bed with all your nonsense!" said her mistress sharply, sad, and annoyed as well, to find such a keen interest in others' love-affairs in one so ill. lxi when they returned from the country, the doctor, after examining germinie, said to mademoiselle: "it has been very rapid, very rapid. the left lung is entirely gone. the right has begun to be affected at the top, and i fear that there is more or less difficulty all through it. she's a dead woman. she may live six weeks, two months at most." "great heaven!" said mademoiselle de varandeuil, "everyone i have ever loved will go before me! tell me, must i wait until everybody has gone?" "have you thought of placing her in some institution?" said the doctor, after a moment's silence. "you can't keep her here. it's too great a burden, too great a grief for you to have her with you," he added, at a gesture from mademoiselle. "no, monsieur, no, i haven't thought of it. oh! yes, i am likely to send her away. why you must have seen, monsieur: that girl isn't a maid, she isn't a servant in my eyes; she's like the family i never had! what would you have me say to her: 'be off with you now!' ah! i never suffered so much before on account of not being rich and having a wretched four-sou apartment like this. i, mention such a thing to her! why, it's impossible! and where could she go? to the maison dubois? oh! yes, to the dubois! she went there once to see the maid i had before, who died there. you might as well kill her! the hospital, then? no, not there; i don't choose to have her die in that place!" "good god, mademoiselle, she'll be a hundred times better off there than here. i would get her admitted at lariboisière, during the term of service of a doctor who is a friend of mine. i would recommend her to an intern, who is under great obligations to me. she would have a very excellent sister to nurse her in the hall to which i would have her sent. if necessary, she could have a private room. but i am sure she would prefer to be in a common room. it's the essential thing to do, you see, mademoiselle. she can't stay in that chamber up there. you know what these horrible servants' quarters are. indeed, it's my opinion that the health authorities ought to compel the landlords to show common humanity in that direction; it's an outrage! the cold weather is coming; there's no fireplace; with the window and the roof it will be like an ice-house. you see she still keeps about. she has a marvelous stock of courage, prodigious nervous vitality. but, in spite of everything, the bed will claim her in a few days,--she won't get up again. come, listen to reason, mademoiselle. let me speak to her, will you?" "no, not yet. i must get used to the idea. and then, when i see her around me i imagine she isn't going to die so quickly as all that. there's time enough. later, we'll see about it,--yes, later." "excuse me, mademoiselle, if i venture to say to you that you are quite capable of making yourself sick nursing her." "i? oh! as for me!" and mademoiselle de varandeuil made a gesture indicating that her life was of no consequence. lxii amid mademoiselle de varandeuil's desperate anxiety concerning her maid's health, she became conscious of a strange feeling, a sort of fear in the presence of the new, unfamiliar, mysterious creature that sickness had made of germinie. mademoiselle had a sense of discomfort beside that hollow, ghostly face, which was almost unrecognizable in its implacable rigidity, and which seemed to return to itself, to recover consciousness, only furtively, by fits and starts, in the effort to produce a pallid smile. the old woman had seen many people die; her memories of many painful years recalled the expressions of many dear, doomed faces, of many faces that were sad and desolate and grief-stricken in death; but no face of all those she remembered had ever assumed, as the end drew near, that distressing expression of a face retiring within itself and closing the doors. enveloped in her suffering, germinie maintained her savage, rigid, self-contained, impenetrable demeanor. she was as immovable as bronze. mademoiselle, as she looked at her, asked herself what it could be that she brooded over thus without moving; whether it was her life rising in revolt, the dread of death, or a secret remorse for something in her past. nothing external seemed to affect the sick woman. she was no longer conscious of things about her. her body became indifferent to everything, did not ask to be relieved, seemed not to desire to be cured. she complained of nothing, found no pleasure or diversion in anything. even her longing for affection had left her. she no longer made any motion to bestow or invite a caress, and every day something human left her body, which seemed to be turning to stone. often she would bury herself in profound silence that made one expect a heart-rending shriek or word; but after glancing about the room, she would say nothing and begin again to stare fixedly, vacantly, at the same spot in space. when mademoiselle returned from the friend's house with whom she dined, she would find germinie in the dark, sunk in an easy-chair with her legs stretched out upon a chair, her head hanging forward on her breast, and so profoundly absorbed that sometimes she did not hear the door open. as she walked forward into the room it seemed to mademoiselle de varandeuil as if she were breaking in upon a ghastly _tête-à-tête_ between disease and the shadow of death, wherein germinie was already seeking, in the terror of the invisible, the blindness of the grave and the darkness of death. lxiii throughout the month of october, germinie obstinately refused to take to her bed. each day, however, she was weaker and more helpless than the day before. she was hardly able to ascend the flight of stairs that led to her sixth floor, dragging herself along by the railing. one day she fell on the stairs: the other servants picked her up and carried her to her chamber. but that did not stop her; the next day she went downstairs again, with the fitful gleam of strength that invalids commonly have in the morning. she prepared mademoiselle's breakfast, made a pretence of working, and kept moving about the apartment, clinging to the chairs and dragging herself along. mademoiselle took pity on her; she forced her to lie down on her own bed. germinie lay there half an hour, an hour, wide awake, not speaking, but with her eyes open, fixed, and staring into vacancy like the eyes of a person in severe pain. one morning she did not come down. mademoiselle climbed to the sixth floor, turned into a narrow corridor in which the air was heavy with the odors from servants' water-closets and at last reached germinie's door, no. . germinie apologized for having compelled her to come up. it was impossible for her to put her feet out of the bed. she had terrible pains in her bowels and they were badly swollen. she begged mademoiselle to sit down a moment and, to make room for her, removed the candlestick that stood on the chair at the head of her bed. mademoiselle sat down and remained a few moments, looking about the wretched room,--one of those where the doctor has to lay his hat on the bed, and where there is barely room to die! it was a small attic room, without a chimney, with a scuttle window in the sloping roof, which admitted the heat of summer and the cold of winter. old trunks, clothes bags, a foot-bath, and the little iron bedstead on which germinie's niece had slept, were heaped up in a corner under the sloping roof. the bed, one chair, a little disabled washstand with a broken pitcher, comprised the whole of the furniture. above the bed, in an imitation violet-wood frame, hung a daguerreotype of a man. the doctor came during the day. "aha! peritonitis," he said, when mademoiselle described germinie's condition. he went up to see the sick woman. "i am afraid," he said, when he came down, "that there's an abscess in the intestine communicating with an abscess in the bladder. it's a serious case, very serious. you must tell her not to move about much in her bed, to turn over with great care. she might die suddenly in horrible agony. i suggested to her to go to lariboisière,--she agreed at once. she seemed to have no repugnance at all. but i don't know how she will bear the journey. however, she has such an unlimited stock of energy; i have never seen anything like it. to-morrow morning you shall have the order of admission." when mademoiselle went up to germinie's room again, she found her smiling in her bed, gay as a lark at the idea of going away. "it's a matter of six weeks at most, mademoiselle," said she. lxiv at two o'clock the next day the doctor brought the order for her admission to lariboisière. the invalid was ready to start. mademoiselle suggested that they should send to the hospital for a litter. "oh! no," said germinie, hastily, "i should think i was dead." she was thinking of her debts; she must show herself to her creditors on the street, alive, and on her feet to the last! she got out of bed. mademoiselle de varandeuil assisted her to put on her petticoat and her dress. as soon as she left her bed, all signs of life disappeared from her face, the flush from her complexion: it seemed as if earth suddenly took the place of blood under her skin. she went down the steep servants' stairway, clinging to the baluster, and reached her mistress's apartments. she sat down in an arm-chair near the window in the dining-room. she insisted upon putting on her stockings without assistance, and as she pulled them on with her poor trembling hands, the fingers striking against one another, she afforded a glimpse of her legs, which were so thin as to make one shudder. the housekeeper, meanwhile, was putting together in a bundle a little linen, a glass, a cup, and a pewter plate, which she wished to carry with her. when that was done, germinie looked about her for a moment; she cast one last glance around the room, a glance that seemed to long to take everything away with her. then, as her eyes rested on the door through which the housekeeper had just gone out, she said to mademoiselle: "at all events i leave a good woman with you." she rose. the door closed noisily behind her, as if to say adieu, and, supported by mademoiselle de varandeuil, who almost carried her, she went down the five flights of the main stairway. at every landing she paused to take breath. in the vestibule she found the concierge, who had brought her a chair. she fell into it. the vulgar fellow laughingly promised her that she would be well in six weeks. she moved her head slightly as she said _yes_, a muffled _yes_. she was in the cab, beside her mistress. it was an uncomfortable cab and jolted over the pavements. she sat forward on the seat to avoid the concussion of the jolting, and clung to the door with her hand. she watched the houses pass, but did not speak. when they reached the hospital gate, she refused to be carried. "can you walk as far as that?" said the concierge, pointing to the reception-room some sixty feet distant. she made an affirmative sign and walked: it was a dead woman walking, because she was determined to walk! at last she reached the great hall, cold and stiff and clean and bare and horrible, with a circle of wooden benches around the waiting litter. mademoiselle de varandeuil led her to a straw chair near a glazed door. a clerk opened the door, asked mademoiselle de varandeuil germinie's name and age, and wrote for a quarter of an hour, covering ten or more sheets of paper with a religious emblem at the top. that done, mademoiselle de varandeuil kissed her and turned to go; she saw an attendant take her under the arms, then she saw no more, but turned and fled, and, throwing herself upon the cushions of the cab, she burst into sobs and gave vent to all the tears with which her heart had been suffocated for an hour past. the driver on his box was amazed to hear such violent weeping. lxv on the visiting day, thursday, mademoiselle started at half-past twelve to go and see germinie. it was her purpose to be at her bedside at the moment the doors were thrown open, at one o'clock precisely. as she rode through the streets she had passed through four days before, she remembered the ghastly ride of monday. it seemed to her as if she were incommoding a sick person in the cab, of which she was the only occupant, and she sat close in the corner in order to make room for the memory of germinie. in what condition should she find her? should she find her at all? suppose her bed should be empty? the cab passed through a narrow street filled with orange carts, and with women sitting on the sidewalk offering biscuit for sale in baskets. there was something unspeakably wretched and dismal in this open-air display of fruit and cakes,--the delicacies of the dying, the _viaticum_ of invalids, craved by feverish mouths, longed for by the death-agony,--which workingmen's hands, black with toil, purchase as they pass, to carry to the hospital and offer death a tempting morsel. children carried them with sober faces, almost reverentially, and without touching them, as if they understood. the cab stopped before the gate of the courtyard. it was five minutes to one. there was a long line of women crowding about the gate, women with their working clothes on, sorrowful, depressed and silent. mademoiselle de varandeuil took her place in the line, went forward with the others and was admitted: they searched her. she inquired for salle sainte-joséphine, and was directed to the second wing on the second floor. she found the hall and the bed, no. , which was, as she had been told, one of the last at the right. indeed, she was guided thither, as it were, from the farther end of the hall, by germinie's smile--the smile of a sick person in a hospital at an unexpected visit, which says, so gently, as soon as you enter the room: "here i am." she leaned over the bed. germinie tried to push her away with a gesture of humility and the shamefacedness of a servant. mademoiselle de varandeuil kissed her. "ah!" said germinie, "the time dragged terribly yesterday. i imagined it was thursday and i longed so for you." "my poor girl! how are you?" "oh! i'm getting on finely now--the swelling in my bowels has all gone. i have only three weeks to stay here, mademoiselle, you'll see. they talk about a month or six weeks, but i know better. and i'm very comfortable here, i don't mind it at all. i sleep all night now. my! but i was thirsty, when you brought me here monday! they wouldn't give me wine and water." [illustration: chapter lxv _one and all, after a moment's conversation, leaned over germinie to kiss her, and with every kiss mademoiselle de varandeuil could hear an indistinct murmur as of words exchanged; a whispered question from those who kissed, a hasty reply from her who was kissed._] "what have you there to drink?" "oh! what i had at home--lime-water. would you mind pouring me out some, mademoiselle? their pewter things are so heavy!" she raised herself with one arm by the aid of the little stick that hung over the middle of the bed, and putting out the other thin, trembling arm, left bare by the sleeve falling back from it, she took the glass mademoiselle held out to her, and drank. "there," said she when she had done, and she placed both her arms outside the bed, on the coverlid. "what a pity that i have to put you out in this way, my poor demoiselle!" she continued. "things must be in a horribly dirty state at home!" "don't worry about that." there was a moment's silence. a faint smile came to germinie's lips. "i am sailing under false colors," she said, lowering her voice; "i have confessed so as to get well." then she moved her head on the pillow in order to bring her mouth nearer to mademoiselle de varandeuil's ear: "there are tales to tell here. i have a funny neighbor yonder." she indicated with a glance and a movement of her shoulder the patient to whom her back was turned. "there's a man who comes here to see her. he talked to her an hour yesterday. i heard them say they'd had a child. she has left her husband. he was like a madman, the man was, when he was talking to her." as she spoke, germinie's face lighted up as if she were still full of the scene of the day before, still stirred up and feverish with jealousy, so near death as she was, because she had heard love spoken of beside her! suddenly her expression changed. a woman came toward her bed. she seemed embarrassed when she saw mademoiselle de varandeuil. after a few moments, she kissed germinie, and hurriedly withdrew as another woman came up. the new-comer did the same, kissed germinie and at once took her leave. after the women a man came; then another woman. one and all, after a moment's conversation, leaned over germinie to kiss her, and with every kiss mademoiselle de varandeuil could hear an indistinct murmur as of words exchanged; a whispered question from those who kissed, a hasty reply from her who was kissed. "well!" she said to germinie, "i hope you are well taken care of!" "oh! yes," germinie answered in a peculiar tone, "they take excellent care of me!" she had lost the animation that she displayed at the beginning of the visit. the little blood that had mounted to her cheeks remained there in one spot only. her face seemed closed; it was cold and deaf, like a wall. her drawn-in lips were sealed, as it were. her features were concealed beneath the veil of infinite dumb agony. there was nothing caressing or eloquent in her staring eyes, absorbed as they were and filled with one fixed thought. you would have said that all exterior signs of her ideas were drawn within her by an irresistible power of concentration, by a last supreme effort of her will, and that her whole being was clinging in desperation to a sorrow that drew everything to itself. the visitors she had just received were the grocer, the fish-woman, the butter woman and the laundress--all her debts, incarnate! the kisses were the kisses of her creditors, who came to keep on the scent of their claims and to extort money from her death-agony! lxvi mademoiselle had just risen on saturday morning. she was making a little package of four jars of bar preserves, which she intended to carry to germinie the next day, when she heard low voices, a colloquy between the housekeeper and the concierge in the reception room. almost immediately the door opened and the concierge came in. "sad news, mademoiselle," he said. and he handed her a letter he had in his hand; it bore the stamp of the lariboisière hospital: germinie was dead; she died at seven o'clock that morning. mademoiselle took the letter; she saw only the letters that said: "dead! dead!" and they repeated the word: "dead! dead!" to no purpose, for she could not believe it. as is always the case with a person of whose death one learns abruptly, germinie appeared to her instinct with life, and her body, which was no more, seemed to stand before her with the awe-inspiring presence of a ghost. dead! she should never see her more! so there was no longer a germinie on earth! dead! she was dead! and the person she should hear henceforth moving about in the kitchen would not be she; somebody else would open the door for her, somebody else would potter about her room in the morning! "germinie!" she cried at last, in the tone with which she was accustomed to call her; then, collecting her thoughts: "machine! creature! what's your name?" she cried, savagely, to the bewildered housekeeper. "my dress--i must go there." she was so taken by surprise by this sudden fatal termination of the disease, that she could not accustom her mind to the thought. she could hardly realize that sudden, secret, vague death, of which her only knowledge was derived from a scrap of paper. was germinie really dead? mademoiselle asked herself the question with the doubt of persons who have lost a dear one far away, and, not having seen her die, do not admit that she is dead. was she not still alive the last time she saw her? how could it have happened? how could she so suddenly have become a thing good for nothing except to be put under ground? mademoiselle dared not think about it, and yet she kept on thinking. the mystery of the death-agony, of which she knew nothing, attracted and terrified her. the anxious interest of her affection turned to her maid's last hours, and she tried gropingly to take away the veil and repel the feeling of horror. then she was seized with an irresistible longing to know everything, to witness, with the help of what might be told her, what she had not seen. she felt that she must know if germinie had spoken before she died,--if she had expressed any desire, spoken of any last wishes, uttered one of those sentences which are the final outcry of life. when she reached lariboisière, she passed the concierge,--a stout man reeking with life as one reeks with wine,--passed through the corridors where pallid convalescents were gliding hither and thither, and rang at a door, veiled with white curtains, at the extreme end of the hospital. the door was opened: she found herself in a parlor, lighted by two windows, where a plaster cast of the virgin stood upon an altar, between two views of vesuvius, which seemed to shiver against the bare wall. behind her, through an open door, came the voices of sisters and little girls chattering together, a clamor of youthful voices and fresh laughter, the natural gayety of a cheery room where the sun frolics with children at play. mademoiselle asked to speak with the _mother_ of salle sainte-joséphine. a short, half-deformed sister, with a kind, homely face, a face alight with the grace of god, came in answer to her request. germinie had died in her arms. "she hardly suffered at all," the sister told mademoiselle; "she was sure that she was better; she felt relieved; she was full of hope. about seven this morning, just as her bed was being made, she suddenly began vomiting blood, and passed away without knowing that she was dying." the sister added that she had said nothing, asked for nothing, expressed no wish. mademoiselle rose, delivered from the horrible thoughts she had had. germinie had been spared all the tortures of the death-agony that she had dreamed of. mademoiselle was grateful for that death by the hand of god which gathers in the soul at a single stroke. as she was going away an attendant came to her and said: "will you be kind enough to identify the body?" _the body!_ the words gave mademoiselle a terrible shock. without awaiting her reply, the attendant led the way to a high yellow door, over which was written: _amphitheatre_. he knocked; a man in shirt sleeves, with a pipe in his mouth, opened the door and bade them wait a moment. mademoiselle waited. her thoughts terrified her. her imagination was on the other side of that awful door. she tried to anticipate what she was about to see. and her mind was so filled with confused images, with fanciful alarms, that she shuddered at the thought of entering the room, of recognizing that disfigured face among a number of others, if, indeed, she could recognize it! and yet she could not tear herself away; she said to herself that she should never see her again! the man with the pipe opened the door: mademoiselle saw nothing but a coffin, the lid of which extended only to the neck, leaving germinie's face uncovered, with the eyes open, and the hair erect upon her head. lxvii prostrated by the excitement and by this last spectacle, mademoiselle de varandeuil took to her bed on returning home, after she had given the concierge the money for the purchase of a burial lot, and for the burial. and when she was in bed the things she had seen arose before her. the horrible dead body was still beside her, the ghastly face framed by the coffin. that never-to-be-forgotten face was engraved upon her mind; beneath her closed eyelids she saw it and was afraid of it. germinie was there, with the distorted features of one who has been murdered, with sunken orbits and eyes that seemed to have withdrawn into their holes! she was there with her mouth still distorted by the vomiting that accompanied her last breath! she was there with her hair, her terrible hair, brushed back and standing erect upon her head! her hair!--that haunted mademoiselle more persistently than all the rest. the old maid thought, involuntarily, of things that had come to her ears when she was a child, of superstitions of the common people stored away in the background of her memory; she asked herself if she had not been told that dead people whose hair is like that carry a crime with them to the grave. and at times it was such hair as that that she saw upon that head, the hair of crime, standing on end with terror and stiffened with horror before the justice of heaven, like the hair of the condemned man before the scaffold in la grève! on sunday mademoiselle was too ill to leave her bed. on monday she tried to rise and dress, in order to attend the funeral; but she was attacked with faintness, and was obliged to return to her bed. lxviii "well! is it all over?" said mademoiselle from her bed, as the concierge entered her room about eleven o'clock, on his return from the cemetery, with the black coat and the sanctimonious manner suited to the occasion. "_mon dieu_, yes, mademoiselle. thank god! the poor girl is out of pain." "stay! i have no head to-day. put the receipts and the rest of the money on my table. we will settle our accounts some other day." the concierge stood before her without moving or evincing any purpose to go, shifting from one hand to the other a blue velvet cap made from the dress of one of his daughters. after a moment's reflection, he decided to speak. "this burying is an expensive business, mademoiselle. in the first place, there's----" "who asked you to give the figures?" mademoiselle de varandeuil interrupted, with the haughty air of superb charity. the concierge continued: "and as i was saying, a lot in the cemetery, which you told me to get, ain't given away. it's no use for you to have a kind heart, mademoiselle, you ain't any too rich,--everyone knows that,--and i says to myself: 'mademoiselle's going to have no small amount to pay out, and i know mademoiselle, she'll pay.' so it'll do no harm to economize on that, eh? it'll be just so much saved. the other'll be just as safe under ground. and then, what will give her the most pleasure up yonder? why, to know that she isn't making things hard for anybody, the excellent girl." "pay? what?" said mademoiselle, out of patience with the concierge's circumlocution. "oh! that's of no account," he replied; "she was very fond of you, all the same. and then, when she was very sick, it wasn't the time. oh! _mon dieu_, you needn't put yourself out--there's no hurry about it--it's money she owed a long while. see, this is it." he took a stamped paper from the inside pocket of his coat. "i didn't want her to make a note,--she insisted." mademoiselle de varandeuil seized the stamped paper and saw at the foot: _"i acknowledge the receipt of the above amount._ "germinie lacerteux." it was a promise to pay three hundred francs in monthly installments, which were to be endorsed on the back. "there's nothing there, you see," said the concierge, turning the paper over. mademoiselle de varandeuil took off her spectacles. "i will pay," she said. the concierge bowed. she glanced at him; he did not move. "that is all, i hope?" she said, sharply. the concierge had his eyes fixed on a leaf in the carpet. "that's all--unless----" mademoiselle de varandeuil had the same feeling of terror as at the moment she passed through the door on whose other side she was to see her maid's dead body. "but how does she owe all this?" she cried. "i paid her good wages, i almost clothed her. where did her money go, eh?" "ah! there you are, mademoiselle. i should rather not have told you,--but as well to-day as to-morrow. and then, too, it's better that you should be warned; when you know beforehand you can arrange matters. there's an account with the poultry woman. the poor girl owed a little everywhere; she didn't keep things in very good shape these last few years. the laundress left her book the last time she came. it amounts to quite a little,--i don't know just how much. it seems there's a note at the grocer's--an old note--it goes back years. he'll bring you his book." "how much at the grocer's?" "something like two hundred and fifty." all these disclosures, falling upon mademoiselle de varandeuil, one after another, extorted exclamations of stupefied surprise from her. resting her elbow on her pillow, she said nothing as the veil was torn away, bit by bit, from this life, as its shameful features were brought to light one by one. "yes, about two hundred and fifty. there's a good deal of wine, he tells me." "i have always had wine in the cellar." "the _crémière_," continued the concierge, without heeding her remark, "that's no great matter,--some seventy-five francs. it's for absinthe and brandy." "she drank!" cried mademoiselle de varandeuil, everything made clear to her by those words. the concierge did not seem to hear. "you see, mademoiselle, knowing the jupillons was the death of her,--the young man especially. it wasn't for herself that she did what she did. and the disappointment, you see. she took to drink. she hoped to marry him, i ought to say. she fitted up a room for him. when they get to buying furniture the money goes fast. she ruined herself,--think of it! it was no use for me to tell her not to throw herself away by drinking as she did. you don't suppose i was going to tell you, when she came in at six o'clock in the morning! it was the same with her child. oh!" the concierge added, in reply to mademoiselle's gesture, "it was a lucky thing the little one died. never mind, you can say she led a gay life--and a hard one. that's why i say the common ditch. if i was you--she's cost you enough, mademoiselle, all the time she's been living on you. and you can leave her where she is--with everybody else." "ah! that's how it is! that's what she was! she stole for men! she ran in debt! ah! she did well to die, the hussy! and i must pay! a child!--think of that: the slut! yes, indeed, she can rot where she will! you have done well, monsieur henri. steal! she stole from me! in the ditch, parbleu! that's quite good enough for her! to think that i let her keep all my keys--i never kept any account. my god! that's what comes of confidence. well! here we are--i'll pay--not on her account, but on my own. and i gave her my best pair of sheets to be buried in! ah! if i'd known i'd have given you the kitchen dish-clout, _mademoiselle how i am duped_!" and mademoiselle continued in this strain for some moments until the words choked one another in her throat and strangled her. lxix as a result of this scene, mademoiselle de varandeuil kept her bed a week, ill and raging, filled with indignation that shook her whole body, overflowed through her mouth, and tore from her now and again some coarse insult which she would hurl with a shriek of rage at her maid's vile memory. night and day she was possessed by the same fever of malediction, and even in her dreams her attenuated limbs were convulsed with wrath. was it possible! germinie! her germinie! she could think of nothing else. debts!--a child!--all sorts of shame! the degraded creature! she abhorred her, she detested her. if she had lived she would have denounced her to the police. she would have liked to believe in hell so that she might be consigned to the torments that await the dead. her maid was such a creature as that! a girl who had been in her service twenty years! whom she had loaded down with benefits! drunkenness! she had sunk so low as that! the horror that succeeds a bad dream came to mademoiselle, and all the waves of loathing that flowed from her heart said: "out upon the dead woman whose life the grave vomited forth and whose filth it cast out!" how she had deceived her! how the wretch had pretended to love her! and to make her appear more ungrateful and more despicable mademoiselle de varandeuil recalled her manifestations of affection, her attentions, her jealousies, which seemed a part of her adoration. she saw her bending over her when she was ill. she thought of her caresses. it was all a lie! her devotion was a lie! the delight with which she kissed her, the love upon her lips, were lies! mademoiselle told herself over and over again, she persuaded herself that it was so; and yet, little by little, from these reminiscences, from these evocations of the past whose bitterness she sought to make more bitter, from the far-off sweetness of days gone by, there arose within her a first sensation of pity. she drove away the thoughts that tended to allay her wrath; but reflection brought them back. thereupon there came to her mind some things to which she had paid no heed during germinie's lifetime, trifles of which the grave makes us take thought and upon which death sheds light. she had a vague remembrance of certain strange performances on the part of her maid, of feverish effusions and frantic embraces, of her throwing herself on her knees as if she were about to make a confession, of movements of the lips as if a secret were trembling on their verge. she saw, with the eyes we have for those who are no more, germinie's wistful glances, her gestures and attitudes, the despairing expression of her face. and now she realized that there were deep wounds beneath, heart-rending pain, the torment of her anguish and her repentance, the tears of blood of her remorse, all sorts of suffering forced out of sight throughout her life, and in her whole being a passion of shame that dared not ask forgiveness except with silence! then she would scold herself for the thought and call herself an old fool. her instinct of rigid uprightness, the stern conscience and harsh judgment of a stainless life, the things which cause a virtuous woman to condemn a harlot and should have caused a saint like mademoiselle de varandeuil to be without pity for her servant--everything within her rebelled against a pardon. the voice of justice, stifling her kindness of heart, cried: "never! never!" and she would expel germinie's infamous phantom with a pitiless gesture. there were times, indeed, when, in order to make her condemnation and execration of her memory more irrevocable, she would heap charges upon her and slander her. she would add to the dead woman's horrible list of sins. she would reproach germinie for more than was justly chargeable to her. she would attribute crimes to her dark thoughts, murderous desires to her impatient dreams. she would strive to think, she would force herself to think, that she had desired her mistress's death and had been awaiting it. but at that very moment, amid the blackest of her thoughts and suppositions, a vision arose and stood in a bright light before her. a figure approached, that seemed to come to meet her glance, a figure against which she could not defend herself, and which passed through the hands with which she sought to force it back. mademoiselle de varandeuil saw her dead maid once more. she saw once more the face of which she had caught a glimpse in the amphitheatre, the crucified face, the tortured face to which the blood and agony of a heart had mounted together. she saw it once more with the faculty which the second sight of memory separates from its surroundings. and that face, as it became clearer to her, caused her less terror. it appeared to her, divesting itself, as it were, of its fear-inspiring, horrifying qualities. suffering alone remained, but it was the suffering of expiation, almost of prayer, the suffering of a dead face that would like to weep. and as its expression grew ever milder, mademoiselle came at last to see in it a glance of supplication, of supplication that, at last, compelled her pity. insensibly there glided into her reflections indulgent thoughts, suggestions of apology that surprised herself. she asked herself if the poor girl was as guilty as others, if she had deliberately chosen the path of evil, if life, circumstances, the misfortune of her body and her destiny, had not made her the creature she had been, a creature of love and sorrow. suddenly she stopped: she was on the point of forgiving her! one morning she leaped out of bed. "here! you--you other!" she cried to her housekeeper, "the devil take your name! i can't remember it. give me my clothes, quick! i have to go out." "the idea, mademoiselle--just look at the roofs, they're all white." "well, it snows, that's all." ten minutes later, mademoiselle de varandeuil said to the driver of the cab she had sent for: "montmartre cemetery!" lxx in the distance an enclosure wall extended, perfectly straight, as far as the eye could see. the thread of snow that marked the outline of its coping gave it a dirty, rusty color. in a corner at the left three leafless trees reared their bare black branches against the sky. they rustled sadly, with the sound of pieces of dead wood stirred by the south wind. above these trees, behind the wall and close against it, arose the two arms from which hung one of the last oil-lamps in paris. a few snow-covered roofs were scattered here and there; beyond, the hill of montmartre rose sharply, its white shroud broken by oases of brown earth and sandy patches. low gray walls followed the slope, surmounted by gaunt, stunted trees whose branches had a bluish tint in the mist, as far as two black windmills. the sky was of a leaden hue, with occasional cold, bluish streaks as if ink had been applied with a brush! over montmartre there was a light streak, of a yellow color, like the seine water after heavy rains. above that wintry beam the wings of an invisible windmill turned and turned,--slow-moving wings, unvarying in their movement, which seemed to be turning for eternity. in front of the wall, against which was planted a thicket of dead cypresses, turned red by the frost, was a vast tract of land upon which were two rows of crowded, jostling overturned crosses, like two great funeral processions. the crosses touched and pushed one another and trod on one another's heels. they bent and fell and collapsed in the ranks. in the middle there was a sort of congestion which had caused them to bulge out on both sides; you could see them lying--covered by the snow and raising it into mounds with the thick wood of which they were made--upon the paths, somewhat trampled in the centre, that skirted the two long files. the broken ranks undulated with the fluctuation of a multitude, the disorder and wavering course of a long march. the black crosses with their arms outstretched assumed the appearance of ghosts and persons in distress. the two disorderly columns made one think of a human panic, a desperate, frightened army. it was as if one were looking on at a terrible rout. all the crosses were laden with wreaths, wreaths of immortelles, wreaths of white paper with silver thread, black wreaths with gold thread; but you could see them beneath the snow, worn out, withered, ghastly things, souvenirs, as it were, which the other dead would not accept and which had been picked up in order to make a little toilet for the crosses with gleanings from the graves. all the crosses had a name written in white; but there were other names that were not even written on a piece of wood,--a broken branch of a tree, stuck in the ground, with an envelope tied around it--such tombstones as that were to be seen there! on the left, where they were digging a trench for a third row of crosses, the workman's shovel threw black dirt into the air, which fell upon the white earth around. profound silence, the deaf silence of the snow, enveloped everything, and but two sounds could be heard; the dull sound made by the clods of earth and the heavy sound of regular footsteps; an old priest who was waiting there, his head enveloped in a black cowl, dressed in a black gown and stole, and with a dirty, yellow surplice, was trying to keep himself warm by stamping his great galoches on the pavement of the high road, in front of the crosses. such was the common ditch in those days. that tract of land, those crosses and that priest said this: "here sleeps the death of the common people; this is the poor man's end!" * * * * * o paris! thou art the heart of the world, thou art the great city of humanity, the great city of charity and brotherly love! thou hast kindly intentions, old-fashioned habits of compassion, theatres that give alms. the poor man is thy citizen as well as the rich man. thy churches speak of jesus christ; thy laws speak of equality; thy newspapers speak of progress; all thy governments speak of the common people; and this is where thou castest those who die in thy service, those who kill themselves ministering to thy luxury, those who perish in the noisome odors of thy factories, those who have sweated their lives away working for thee, giving thee thy prosperity, thy pleasures, thy splendors, those who have furnished thy animation and thy noise, those who have lengthened with the links of their lives the chain of thy duration as a capital, those who have been the crowd in thy streets and the common people of thy grandeur. each of thy cemeteries has a like shameful corner, hidden in the angle of a wall, where thou makest haste to bury them, and where thou castest dirt upon them in such stingy clods, that one can see the ends of their coffins protruding! one would say that thy charity stops with their last breath, that thy only free gift is the bed whereon they suffer, and that, when the hospital can do no more for them, thou, who art so vast and so superb, hast no place for them! thou dost heap them up, crowd them together and mingle them in death, as thou didst mingle them in the death-agony beneath the sheets of thy hospitals a hundred years since! as late as yesterday thou hadst only that priest on sentry duty, to throw a drop of paltry holy water on every comer: not the briefest prayer! even that symbol of decency was lacking: god could not be disturbed for so small a matter! and what the priest blesses is always the same thing: a trench in which the pine boxes strike against one another, where the dead enjoy no privacy! corruption there is common to all; no one has his own, but each one has that of all the rest: the worms are owned promiscuously! in the devouring soil a montfaucon hastens to make way for the catacombs. for the dead here have no more time than room to rot in: the earth is taken from them before it has finished with them! before their bones have assumed the color and the ancient appearance, so to speak, of stone, before the passing years have effaced the last trace of humanity and the memory of a body! the excavation is renewed when the earth is still themselves, when they are the damp soil in which the mattock is buried. the earth is loaned to them, you say? but it does not even confine the odor of death! in summer, the wind that passes over this scarcely-covered human charnel-house wafts the unholy miasma to the city of the living. in the scorching days of august the keepers deny admission to the place: there are flies that bear upon them the poison of the carrion, pestilential flies whose sting is deadly! * * * * * mademoiselle arrived at this spot after passing the wall that separates the lots sold in perpetuity from those sold temporarily only. following the directions given her by a keeper, she walked along between the further line of crosses and the newly-opened trench. and there she made her way over buried wreaths, over the snowy pall, to a hole where the trench began. it was covered over with old rotten planks and a sheet of oxidized zinc on which a workman had thrown his blue blouse. the earth sloped away behind them to the bottom of the trench, where could be seen the sinister outlines of three wooden coffins: there were one large one and two smaller ones just behind. the crosses of the past week, of the day before, of two days before, extended in a line down the slope; they glided along, plunged suddenly downward, and seemed to be taking long strides as if they were in danger of being carried over a precipice. mademoiselle began to ascend the path by these crosses, spelling out the dates and searching for the names with her wretched eyes. she reached the crosses of the th of november: that was the day before her maid's death, and germinie should be close by. there were five crosses of the th of november, five crosses huddled close together: germinie was not in the crush. mademoiselle de varandeuil went a little farther on, to the crosses of the th, then to those of the th, then to those of the th. she returned to the th, and looked carefully around in all directions: there was nothing, absolutely nothing,--germinie had been buried without a cross! not even a bit of wood had been placed in the ground by which to identify her grave! at last the old lady dropped on her knees in the snow, between two crosses, one of which bore the date of the th and the other of the th of november. all that remained of germinie should be almost in that spot. that ill-defined space was her ill-defined grave. to pray over her body it was necessary to pray at random between two dates,--as if the poor girl's destiny had decreed that there should be no more room on earth for her body than for her heart! notes [ ] _canon_ is the french word for cannon; it is also used in vulgar parlance to mean a glass of wine drunk at the bar. [ ] _battre les murailles_--to beat the walls--has a slang meaning: to be so drunk that you can't see, or can't lie down without holding on. [ ] literally, _red bowels_--common slang for hard drinkers. [ ] _cuir_ is an expression used to denote the error in speaking, which consists--in french--in pronouncing a _t_ for an _s_, and vice versa at the end of words which are joined in pronunciation to the next word: _e.g., il étai-z-à la campagne_ for _il était à la campagne_. [ ] in the slang vocabulary, to _console_ one's coffee means to add brandy to it. [ ] a _négresse_ is a bottle of red wine, and, as applied to that article, _morte_ (dead) means empty. list of illustrations germinie lacerteux page germinie and jupillon visit their child _fronts._ jupillon and germinie at the fortifications germinie brings money for a substitute germinie tempted to murder germinie at lariboisiÈre the dwelling-place of light by winston churchill volume . chapter xv occasionally the art of narrative may be improved by borrowing the method of the movies. another night has passed, and we are called upon to imagine the watery sunlight of a mild winter afternoon filtering through bare trees on the heads of a multitude. a large portion of hampton common is black with the people of sixteen nationalities who have gathered there, trampling down the snow, to listen wistfully and eagerly to a new doctrine of salvation. in the centre of this throng on the bandstand--reminiscent of concerts on sultry, summer nights--are the itinerant apostles of the cult called syndicalism, exhorting by turns in divers tongues. antonelli had spoken, and many others, when janet, impelled by a craving not to be denied, had managed to push her way little by little from the outskirts of the crowd until now she stood almost beneath the orator who poured forth passionate words in a language she recognized as italian. her curiosity was aroused, she was unable to classify this tall man whose long and narrow face was accentuated by a pointed brown beard, whose lips gleamed red as he spoke, whose slim hands were eloquent. the artist as propagandist--the unsuccessful artist with more facility than will. the nose was classic, and wanted strength; the restless eyes that at times seemed fixed on her were smouldering windows of a burning house: the fire that stirred her was also consuming him. though he could have been little more than five and thirty, his hair was thinned and greying at the temples. and somehow emblematic of this physiognomy and physique, summing it up and expressing it in terms of apparel, were the soft collar and black scarf tied in a flowing bow. janet longed to know what he was saying. his phrases, like music, played on her emotions, and at last, when his voice rose in crescendo at the climax of his speech, she felt like weeping. "un poeta!" a woman beside her exclaimed. "who is he?" janet asked. "rolfe," said the woman. "but he's an italian?" the woman shrugged her shoulders. "it is his name that is all i know." he had begun to speak again, and now in english, with an enunciation, a distinctive manner of turning his phrases new to such gatherings in america, where labour intellectuals are little known; surprising to janet, diverting her attention, at first, from the meaning of his words. "labour," she heard, "labour is the creator of all wealth, and wealth belongs to the creator. the wage system must be abolished. you, the creators, must do battle against these self-imposed masters until you shall come into your own. you who toil miserably for nine hours and produce, let us say, nine dollars of wealth--do you receive it? no, what is given you is barely enough to keep the slave and the slave's family alive! the master, the capitalist, seizes the rightful reward of your labour and spends it on luxuries, on automobiles and fine houses and women, on food he can't eat, while you are hungry. yes, you are slaves," he cried, "because you submit like slaves." he waited, motionless and scornful, for the noise to die down. "since i have come here to hampton, i have heard some speak of the state, others of the unions. yet the state is your enemy, it will not help you to gain your freedom. the legislature has shortened your hours,--but why? because the politicians are afraid of you, and because they think you will be content with a little. and now that the masters have cut your wages, the state sends its soldiers to crush you. only fifty cents, they say--only fifty cents most of you miss from your envelopes. what is fifty cents to them? but i who speak to you have been hungry, i know that fifty cents will buy ten loaves of bread, or three pounds of the neck of pork, or six quarts of milk for the babies. fifty cents will help pay the rent of the rat-holes where you live." once more he was interrupted by angry shouts of approval. "and the labour unions, have they aided you? why not? i will tell you why--because they are the servile instruments of the masters. the unions say that capital has rights, bargain with it, but for us there can be only one bargain, complete surrender of the tools to the workers. for the capitalists are parasites who suck your blood and your children's blood. from now on there can be no compromise, no truce, no peace until they are exterminated. it is war." war! in janet's soul the word resounded like a tocsin. and again, as when swept along east street with the mob, that sense of identity with these people and their wrongs, of submergence with them in their cause possessed her. despite her ancestry, her lot was cast with them. she, too, had been precariously close to poverty, had known the sordidness of life; she, too, and lise and hannah had been duped and cheated of the fairer things. eagerly she had drunk in the vocabulary of that new and terrible philosophy. the master class must be exterminated! was it not true, if she had been of that class, that ditmar would not have dared to use and deceive her? why had she never thought of these things before?... the light was beginning to fade, the great meeting was breaking up, and yet she lingered. at the foot of the bandstand steps, conversing with a small group of operatives that surrounded him, she perceived the man who had just spoken. and as she stood hesitating, gazing at him, a desire to hear more, to hear all of this creed he preached, that fed the fires in her soul, urged her forward. her need, had she known it, was even greater than that of these toilers whom she now called comrades. despite some qualifying reserve she felt, and which had had to do with the redness of his lips, he attracted her. he had a mind, an intellect, he must possess stores of the knowledge for which she thirsted; he appeared to her as one who had studied and travelled, who had ascended heights and gained the wider view denied her. a cynical cosmopolitanism would have left her cold, but here, apparently, was a cultivated man burning with a sense of the world's wrongs. ditmar, who was to have led her out of captivity, had only thrust her the deeper into bondage.... she joined the group, halting on the edge of it, listening. rolfe was arguing with a man about the labour unions, but almost at once she knew she had fixed his attention. from time to time, as he talked, his eyes sought hers boldly, and in their dark pupils were tiny points of light that stirred and confused her, made her wonder what was behind them, in his soul. when he had finished his argument, he singled her out. "you do not work in the mills?" he asked. "no, i'm a stenographer--or i was one." "and now?" "i've given up my place." "you want to join us?" "i was interested in what you said. i never heard anything like it before." he looked at her intently. "come, let us walk a little way," he said. and she went along by his side, through the common, feeling a neophyte's excitement in the freemasonry, the contempt for petty conventions of this newly achieved doctrine of brotherhood. "i will give you things to read, you shall be one of us." "i'm afraid i shouldn't understand them," janet replied. "i've read so little." "oh, you will understand," he assured her, easily. "there is too much learning, too much reason and intelligence in the world, too little impulse and feeling, intuition. where do reason and intelligence lead us? to selfishness, to thirst for power-straight into the master class. they separate us from the mass of humanity. no, our fight is against those who claim more enlightenment than their fellowmen, who control the public schools and impose reason on our children, because reason leads to submission, makes us content with our station in life. the true syndicalist is an artist, a revolutionist!" he cried. janet found this bewildering and yet through it seemed to shine for her a gleam of light. her excitement grew. never before had she been in the presence of one who talked like this, with such assurance and ease. and the fact that he despised knowledge, yet possessed it, lent him glamour. "but you have studied!" she exclaimed. "oh yes, i have studied," he replied, with a touch of weariness, "only to learn that life is simple, after all, and that what is needed for the social order is simple. we have only to take what belongs to us, we who work, to follow our feelings, our inclinations." "you would take possession of the mills?" she asked. "yes," he said quickly, "of all wealth, and of the government. there would be no government--we should not need it. a little courage is all that is necessary, and we come into our own. you are a stenographer, you say. but you--you are not content, i can see it in your face, in your eyes. you have cause to hate them, too, these masters, or you would not have been herein this place, to-day. is it not so?" she shivered, but was silent. "is it not so?" he repeated. "they have wronged you, too, perhaps,--they have wronged us all, but some are too stupid, too cowardly to fight and crush them. christians and slaves submit. the old religion teaches that the world is cruel for most of us, but if we are obedient and humble we shall be rewarded in heaven." rolfe laughed. "the masters approve of that teaching. they would not have it changed. but for us it is war. we'll strike and keep on striking, we'll break their machinery, spoil their mills and factories, and drive them out. and even if we do not win at once, it is better to suffer and die fighting than to have the life ground out of us--is it not?" "yes, it is better!" she agreed. the passion in her voice did not escape him. "some day, perhaps sooner than we think, we shall have the true armageddon, the general strike, when the last sleeping toiler shall have aroused himself from his lethargy to rise up and come into his inheritance." he seemed to detach himself from her, his eyes became more luminous. "`like unseen music in the night,'--so sorel writes about it. they may scoff at it, the wise ones, but it will come. `like music in the night!' you respond to that!" again she was silent. they had walked on, through familiar streets that now seemed strange. "you respond--i can tell," he said. "and yet, you are not like these others, like me, even. you are an american. and yet you are not like most of your countrywomen." "why do you say that?" "i will tell you. because they are cold, most of them, and trivial, they do not feel. but you--you can feel, you can love and hate. you look calm and cold, but you are not--i knew it when i looked at you, when you came up to me." she did not know whether to resent or welcome his clairvoyance, his assumption of intimacy, his air of appropriation. but her curiosity was tingling. "and you?" she asked. "your name is rolfe, isn't it?" he assented. "and yours?" she told him. "you have been in america long--your family?" "very long," she said. "but you speak italian, and rolfe isn't an italian name." "my father was an englishman, an artist, who lived in italy--my mother a peasant woman from lombardy, such as these who come to work in the mills. when she was young she was beautiful--like a madonna by an old master." "an old master?" "the old masters are the great painters who lived in italy four hundred years ago. i was named after one of them--the greatest. i am called leonard. he was leonardo da vinci." the name, as rolfe pronounced it, stirred her. and art, painting! it was a realm unknown to her, and yet the very suggestion of it evoked yearnings. and she recalled a picture in the window of hartmann's book-store, a coloured print before which she used to stop on her way to and from the office, the copy of a landscape by a california artist. the steep hillside in the foreground was spread with the misty green of olive trees, and beyond--far beyond--a snow-covered peak, like some high altar, flamed red in the sunset. she had not been able to express her feeling for this picture, it had filled her with joy and sadness. once she had ventured to enter and ask its price--ten dollars. and then came a morning when she had looked for it, and it was gone. "and your father--did he paint beautiful pictures, too?" "ah, he was too much of a socialist. he was always away whey i was a child, and after my mother's death he used to take me with him. when i was seventeen we went to milan to take part in the great strike, and there i saw the soldiers shooting down the workers by the hundreds, putting them in prison by the thousands. then i went to live in england, among the socialists there, and i learned the printer's trade. when i first came to this country i was on a labour paper in new york, i set up type, i wrote articles, and once in a while i addressed meetings on the east side. but even before i left london i had read a book on syndicalism by one of the great frenchmen, and after a while i began to realize that the proletariat would never get anywhere through socialism." "the proletariat?" the word was new to janet's ear. "the great mass of the workers, the oppressed, the people you saw here to-day. socialism is not for them. socialism--political socialism --betrays them into the hands of the master class. direct action is the thing, the general strike, war,--the new creed, the new religion that will bring salvation. i joined the industrial workers of the world that is the american organization of syndicalism. i went west, to colorado and california and oregon, i preached to the workers wherever there was an uprising, i met the leaders, ritter and borkum and antonelli and jastro and nellie bond, i was useful to them, i understand syndicalism as they do not. and now we are here, to sow the seed in the east. come," he said, slipping his arm through hers, "i will take you to headquarters, i will enlist you, you shall be my recruit. i will give you the cause, the religion you need." she longed to go, and yet she drew back, puzzled. the man fired and fascinated her, but there were reservations, apprehensions concerning him, felt rather than reasoned. because of her state of rebellion, of her intense desire to satisfy in action the emotion aroused by a sense of wrong, his creed had made a violent appeal, but in his voice, in his eyes, in his manner she had been quick to detect a personal, sexual note that disturbed and alarmed her, that implied in him a lack of unity. "i can't, to-night," she said. "i must go home--my mother is all alone. but i want to help, i want to do something." they were standing on a corner, under a street lamp. and she averted her eyes from his glance. "then come to-morrow," he said eagerly. "you know where headquarters is, in the franco-belgian hall?" "what could i do?" she asked. "you? you could help in many ways--among the women. do you know what picketing is?" "you mean keeping the operatives out of the mills?" "yes, in the morning, when they go to work. and out of the chippering mill, especially. ditmar, the agent of that mill, is the ablest of the lot, i'm told. he's the man we want to cripple." "cripple!" exclaimed janet. "oh, i don't mean to harm him personally." rolfe did not seem to notice her tone. "but he intends to crush the strike, and i understand he's importing scabs here to finish out an order--a big order. if it weren't for him, we'd have an easier fight; he stiffens up the others. there's always one man like that, in every place. and what we want to do is to make him shut down, especially." "i see," said janet. "you'll come to headquarters?" rolfe repeated. "yes, i'll come, to-morrow," she promised. after she had left him she walked rapidly through several streets, not heeding her direction--such was the driving power of the new ideas he had given her. certain words and phrases he had spoken rang in her head, and like martial music kept pace with her steps. she strove to remember all that he had said, to grasp its purport; and because it seemed recondite, cosmic, it appealed to her and excited her the more. and he, the man himself, had exerted a kind of hypnotic force that partially had paralyzed her faculties and aroused her fears while still in his presence: her first feeling in escaping had been one of relief--and then she began to regret not having gone to headquarters. hadn't she been foolish? in the retrospect, the elements in him that had disturbed her were less disquieting, his intellectual fascination was enhanced: and in that very emancipation from cant and convention, characteristic of the order to which he belonged, had lain much of his charm. she had attracted him as a woman, there was no denying that. he, who had studied and travelled and known life in many lands, had discerned in her, janet bumpus, some quality to make him desire her, acknowledge her as a comrade! tremblingly she exulted in the possession of that quality --whatever it might be. ditmar, too, had perceived it! he had not known how to value it. with this thought came a flaming suggestion--ditmar should see her with this man rolfe, she would make him scorch with the fires of jealousy. ditmar should know that she had joined his enemies, the industrial workers of the world. of the world! her shackles had been cast off at last!... and then, suddenly, she felt tired. the prospect of returning to fillmore street, to the silent flat--made the more silent by her mother's tragic presence--overwhelmed her. the ache in her heart began to throb again. how could she wait until the dawn of another day?... in the black hours of the morning, with the siren dinning in her ears a hoarse call to war, janet leaped from her bed and began to dress. there is a degree of cold so sharp that it seems actually to smell, and as she stole down the stairs and out of the door she shivered, assailed by a sense of loneliness and fear. yet an insistent voice urged her on, whispering that to remain at home, inactive, was to go mad; salvation and relief lay in plunging into the struggle, in contributing her share toward retribution and victory. victory! in faber street the light of the electric arcs tinged the snow with blue, and the flamboyant advertisements of breakfast foods, cigarettes and ales seemed but the mockery of an activity now unrealizable. the groups and figures scattered here and there farther down the street served only to exaggerate its wide emptiness. what could these do, what could she accomplish against the mighty power of the mills? gradually, as she stood gazing, she became aware of a beating of feet upon the snow; over her shoulder she caught the gleam of steel. a squad of soldiers muffled in heavy capes and woolen caps was marching along the car-tracks. she followed them. at the corner of west street, in obedience to a sharp command she saw them halt, turn, and advance toward a small crowd gathered there. it scattered, only to collect again when the soldiers had passed on. janet joined them. she heard men cursing the soldiers. the women stood a little aside; some were stamping to keep warm, and one, with a bundle in her arms which janet presently perceived to be a child, sank down on a stone step and remained there, crouching, resigned. "we gotta right to stay here, in the street. we gotta right to live, i guess." the girl's teeth were chattering, but she spoke with such vehemence and spirit as to attract janet's attention. "you worked in the chippering, like me--yes?" she asked. janet nodded. the faded, lemon-coloured shawl the girl had wrapped about her head emphasized the dark beauty of her oval face. she smiled, and her white teeth were fairly dazzling. impulsively she thrust her arm through janet's. "you american--you comrade, you come to help?" she asked. "i've never done any picketing." "i showa you." the dawn had begun to break, revealing little by little the outlines of cruel, ugly buildings, the great mill looming darkly at the end of the street, and janet found it scarcely believable that only a little while ago she had hurried thither in the mornings with anticipation and joy in her heart, eager to see ditmar, to be near him! the sight of two policemen hurrying toward them from the direction of the canal aroused her. with sullen murmurs the group started to disperse, but the woman with the baby, numb with cold, was slow in rising, and one of the policemen thrust out his club threateningly. "move on, you can't sit here," he said. with a lithe movement like the spring of a cat the italian girl flung herself between them--a remarkable exhibition of spontaneous inflammability; her eyes glittered like the points of daggers, and, as though they had been dagger points, the policeman recoiled a little. the act, which was absolutely natural, superb, electrified janet, restored in an instant her own fierceness of spirit. the girl said something swiftly, in italian, and helped the woman to rise, paying no more attention to the policeman. janet walked on, but she had not covered half the block before she was overtaken by the girl; her anger had come and gone in a flash, her vivacity had returned, her vitality again found expression in an abundant good nature and good will. she asked janet's name, volunteering the information that her own was gemma, that she was a "fine speeder" in the chippering mill, where she had received nearly seven dollars a week. she had been among the first to walk out. "why did you walk out?" asked janet curiously. "why? i get mad when i know that my wages is cut. i want the money--i get married." "is that why you are striking?" asked janet curiously. "that is why--of course." "then you haven't heard any of the speakers? they say it is for a cause --the workers are striking for freedom, some day they will own the mills. i heard a man named rolfe yesterday--" the girl gave her a radiant smile. "rolfe! it is beautiful, what rolfe said. you think so? i think so. i am for the cause, i hate the capitalist. we will win, and get more money, until we have all the money. we will be rich. and you, why do you strike?" "i was mad, too," janet replied simply. "revenge!" exclaimed the girl, glittering again. "i understan'. here come the scabs! now i show you." the light had grown, but the stores were still closed and barred. along faber street, singly or in little groups, anxiously glancing around them, behind them, came the workers who still clung desperately to their jobs. gemma fairly darted at two girls who sought the edge of the sidewalk, seizing them by the sleeves, and with piteous expressions they listened while she poured forth on them a stream of italian. after a moment one tore herself away, but the other remained and began to ask questions. presently she turned and walked slowly away in the direction from which she had come. "i get her," exclaimed gemma, triumphantly. "what did you say?" asked janet. "listen--that she take the bread from our mouths, she is traditore--scab. we strike for them, too, is it not so?" "it is no use for them to work for wages that starve. we win the strike, we get good wages for all. here comes another--she is a jewess--you try, you spik." janet failed with the jewess, who obstinately refused to listen or reply as the two walked along with her, one on either side. near west street they spied a policeman, and desisted. up and down faber street, everywhere, the game went on: but the police were watchful, and once a detachment of militia passed. the picketing had to be done quickly, in the few minutes that were to elapse before the gates should close. janet's blood ran faster, she grew excited, absorbed, bolder as she perceived the apologetic attitude of the "scabs" and she began to despise them with gemma's heartiness; and soon she had lost all sense of surprise at finding herself arguing, pleading, appealing to several women in turn, fluently, in the language of the industrial revolution. some--because she was an american--examined her with furtive curiosity; others pretended not to understand, accelerating their pace. she gained no converts that morning, but one girl, pale, anemic with high cheek bones evidently a slav--listened to her intently. "i gotta right to work," she said. "not if others will starve because you work," objected janet. "if i don't work i starve," said the girl. "no, the committee will take care of you--there will be food for all. how much do you get now?" "four dollar and a half." "you starve now," janet declared contemptuously. "the quicker you join us, the sooner you'll get a living wage." the girl was not quite convinced. she stood for a while undecided, and then ran abruptly off in the direction of west street. janet sought for others, but they had ceased coming; only the scattered, prowling picketers remained. over the black rim of the clarendon mill to the eastward the sky had caught fire. the sun had risen, the bells were ringing riotously, resonantly in the clear, cold air. another working day had begun. janet, benumbed with cold, yet agitated and trembling because of her unwonted experience of the morning, made her way back to fillmore street. she was prepared to answer any questions her mother might ask; as they ate their dismal breakfast, and hannah asked no questions, she longed to blurt out where she had been, to announce that she had cast her lot with the strikers, the foreigners, to defend them and declare that these were not to blame for the misfortunes of the family, but men like ditmar and the owners of the mills, the capitalists. her mother, she reflected bitterly, had never once betrayed any concern as to her shattered happiness. but gradually, as from time to time she glanced covertly at hannah's face, her resentment gave way to apprehension. hannah did not seem now even to be aware of her presence; this persistent apathy filled her with a dread she did not dare to acknowledge. "mother!" she cried at last. hannah started. "have you finished?" she asked. "yes." "you've b'en out in the cold, and you haven't eaten much." janet fought back her tears. "oh yes, i have," she managed to reply, convinced of the futility of speech, of all attempts to arouse her mother to a realization of the situation. perhaps--though her heart contracted at the thought perhaps it was a merciful thing! but to live, day after day, in the presence of that comfortless apathy!... later in the morning she went out, to walk the streets, and again in the afternoon; and twice she turned her face eastward, in the direction of the franco-belgian hall. her courage failed her. how would these foreigners and the strange leaders who had come to organize them receive her, ditmar's stenographer? she would have to tell them she was ditmar's stenographer; they would find it out. and now she was filled with doubts about rolfe. had he really thought she could be of use to them! around the common, in front of the city hall men went about their affairs alertly, or stopped one another to talk about the strike. in faber street, indeed, an air of suppressed excitement prevailed, newsboys were shouting out extras; but business went on as though nothing had happened to disturb it. there was, however, the spectacle, unusual at this time of day, of operatives mingling with the crowd, while policemen stood watchfully at the corners; a company of soldiers marched by, drawing the people in silence to the curb. janet scanned the faces of these idle operatives; they seemed for the most part either calm or sullen, wanting the fire and passion of the enthusiasts who had come out to picket in the early hours of the day; she sought vainly for the italian girl with whom she had made friends. despondency grew in her, a sense of isolation, of lacking any one, now, to whom she might turn, and these feelings were intensified by the air of confidence prevailing here. the strike was crushed, injustice and wrong had triumphed--would always triumph. in front of the banner office she heard a man say to an acquaintance who had evidently just arrived in town:--"the chippering? sure, that's running. by to-morrow ditmar'll have a full force there. now that the militia has come, i guess we've got this thing scotched..." just how and when that order and confidence of faber street began to be permeated by disquietude and alarm, janet could not have said. something was happening, somewhere--or about to happen. an obscure, apparently telepathic process was at work. people began to hurry westward, a few had abandoned the sidewalk and were running; while other pedestrians, more timid, were equally concerned to turn and hasten in the opposite direction. at the corner of west street was gathering a crowd that each moment grew larger and larger, despite the efforts of the police to disperse it. these were strikers, angry strikers. they blocked the traffic, halted the clanging trolleys, surged into the mouth of west street, booing and cursing at the soldiers whose threatening line of bayonets stretched across that thoroughfare half-way down toward the canal, guarding the detested chippering mill. bordering west street, behind the company's lodging-houses on the canal, were certain low buildings, warehouses, and on their roofs tense figures could be seen standing out against the sky. the vanguard of the mob, thrust on by increasing pressure from behind, tumbled backward the thin cordon of police, drew nearer and nearer the bayonets, while the soldiers grimly held their ground. a voice was heard on the roof, a woman in the front rank of the mob gave a warning shriek, and two swift streams of icy water burst forth from the warehouse parapet, tearing the snow from the cobbles, flying in heavy, stinging spray as it advanced and mowed the strikers down and drove them like flies toward faber street. screams of fright, curses of defiance and hate mingled with the hissing of the water and the noise of its impact with the ground--like the tearing of heavy sail-cloth. then, from somewhere near the edge of the mob, came a single, sharp detonation, quickly followed by another--below the watchmen on the roof a window crashed. the nozzles on the roof were raised, their streams, sweeping around in a great semi-circle, bowled down the rioters below the tell-tale wisps of smoke, and no sooner had the avalanche of water passed than the policemen who, forewarned, had sought refuge along the walls, rushed forward and seized a man who lay gasping on the snow. dazed, half drowned, he had dropped his pistol. they handcuffed him and dragged him away through the ranks of the soldiers, which opened for him to pass. the mob, including those who had been flung down, bruised and drenched, and who had painfully got to their feet again, had backed beyond the reach of the water, and for a while held that ground, until above its hoarse, defiant curses was heard, from behind, the throbbing of drums. "cossacks! more cossacks!" the cry was taken up by canadians, italians, belgians, poles, slovaks, jews, and syrians. the drums grew louder, the pressure from the rear was relaxed, the throng in faber street began a retreat in the direction of the power plant. down that street, now in double time, came three companies of boston militia, newly arrived in hampton, blue-taped, gaitered, slouch-hatted. from columns of fours they wheeled into line, and with bayonets at charge slowly advanced. then the boldest of the mob, who still lingered, sullenly gave way, west street was cleared, and on the wider thoroughfare the long line of traffic, the imprisoned trolleys began to move again.... janet had wedged herself into the press far enough to gain a view down west street of the warehouse roofs, to see the water turned on, to hear the screams and the curses and then the shots. once more she caught the contagious rage of the mob; the spectacle had aroused her to fury; it seemed ignominious, revolting that human beings, already sufficiently miserable, should be used thus. as she retreated reluctantly across the car tracks her attention was drawn to a man at her side, a slovak. his face was white and pinched, his clothes were wet. suddenly he stopped, turned and shook his fist at the line of soldiers. "the cossack, the politzman belong to the boss, the capitalist!" he cried. "we ain't got no right to live. i say, kill the capitalist--kill ditmar!" a man with a deputy's shield ran toward them. "move on!" he said brutally. "move on, or i'll roil you in." and janet, once clear of the people, fled westward, the words the foreigner had spoken ringing in her ears. she found herself repeating them aloud, "kill ditmar!" as she hurried through the gathering dusk past the power house with its bottle-shaped chimneys, and crossed the little bridge over the stream beside the chocolate factory. she gained the avenue she had trod with eda on that summer day of the circus. here was the ragpicker's shop, the fence covered with bedraggled posters, the deserted grand-stand of the base-ball park spread with a milky-blue mantle of snow; and beyond, the monotonous frame cottages all built from one model. now she descried looming above her the outline of torrey's hill blurred and melting into a darkening sky, and turned into the bleak lane where stood the franco-belgian hall--hampton headquarters of the industrial workers of the world. she halted a moment at sight of the crowd of strikers loitering in front of it, then went on again, mingling with them excitedly beside the little building. its lines were simple and unpretentious, and yet it had an exotic character all its own, differing strongly from the surrounding houses: it might have been transported from a foreign country and set down here. as the home of that odd, cooperative society of thrifty and gregarious belgians it had stimulated her imagination, and once before she had gazed, as now, through the yellowed, lantern-like windows of the little store at the women and children waiting to fill their baskets with the day's provisions. in the middle of the building was an entrance leading up to the second floor. presently she gathered the courage to enter. her heart was pounding as she climbed the dark stairs and thrust open the door, and she stood a moment on the threshold almost choked by the fumes of tobacco, bewildered by the scene within, confused by the noise. through a haze of smoke she beheld groups of swarthy foreigners fiercely disputing among themselves--apparently on the verge of actual combat, while a sprinkling of silent spectators of both sexes stood at the back of the hall. at the far end was a stage, still set with painted, sylvan scenery, and seated there, alone, above the confusion and the strife, with a calmness, a detachment almost disconcerting, was a stout man with long hair and a loose black tie. he was smoking a cigar and reading a newspaper which he presently flung down, taking up another from a pile on the table beside him. suddenly one of the groups, shouting and gesticulating, surged toward him and made an appeal through their interpreter. he did not appear to be listening; without so much as lowering his newspaper he spoke a few words in reply, and the group retired, satisfied. by some incomprehensible power he dominated. panting, fascinated, loath to leave yet fearful, janet watched him, breathing now deeply this atmosphere of smoke, of strife, and turmoil. she found it grateful, for the strike, the battle was in her own soul as well. momentarily she had forgotten rolfe, who had been in her mind as she had come hither, and then she caught sight of him in a group in the centre of the hall. he saw her, he was making his way toward her, he was holding her hands, looking down into her face with that air of appropriation, of possession she remembered. but she felt no resentment now, only a fierce exultation at having dared. "you've come to join us!" he exclaimed. "i thought i'd lost you." he bent closer to her that she might hear. "we are having a meeting of the committee," he said, and she smiled. despite her agitation, this struck her as humorous. and rolfe smiled back at her. "you wouldn't think so, but antonelli knows how to manage them. he is a general. come, i will enlist you, you shall be my recruit." "but what can i do?" she asked. "i have been thinking. you said you were a stenographer--we need stenographers, clerks. you will not be wasted. come in here." behind her two box-like rooms occupying the width of the building had been turned into offices, and into one of these rolfe led her. men and women were passing in and out, while in a corner a man behind a desk sat opening envelopes, deftly extracting bills and post-office orders and laying them in a drawer. on the wall of this same room was a bookcase half filled with nondescript volumes. "the bibliotheque--that's french for the library of the franco-belgian cooperative association," explained rolfe. "and this is comrade sanders. sanders is easier to say than czernowitz. here is the young lady i told you about, who wishes to help us--miss bumpus." mr. sanders stopped counting his money long enough to grin at her. "you will be welcome," he said, in good english. "stenographers are scarce here. when can you come?" "to-morrow morning," answered janet. "good," he said. "i'll have a machine for you. what kind do you use?" she told him. instinctively she took a fancy to this little man, whose flannel shirt and faded purple necktie, whose blue, unshaven face and tousled black hair seemed incongruous with an alert, business-like, and efficient manner. his nose, though not markedly jewish, betrayed in him the blood of that vital race which has triumphantly survived so many centuries of bondage and oppression. "he was a find, czernowitz--he calls himself sanders," rolfe explained, as they entered the hall once more. "an operative in the patuxent, educated himself, went to night school--might have been a capitalist like so many of his tribe if he hadn't loved humanity. you'll get along with him." "i'm sure i shall," she replied. rolfe took from his pocket a little red button with the letters i.w.w. printed across it. he pinned it, caressingly, on her coat. "now you are one of us!" he exclaimed. "you'll come to-morrow?" "i'll come to-morrow," she repeated, drawing away from him a little. "and--we shall be friends?" she nodded. "i must go now, i think." "addio!" he said. "i shall look for you. for the present i must remain here, with the committee." when janet reached faber street she halted on the corner of stanley to stare into the window of the glorified drugstore. but she gave no heed to the stationery, the cameras and candy displayed there, being in the emotional state that reduces to unreality objects of the commonplace, everyday world. presently, however, she became aware of a man standing beside her. "haven't we met before?" he asked. "or--can i be mistaken?" some oddly familiar quizzical note in his voice stirred, as she turned to him, a lapsed memory. the hawklike yet benevolent and illuminating look he gave her recalled the man at silliston whom she had thought a carpenter though he was dressed now in a warm suit of gray wool, and wore a white, low collar. "in silliston!" she exclaimed. "why--what are you doing here?" "well--this instant i was just looking at those notepapers, wondering which i should choose if i really had good taste. but it's very puzzling--isn't it?--when one comes from the country. now that saffron with the rough edges is very--artistic. don't you think so?" she looked at him and smiled, though his face was serious. "you don't really like it, yourself," she informed him. "now you're reflecting on my taste," he declared. "oh no--it's because i saw the fence you were making. is it finished yet?" "i put the last pineapple in place the day before christmas. do you remember the pineapples?" she nodded. "and the house? and the garden?" "oh, those will never be finished. i shouldn't have anything more to do." "is that--all you do?" she asked. "it's more important than anything else. but you have you been back to silliston since i saw you? i've been waiting for another call." "you haven't even thought of me since," she was moved to reply in the same spirit. "haven't i?" he exclaimed. "i wondered, when i came up here to hampton, whether i mightn't meet you--and here you are! doesn't that prove it?" she laughed, somewhat surprised at the ease with which he had diverted her, drawn her out of the tense, emotional mood in which he had discovered her. as before, he puzzled her, but the absence of any flirtatious suggestion in his talk gave her confidence. he was just friendly. "sometimes i hoped i might see you in hampton," she ventured. "well, here i am. i heard the explosion, and came." "the explosion! the strike!" she exclaimed; suddenly enlightened. "now i remember! you said something about hampton being nitro-glycerine--human nitro-glycerine. you predicted this strike." "did i? perhaps i did," he assented. "maybe you suggested the idea." "i suggested it! oh no, i didn't--it was new to me, it frightened me at the time, but it started me thinking about a lot of things that had never occurred to me." "you might have suggested the idea without intending to, you know. there are certain people who inspire prophecies--perhaps you are one." his tone was playful, but she was quick to grasp at an inference--since his glance was fixed on the red button she wore. "you meant that i would explode, too!" "oh no--nothing so terrible as that," he disclaimed. "and yet most of us have explosives stored away inside of us--instincts, impulses and all that sort of thing that won't stand too much bottling-up." "yes, i've joined the strike." she spoke somewhat challengingly, though she had an uneasy feeling that defiance was somewhat out of place with him. "i suppose you think it strange, since i'm not a foreigner and haven't worked in the mills. but i don't see why that should make any difference if you believe that the workers haven't had a chance." "no difference," he agreed, pleasantly, "no difference at all." "don't you sympathize with the strikers?" she insisted. "or--are you on the other side, the side of the capitalists?" "i? i'm a spectator--an innocent bystander." "you don't sympathize with the workers?" she cried. "indeed i do. i sympathize with everybody." "with the capitalists?" "why not?" "why not? because they've had everything their own way, they've exploited the workers, deceived and oppressed them, taken all the profits." she was using glibly her newly acquired labour terminology. "isn't that a pretty good reason for sympathizing with them?" he inquired. "what do you mean?" "well, i should think it might be difficult to be happy and have done all that. at any rate, it isn't my notion of happiness. is it yours?" for a moment she considered this. "no--not exactly," she admitted. "but they seem happy," she insisted vehemently, "they have everything they want and they do exactly as they please without considering anybody except themselves. what do they care how many they starve and make miserable? you--you don't know, you can't know what it is to be driven and used and flung away!" almost in tears, she did not notice his puzzled yet sympathetic glance. "the operatives, the workers create all the wealth, and the capitalists take it from them, from their wives and children." "now i know what you've been doing," he said accusingly. "you've been studying economics." her brow puckered. "studying what?" "economics--the distribution of wealth. it's enough to upset anybody." "but i'm not upset," she insisted, smiling in spite of herself at his comical concern. "it's very exciting. i remember reading a book once on economics and such things, and i couldn't sleep for a week. it was called `the organization of happiness,' i believe, and it described just how the world ought to be arranged--and isn't. i thought seriously of going to washington and telling the president and congress about it." "it wouldn't have done any good," said janet. "no, i realized that." "the only thing that will do any good is to strike and keep on striking until the workers own the mills--take everything away from the capitalists." "it's very simple," he agreed, "much simpler than the book i read. that's what they call syndicalism, isn't it?" "yes." she was conscious of his friendliness, of the fact that his skepticism was not cynical, yet she felt a strong desire to convince him, to vindicate her new creed. "there's a man named rolfe, an educated man who's lived in italy and england, who explains it wonderfully. he's one of the i.w.w. leaders--you ought to hear him." "rolfe converted you? i'll go to hear him." "yes--but you have to feel it, you have to know what it is to be kept down and crushed. if you'd only stay here awhile." "oh, i intend to," he replied. she could not have said why, but she felt a certain relief on hearing this. "then you'll see for yourself!" she cried. "i guess that's what you've come for, isn't it?" "well, partly. to tell the truth, i've come to open a restaurant." "to open a restaurant!" somehow she was unable to imagine him as the proprietor of a restaurant. "but isn't it rather a bad time?" she gasped. "i don't look as if i had an eye for business--do i? but i have. no, it's a good time--so many people will be hungry, especially children. i'm going to open a restaurant for children. oh, it will be very modest, of course--i suppose i ought to call it a soup kitchen." "oh!" she exclaimed, staring at him. "then you really--" the sentence remained unfinished. "i'm sorry," she said simply. "you made me think--" "oh, you mustn't pay any attention to what i say. come 'round and see my establishment, number dey street, one flight up, no elevator. will you?" she laughed tremulously as he took her hand. "yes indeed, i will," she promised. and she stood awhile staring after him. she was glad he had come to hampton, and yet she did not even know his name. chapter xvi she had got another place--such was the explanation of her new activities janet gave to hannah, who received it passively. and the question dreaded about ditmar was never asked. hannah had become as a child, performing her tasks by the momentum of habituation, occasionally talking simply of trivial, every-day affairs, as though the old life were going on continuously. at times, indeed, she betrayed concern about edward, wondering whether he were comfortable at the mill, and she washed and darned the clothes he sent home by messenger. she hoped he would not catch cold. her suffering seemed to have relaxed. it was as though the tortured portion of her brain had at length been seared. to janet, her mother's condition when she had time to think of it--was at once a relief and a new and terrible source of anxiety. mercifully, however, she had little leisure to reflect on that tragedy, else her own sanity might have been endangered. as soon as breakfast was over she hurried across the city to the franco-belgian hall, and often did not return until nine o'clock at night, usually so tired that she sank into bed and fell asleep. for she threw herself into her new labours with the desperate energy that seeks forgetfulness, not daring to pause to think about herself, to reflect upon what the future might hold for her when the strike should be over. nor did she confine herself to typewriting, but, as with ditmar, constantly assumed a greater burden of duty, helping czernowitz--who had the work of five men--with his accounts, with the distribution of the funds to the ever-increasing number of the needy who were facing starvation. the money was paid out to them in proportion to the size of their families; as the strike became more and more effective their number increased until many mills had closed; other mills, including the chippering, were still making a desperate attempt to operate their looms, and sixteen thousand operatives were idle. she grew to know these operatives who poured all day long in a steady stream through headquarters; she heard their stories, she entered into their lives, she made decisions. some, even in those early days of the strike, were frauds; were hiding their savings; but for the most part investigation revealed an appalling destitution, a resolution to suffer for the worker's cause. a few complained, the majority were resigned; some indeed showed exaltation and fire, were undaunted by the task of picketing in the cold mornings, by the presence of the soldiery. in this work of dealing with the operatives janet had the advice and help of anna mower, a young woman who herself had been a skilled operative in the clarendon mill, and who was giving evidence of unusual qualities of organization and leadership. anna, with no previous practise in oratory, had suddenly developed the gift of making speeches, the more effective with her fellow workers because unstudied, because they flowed directly out of an experience she was learning to interpret and universalize. janet, who heard her once or twice, admired and envied her. they became friends. the atmosphere of excitement in which janet now found herself was cumulative. day by day one strange event followed another, and at times it seemed as if this extraordinary existence into which she had been plunged were all a feverish dream. hither, to the absurd little solle de reunion of the franco-belgian hall came notables from the great world, emissaries from an uneasy governor, delegations from the legislature, members of the congress of the united states and even senators; students, investigators, men and women of prominence in the universities, magazine writers to consult with uncouth leaders of a rebellion that defied and upset the powers which hitherto had so serenely ruled, unchallenged. rolfe identified these visitors, and one morning called her attention to one who he said was the nation's foremost authority on social science. janet possessed all unconsciously the new england reverence for learning, she was stirred by the sight of this distinguished-looking person who sat on the painted stage, fingering his glasses and talking to antonelli. the two men made a curious contrast. but her days were full of contrasts of which her mood exultingly approved. the politicians were received cavalierly. toward these, who sought to act as go-betweens in the conflict, antonelli was contemptuous; he behaved like the general of a conquering army, and his audacity was reflected in the other leaders, in rolfe, in the committee itself. that committee, a never-ending source of wonder to janet, with its nine or ten nationalities and interpreters, was indeed a triumph over the obstacles of race and language, a babel made successful; in a community of anglo-saxon traditions, an amazing anomaly. the habiliments of the west, the sack coats and sweaters, the slouch hats and caps, the so-called derbies pulled down over dark brows and flashing eyes lent to these peasant types an incongruity that had the air of ferocity. the faces of most of them were covered with a blue-black stubble of beard. some slouched in their chairs, others stood and talked in groups, gesticulating with cigars and pipes; yet a keen spectator, after watching them awhile through the smoke, might have been able to pick out striking personalities among them. he would surely have noticed froment, the stout, limping man under whose white eyebrows flashed a pair of livid blue and peculiarly gallic eyes; he held the belgians in his hand: lindtzki, the pole, with his zealot's face; radeau, the big canadian in the checked mackinaw; and findley, the young american-less by any arresting quality of feature than by an expression suggestive of practical wisdom. imagine then, on an afternoon in the middle phase of the strike, some half dozen of the law-makers of a sovereign state, top-hatted and conventionally garbed in black, accustomed to authority, to conferring favours instead of requesting them, climbing the steep stairs and pausing on the threshold of that hall, fingering their watch chains, awaiting recognition by the representatives of the new and bewildering force that had arisen in an historic commonwealth. a "debate" was in progress. some of the debaters, indeed, looked over their shoulders, but the leader, who sat above them framed in the sylvan setting of the stage, never so much as deigned to glance up from his newspaper. a half-burned cigar rolled between his mobile lips, he sat on the back of his neck, and yet he had an air napoleonic; nietzschean, it might better be said--although it is safe to assert that these moulders of american institutions knew little about that terrible philosopher who had raised his voice against the "slave morals of christianity." it was their first experience with the superman.... it remained for the canadian, radeau, when a lull arrived in the turmoil, to suggest that the gentlemen be given chairs. "sure, give them chairs," assented antonelli in a voice hoarse from speech-making. breath-taking audacity to certain spectators who had followed the delegation hither, some of whom could not refrain from speculating whether it heralded the final scrapping of the machinery of the state; amusing to cynical metropolitan reporters, who grinned at one another as they prepared to take down the proceedings; evoking a fierce approval in the breasts of all rebels among whom was janet. the legislative chairman, a stout and suave gentleman of irish birth, proceeded to explain how greatly concerned was the legislature that the deplorable warfare within the state should cease; they had come, he declared, to aid in bringing about justice between labour and capital. "we'll get justice without the help of the state," remarked antonelli curtly, while a murmur of approval ran through the back of the hall. that was scarcely the attitude, said the chairman, he had expected. he knew that such a strike as this had engendered bitterness, there had been much suffering, sacrifice undoubtedly on both sides, but he was sure, if mr. antonelli and the committee would accept their services here he was interrupted. had the mill owners accepted their services? the chairman cleared his throat. the fact was that the mill owners were more difficult to get together in a body. a meeting would be arranged--"when you arrange a meeting, let me know," said antonelli. a laugh went around the room. it was undoubtedly very difficult to keep one's temper under such treatment. the chairman looked it. "a meeting would be arranged," he declared, with a long-suffering expression. he even smiled a little. "in the meantime--" "what can your committee do?" demanded one of the strike leaders, passionately--it was findley. "if you find one party wrong, can your state force it to do right? can you legislators be impartial when you have not lived the bitter life of the workers? would you arbitrate a question of life and death? and are the worst wages paid in these mills anything short of death? do you investigate because conditions are bad? or because the workers broke loose and struck? why did you not come before the strike?" this drew more approval from the rear. why, indeed? the chairman was adroit, he had pulled himself out of many tight places in the assembly chamber, but now he began to perspire, to fumble in his coat tails for a handkerchief. the legislature, he maintained, could not undertake to investigate such matters until called to its attention.... later on a tall gentleman, whom heaven had not blessed with tact, saw fit to deplore the violence that had occurred; he had no doubt the leaders of the strike regretted it as much as he, he was confident it would be stopped, when public opinion would be wholly and unreservedly on the side of the strikers. "public opinion!" savagely cried lindtzki, who spoke english with only a slight accent. "if your little boy, if your little girl come to you and ask for shoes, for bread, and you say, `i have no shoes, i have no bread, but public opinion is with us,' would that satisfy you?" this drew so much applause that the tall law-maker sat down again with a look of disgust on his face.... the committee withdrew, and for many weeks thereafter the state they represented continued to pay some four thousand dollars daily to keep its soldiers on the streets of hampton.... in the meanwhile janet saw much of rolfe. owing to his facile command of language he was peculiarly fitted to draft those proclamations, bombastically worded in the french style, issued and circulated by the strike committee--appeals to the polyglot army to withstand the pangs of hunger, to hold out for the terms laid down, assurances that victory was at hand. walking up and down the bibliotheque, his hands behind his back, his red lips gleaming as he spoke, he dictated these documents to janet. in the ecstasy of this composition he had a way of shaking his head slowly from side to side, and when she looked up she saw his eyes burning, down at her. a dozen times a day, while she was at her other work, he would come in and talk to her. he excited her, she was divided between attraction and fear of him, and often she resented his easy assumption that a tie existed between them--the more so because this seemed to be taken for granted among certain of his associates. in their eyes, apparently, she was rolfe's recruit in more senses than one. it was indeed a strange society in which she found herself, and rolfe typified it. he lived on the plane of the impulses and intellect, discarded as inhibiting factors what are called moral standards, decried individual discipline and restraint. and while she had never considered these things, the spectacle of a philosophy--embodied in him--that frankly and cynically threw them overboard was disconcerting. he regarded her as his proselyte, he called her a puritan, and he seemed more concerned that she should shed these relics of an ancestral code than acquire the doctrines of sorel and pouget. and yet association with him presented the allurement of a dangerous adventure. intellectually he fascinated her; and still another motive--which she partially disguised from herself--prevented her from repelling him. that motive had to do with ditmar. she tried to put ditmar from her mind; she sought in desperation, not only to keep busy, but to steep and lose herself in this fierce creed as an antidote to the insistent, throbbing pain that lay ambushed against her moments of idleness. the second evening of her installation at headquarters she had worked beyond the supper hour, helping sanders with his accounts. she was loath to go home. and when at last she put on her hat and coat and entered the hall rolfe, who had been talking to jastro, immediately approached her. his liquid eyes regarded her solicitously. "you must be hungry," he said. "come out with me and have some supper." but she was not hungry; what she needed was air. then he would walk a little way with her--he wanted to talk to her. she hesitated, and then consented. a fierce hope had again taken possession of her, and when they came to warren street she turned into it. "where are you going?" rolfe demanded. "for a walk," she said. "aren't you coming?" "will you have supper afterwards?" "perhaps." he followed her, puzzled, yet piqued and excited by her manner, as with rapid steps she hurried along the pavement. he tried to tell her what her friendship meant to him; they were, he declared, kindred spirits--from the first time he had seen her, on the common, he had known this. she scarcely heard him, she was thinking of ditmar; and this was why she had led rolfe into warren street they might meet ditmar! it was possible that he would be going to the mill at this time, after his dinner! she scrutinized every distant figure, and when they reached the block in which he lived she walked more slowly. from within the house came to her, faintly, the notes of a piano--his daughter amy was practising. it was the music, a hackneyed theme of schubert's played heavily, that seemed to arouse the composite emotion of anger and hatred, yet of sustained attraction and wild regret she had felt before, but never so poignantly as now. and she lingered, perversely resolved to steep herself in the agony. "who lives here" rolfe asked. "mr. ditmar," she answered. "the agent of the chippering mill?" she nodded. "he's the worst of the lot," rolfe said angrily. "if it weren't for him, we'd have this strike won to-day. he owns this town, he's run it to suit himself, he stiffens up the owners and holds the other mills in line. he's a type, a driver, the kind of man we must get rid of. look at him --he lives in luxury while his people are starving." "get rid of!" repeated janet, in an odd voice. "oh, i don't mean to shoot him," rolfe declared. "but he may get shot, for all i know, by some of these slaves he's made desperate." "they wouldn't dare shoot him," janet said. "and whatever he is, he isn't a coward. he's stronger than the others, he's more of a man." rolfe looked at her curiously. "what do you know about him?" he asked. "i--i know all about him. i was his stenographer." "you! his stenographer! then why are you herewith us?" "because i hate him!" she cried vehemently. "because i've learned that it's true--what you say about the masters--they only think of themselves and their kind, and not of us. they use us." "he tried to use you! you loved him!" "how dare you say that!" he fell back before her anger. "i didn't mean to offend you," he exclaimed. "i was jealous--i'm jealous of every man you've known. i want you. i've never met a woman like you." they were the very words ditmar had used! she did not answer, and for a while they walked along in silence, leaving warren street and cutting across the city until they canoe in sight of the common. rolfe drew nearer to her. "forgive me!" he pleaded. "you know i would not offend you. come, we'll have supper together, and i will teach you more of what you have to know." "where?" she asked. "at the hampton--it is a little cafe where we all go. perhaps you've been there." "no," said janet. "it doesn't compare with the cafes of europe--or of new york. perhaps we shall go to them sometime, together. but it is cosy, and warm, and all the leaders will be there. you'll come--yes?" "yes, i'll come," she said.... the hampton was one of the city's second-class hotels, but sufficiently pretentious to have, in its basement, a "cafe" furnished in the "mission" style of brass tacks and dull red leather. in the warm, food-scented air fantastic wisps of smoke hung over the groups; among them janet made out several of the itinerant leaders of syndicalism, loose-tied, debonnair, giving a tremendous impression of freedom as they laughed and chatted with the women. for there were women, ranging from the redoubtable nellie bond herself down to those who may be designated as camp-followers. rolfe, as he led janet to a table in a corner of the room, greeted his associates with easy camaraderie. from miss bond he received an illuminating smile. janet wondered at her striking good looks, at the boldness and abandon with which she talked to jastro or exchanged sallies across the room. the atmosphere of this tawdry resort, formerly frequented by shop girls and travelling salesmen, was magically transformed by the presence of this company, made bohemian, cosmopolitan, exhilarating. and janet, her face flushed, sat gazing at the scene, while rolfe consulted the bill of fare and chose a beefsteak and french fried potatoes. the apathetic waiter in the soiled linen jacket he addressed as "comrade." janet protested when he ordered cocktails. "you must learn to live, to relax, to enjoy yourself," he declared. but a horror of liquor held her firm in her refusal. rolfe drank his, and while they awaited the beefsteak she was silent, the prey of certain misgivings that suddenly assailed her. lise, she remembered, had sometimes mentioned this place, though preferring gruber's: and she was struck by the contrast between this spectacle and the grimness of the strike these people had come to encourage and sustain, the conflict in the streets, the suffering in the tenements. she glanced at rolfe, noting the manner in which he smoked cigarettes, sensually, as though seeking to wring out of each all there was to be got before flinging it down and lighting another. again she was struck by the anomaly of a religion that had indeed enthusiasms, sacrifices perhaps, but no disciplines. he threw it out in snatches, this religion, while relating the histories of certain persons in the room: of jastro, for instance, letting fall a hint to the effect that this evangelist and bliss bond were dwelling together in more than amity. "then you don't believe in marriage?" she demanded, suddenly. rolfe laughed. "what is it," he exclaimed, "but the survival of the system of property? it's slavery, taboo, a device upheld by the master class to keep women in bondage, in superstition, by inducing them to accept it as a decree of god." "did the masters themselves ever respect it, or any other decrees of god they preached to the slaves? read history, and you will see. they had their loves, their mistresses. read the newspapers, and you will find out whether they respect it to-day. but they are very anxious to have you and me respect it and all the other christian commandments, because they will prevent us from being discontented. they say that we must be satisfied with the situation in this world in which god has placed us, and we shall have our reward in the next." she shivered slightly, not only at the ideas thus abruptly enunciated, but because it occurred to her that those others must be taking for granted a certain relationship between herself and rolfe.... but presently, when the supper arrived, these feelings changed. she was very hungry, and the effect of the food, of the hot coffee was to dispel her doubt and repugnance, to throw a glamour over the adventure, to restore to rolfe's arguments an exciting and alluring appeal. and with renewed physical energy she began to experience once more a sense of fellowship with these free and daring spirits who sought to avenge her wrongs and theirs. "for us who create there are no rules of conduct, no conventions," rolfe was saying, "we do not care for the opinions of the middle class, of the bourgeois. with us men and women are on an equality. it is fear that has kept the workers down, and now we have cast that off--we know our strength. as they say in italy, il mondo e a chi se lo piglia, the world belongs to him who is bold." "italian is a beautiful language," she exclaimed. "i will teach you italian," he said. "i want to learn--so much!" she sighed. "your soul is parched," he said, in a commiserating tone. "i will water it, i will teach you everything." his words aroused a faint, derisive echo: ditmar had wish to teach her, too! but now she was strongly under the spell of the new ideas hovering like shining, gossamer spirits just beyond her reach, that she sought to grasp and correlate. unlike the code which rolfe condemned, they seemed not to be separate from life, opposed to it, but entered even into that most important of its elements, sex. in deference to that other code ditmar had made her his mistress, and because he was concerned for his position and the security of the ruling class had sought to hide the fact.... rolfe, with a cigarette between his red lips, sat back in his chair, regarding with sensuous enjoyment the evident effect of his arguments. "but love?" she interrupted, when presently he had begun to talk again. she strove inarticulately to express an innate feminine objection to relationships that were made and broken at pleasure. "love is nothing but attraction between the sexes, the life-force working in us. and when that attraction ceases, what is left? bondage. the hideous bondage of christian marriage, in which women promise to love and obey forever." "but women--women are not like men. when once they give themselves they do not so easily cease to love. they--they suffer." he did not seem to observe the bitterness in her voice. "ah, that is sentiment," he declared, "something that will not trouble women when they have work to do, inspiring work. it takes time to change our ideas, to learn to see things as they are." he leaned forward eagerly. "but you will learn, you are like some of those rare women in history who have had the courage to cast off traditions. you were not made to be a drudge...." but now her own words, not his, were ringing in her head--women do not so easily cease to love, they suffer. in spite of the new creed she had so eagerly and fiercely embraced, in which she had sought deliverance and retribution, did she still love ditmar, and suffer because of him? she repudiated the suggestion, yet it persisted as she glanced at rolfe's red lips and compared him with ditmar. love! rolfe might call it what he would--the life-force, attraction between the sexes, but it was proving stronger than causes and beliefs. he too was making love to her; like ditmar, he wanted her to use and fling away when he should grow weary. was he not pleading for himself rather than for the human cause he professed? taking advantage of her ignorance and desperation, of her craving for new experience and knowledge? the suspicion sickened her. were all men like that? suddenly, without apparent premeditation or connection, the thought of the stranger from silliston entered her mind. was he like that?... rolfe was bending toward her across the table, solicitously. "what's the matter?" he asked. her reply was listless. "nothing--except that i'm tired. i want to go home." "not now," he begged. "it's early yet." but she insisted.... chapter xvii the next day at the noon hour janet entered dey street. cheek by jowl there with the tall tenements whose spindled-pillared porches overhung the darkened pavements were smaller houses of all ages and descriptions, their lower floors altered to accommodate shops; while in the very midst of the block stood a queer wooden building with two rows of dormer windows let into its high-pitched roof. it bore a curious resemblance to a town hall in the low countries. in front of it the street was filled with children gazing up at the doorway where a man stood surveying them --the stranger from silliston. there was a rush toward him, a rush that drove janet against the wall almost at his side, and he held up his hands in mock despair, gently impeding the little bodies that strove to enter. he bent over them to examine the numerals, printed on pasteboard, they wore on their breasts. his voice was cheerful, yet compassionate. "it's hard to wait, i know. i'm hungry myself," he said. "but we can't all go up at once. the building would fall down! one to one hundred now, and the second hundred will be first for supper. that's fair, isn't it?" dozens of hands were raised. "i'm twenty-nine!" "i'm three, mister!" "i'm forty-one!" he let them in, one by one, and they clattered up the stairs, as he seized a tiny girl bundled in a dark red muffler and set her on the steps above him. he smiled at janet. "this is my restaurant," he said. but she could not answer. she watched him as he continued to bend over the children, and when the smaller ones wept because they had to wait, he whispered in their ears, astonishing one or two into laughter. some ceased crying and clung to him with dumb faith. and after the chosen hundred had been admitted he turned to her again. "you allow visitors?" "oh dear, yes. they'd come anyway. there's one up there now, a very swell lady from new york--so swell i don't know what to say to her. talk to her for me." "but i shouldn't know what to say, either," replied janet. she smiled, but she had an odd desire to cry. "what is she doing here?" "oh, thrashing 'round, trying to connect with life--she's one of the unfortunate unemployed." "unemployed?" "the idle rich," he explained. "perhaps you can give her a job--enlist her in the i.w.w." "we don't want that kind," janet declared. "have pity on her," he begged. "nobody wants them--that's why they're so pathetic." she accompanied him up the narrow stairway to a great loft, the bareness of which had been tempered by draped american flags. from the trusses of the roof hung improvised electric lights, and the children were already seated at the four long tables, where half a dozen ladies were supplying them with enamelled bowls filled with steaming soup. they attacked it ravenously, and the absence of the talk and laughter that ordinarily accompany children's feasts touched her, impressed upon her, as nothing else had done, the destitution of the homes from which these little ones had come. the supplies that came to hampton, the money that poured into headquarters were not enough to allay the suffering even now. and what if the strike should last for months! would they be able to hold out, to win? in this mood of pity, of anxiety mingled with appreciation and gratitude for what this man was doing, she turned to speak to him, to perceive on the platform at the end of the room a lady seated. so complete was the curve of her back that her pose resembled a letter u set sidewise, the gap from her crossed knee to her face being closed by a slender forearm and hand that held a lorgnette, through which she was gazing at the children with an apparently absorbed interest. this impression of willowy flexibility was somehow heightened by large, pear-shaped pendants hanging from her ears, by a certain filminess in her black costume and hat. flung across the table beside her was a long coat of grey fur. she struck an odd note here, presented a strange contrast to janet's friend from silliston, with his rough suit and fine but rugged features. "i'm sorry i haven't a table for you just at present," he was saying. "but perhaps you'll let me take your order,"--and he imitated the obsequious attitude of a waiter. "a little fresh caviar and a clear soup, and then a fish--?" the lady took down her lorgnette and raised an appealing face. "you're always joking, brooks," she chided him, "even when you're doing things like this! i can't get you to talk seriously even when i come all the way from new york to find out what's going on here." "how hungry children eat, for instance?" he queried. "dear little things, it's heartrending!" she exclaimed. "especially when i think of my own children, who have to be made to eat. tell me the nationality of that adorable tot at the end." "perhaps miss bumpus can tell you," he ventured. and janet, though distinctly uncomfortable and hostile to the lady, was surprised and pleased that he should have remembered her name. "brooks," she had called him. that was his first name. this strange and sumptuous person seemed intimate with him. could it be possible that he belonged to her class? "mrs. brocklehurst, miss bumpus." mrs. brocklehurst focussed her attention on janet, through the lorgnette, but let it fall immediately, smiling on her brightly, persuasively. "how d'ye do?" she said, stretching forth a slender arm and taking the girl's somewhat reluctant hand. "do come and sit down beside me and tell me about everything here. i'm sure you know--you look so intelligent." her friend from silliston shot at janet an amused but fortifying glance and left them, going down to the tables. somehow that look of his helped to restore in her a sense of humour and proportion, and her feeling became one of curiosity concerning this exquisitely soigneed being of an order she had read about, but never encountered--an order which her newly acquired views declared to be usurpers and parasites. but despite her palpable effort to be gracious perhaps because of it--mrs. brocklehurst had an air about her that was disconcerting! janet, however, seemed composed as she sat down. "i'm afraid i don't know very much. maybe you will tell me something, first." "why, certainly," said mrs. brocklehurst, sweetly when she had got her breath. "who is that man?" janet asked. "whom do you mean--mr. insall?" "is that his name? i didn't know. i've seen him twice, but he never told me." "why, my dear, do you mean to say you haven't heard of brooks insall?" "brooks insall." janet repeated the name, as her eyes sought his figure between the tables. "no." "i'm sure i don't know why i should have expected you to hear of him," declared the lady, repentantly. "he's a writer--an author." and at this janet gave a slight exclamation of pleasure and surprise. "you admire writers? he's done some delightful things." "what does he write about?" janet asked. "oh, wild flowers and trees and mountains and streams, and birds and humans--he has a wonderful insight into people." janet was silent. she was experiencing a swift twinge of jealousy, of that familiar rebellion against her limitations. "you must read them, my dear," mrs. brocklehurst continued softly, in musical tones. "they are wonderful, they have such distinction. he's walked, i'm told, over every foot of new england, talking to the farmers and their wives and--all sorts of people." she, too, paused to let her gaze linger upon insall laughing and chatting with the children as they ate. "he has such a splendid, `out-door' look don't you think? and he's clever with his hands he bought an old abandoned farmhouse in silliston and made it all over himself until it looks as if one of our great-great-grandfathers had just stepped out of it to shoot an indian only much prettier. and his garden is a dream. it's the most unique place i've ever known." janet blushed deeply as she recalled how she had mistaken him for a carpenter: she was confused, overwhelmed, she had a sudden longing to leave the place, to be alone, to think about this discovery. yet she wished to know more. "but how did he happen to come here to hampton--to be doing this?" she asked. "well, that's just what makes him interesting, one never can tell what he'll do. he took it into his head to collect the money to feed these children; i suppose he gave much of it himself. he has an income of his own, though he likes to live so simply." "this place--it's not connected with any organization?" janet ejaculated. "that's the trouble, he doesn't like organizations, and he doesn't seem to take any interest in the questions or movements of the day," mrs. brocklehurst complained. "or at least he refuses to talk about them, though i've known him for many years, and his people and mine were friends. now there are lots of things i want to learn, that i came up from new york to find out. i thought of course he'd introduce me to the strike leaders, and he tells me he doesn't know one of them. perhaps you know them," she added, with sudden inspiration. "i'm only an employee at strike headquarters," janet replied, stiffening a little despite the lady's importuning look--which evidently was usually effective. "you mean the i.w.w.?" "yes." meanwhile insall had come up and seated himself below them on the edge of the platform. "oh, brooks, your friend miss bumpus is employed in the strike headquarters!" mrs. brocklehurst cried, and turning to janet she went on. "i didn't realize you were a factory girl, i must say you don't look it." once more a gleam of amusement from insall saved janet, had the effect of compelling her to meet the affair somewhat after his own manner. he seemed to be putting the words into her mouth, and she even smiled a little, as she spoke. "you never can tell what factory girls do look like in these days," she observed mischievously. "that's so," mrs. brocklehurst agreed, "we are living in such extraordinary times, everything topsy turvy. i ought to have realized --it was stupid of me--i know several factory girls in new york, i've been to their meetings, i've had them at my house--shirtwaist strikers." she assumed again the willowy, a position, her fingers clasped across her knee, her eyes supplicatingly raised to janet. then she reached out her hand and touched the i.w.w. button. "do tell me all about the industrial workers, and what they believe," she pleaded. "well," said janet, after a slight pause, "i'm afraid you won't like it much. why do you want to know?" "because i'm so interested--especially in the women of the movement. i feel for them so, i want to help--to do something, too. of course you're a suffragist." "you mean, do i believe in votes for women? yes, i suppose i do." "but you must," declared mrs. brocklehurst, still sweetly, but with emphasis. "you wouldn't be working, you wouldn't be striking unless you did." "i've never thought about it," said janet. "but how are you working girls ever going to raise wages unless you get the vote? it's the only way men ever get anywhere--the politicians listen to them." she produced from her bag a gold pencil and a tablet. "mrs. ned carfax is here from boston--i saw her for a moment at the hotel she's been here investigating for nearly three days, she tells me. i'll have her send you suffrage literature at once, if you'll give me your address." "you want a vote?" asked janet, curiously, gazing at the pearl earrings. "certainly i want one." "why?" "why?" repeated mrs. brocklehurst. "yes. you must have everything you want." even then the lady's sweet reasonableness did not desert her. she smiled winningly, displaying two small and even rows of teeth. "on principle, my dear. for one reason, because i have such sympathy with women who toil, and for another, i believe the time has come when women must no longer be slaves, they must assert themselves, become individuals, independent." "but you?" exclaimed janet. mrs. brocklehurst continued to smile encouragingly, and murmured "yes?" "you are not a slave." a delicate pink, like the inside of a conch shell, spread over mrs. brocklehurst's cheeks. "we're all slaves," she declared with a touch of passion. "it's hard for you to realize, i know, about those of us who seem more fortunate than our sisters. but it's true. the men give us jewels and automobiles and clothes, but they refuse to give us what every real woman craves --liberty." janet had become genuinely interested. "but what kind of liberty?" "liberty to have a voice, to take part in the government of our country, to help make the laws, especially those concerning working-women and children, what they ought to be." here was altruism, truly! here were words that should have inspired janet, yet she was silent. mrs. brocklehurst gazed at her solicitously. "what are you thinking?" she urged--and it was janet's turn to flush. "i was just thinking that you seemed to have everything life has to give, and yet--and yet you're not happy." "oh, i'm not unhappy," protested the lady. "why do you say that?" "i don't know. you, too, seem to be wanting something." "i want to be of use, to count," said mrs. brocklehurst,--and janet was startled to hear from this woman's lips the very echo of her own desires. mrs. brocklehurst's feelings had become slightly complicated. it is perhaps too much to say that her complacency was shaken. she was, withal, a person of resolution--of resolution taking the form of unswerving faith in herself, a faith persisting even when she was being carried beyond her depth. she had the kind of pertinacity that sever admits being out of depth, the happy buoyancy that does not require to feel the bottom under one's feet. she floated in swift currents. when life became uncomfortable, she evaded it easily; and she evaded it now, as she gazed at the calm but intent face of the girl in front of her, by a characteristic inner refusal to admit that she had accidentally come in contact with something baking. therefore she broke the silence. "isn't that what you want--you who are striking?" she asked. "i think we want the things that you've got," said janet. a phrase one of the orators had used came into her mind, "enough money to live up to american standards"--but she did not repeat it. "enough money to be free, to enjoy life, to have some leisure and amusement and luxury." the last three she took from the orator's mouth. "but surely," exclaimed mrs. brocklehurst, "surely you want more than that!" janet shook her head. "you asked me what we believed, the i.w.w., the syndicalists, and i told you you wouldn't like it. well, we believe in doing away with you, the rich, and taking all you have for ourselves, the workers, the producers. we believe you haven't any right to what you've got, that you've fooled and cheated us out of it. that's why we women don't care much about the vote, i suppose, though i never thought of it. we mean to go on striking until we've got all that you've got." "but what will become of us?" said mrs. brocklehurst. "you wouldn't do away with all of us! i admit there are many who don't--but some do sympathize with you, will help you get what you want, help you, perhaps, to see things more clearly, to go about it less--ruthlessly." "i've told you what we believe," repeated janet. "i'm so glad i came," cried mrs. brocklehurst. "it's most interesting! i never knew what the syndicalists believed. why, it's like the french revolution--only worse. how are you going to get rid of us? cut our heads off?" janet could not refrain from smiling. "let you starve, i suppose." "really!" said mrs. brocklehurst, and appeared to be trying to visualize the process. she was a true athenian, she had discovered some new thing, she valued discoveries more than all else in life, she collected them, though she never used them save to discuss them with intellectuals at her dinner parties. "now you must let me come to headquarters and get a glimpse of some of the leaders--of antonelli, and i'm told there's a fascinating man named rowe." "rolfe," janet corrected. "rolfe--that's it." she glanced down at the diminutive watch, set with diamonds, on her wrist, rose and addressed insall. "oh dear, i must be going, i'm to lunch with nina carfax at one, and she's promised to tell me a lot of things. she's writing an article for craven's weekly all about the strike and the suffering and injustice--she says it's been horribly misrepresented to the public, the mill owners have had it all their own way. i think what you're doing is splendid, brooks, only--" here she gave him an appealing, rather commiserating look--"only i do wish you would take more interest in--in underlying principles." insall smiled. "it's a question of brains. you have to have brains to be a sociologist," he answered, as he held up for her the fur coat. with a gesture of gentle reproof she slipped into it, and turned to janet. "you must let me see more of you, my dear," she said. "i'm at the best hotel, i can't remember the name, they're all so horrible--but i'll be here until to-morrow afternoon. i want to find out everything. come and call on me. you're quite the most interesting person i've met for a long time--i don't think you realize how interesting you are. au revoir!" she did not seem to expect any reply, taking acquiescence for granted. glancing once more at the rows of children, who had devoured their meal in an almost uncanny silence, she exclaimed, "the dears! i'm going to send you a cheque, brooks, even if you have been horrid to me--you always are." "horrid!" repeated insall, "put it down to ignorance." he accompanied her down the stairs. from her willowy walk a sophisticated observer would have hazarded the guess that her search for an occupation had included a course of lessons in fancy dancing. somewhat dazed by this interview which had been so suddenly forced upon her, janet remained seated on the platform. she had the perception to recognize that in mrs. brocklehurst and insall she had come in contact with a social stratum hitherto beyond the bounds of her experience; those who belonged to that stratum were not characterized by the possession of independent incomes alone, but by an attitude toward life, a manner of not appearing to take its issues desperately. ditmar was not like that. she felt convicted of enthusiasms, she was puzzled, rather annoyed and ashamed. insall and mrs. brocklehurst, different though they were, had this attitude in common.... insall, when he returned, regarded her amusedly. "so you'd like to exterminate mrs. brocklehurst?" he asked. and janet flushed. "well, she forced me to say it." "oh, it didn't hurt her," he said. "and it didn't help her," janet responded quickly. "no, it didn't help her," insall agreed, and laughed. "but i'm not sure it isn't true," she went on, "that we want what she's got." the remark, on her own lips, surprised janet a little. she had not really meant to make it. insall seemed to have the quality of forcing one to think out loud. "and what she wants, you've got," he told her. "what have i got?" "perhaps you'll find out, some day." "it may be too late," she exclaimed. "if you'd only tell me, it might help." "i think it's something you'll have to discover for yourself," he replied, more gravely than was his wont. she was silent a moment, and then she demanded: "why didn't you tell me who you were? you let me think, when i met you in silliston that day, that you were a carpenter. i didn't know you'd written books." "you can't expect writers to wear uniforms, like policemen--though perhaps we ought to, it might be a little fairer to the public," he said. "besides, i am a carpenter, a better carpenter than a writer.." "i'd give anything to be an author!" she cried. "it's a hard life," he assured her. "we have to go about seeking inspiration from others." "is that why you came to hampton?" "well, not exactly. it's a queer thing about inspiration, you only find it when you're not looking for it." she missed the point of this remark, though his eyes were on her. they were not like rolfe's eyes, insinuating, possessive; they had the anomalistic quality, of being at once personal and impersonal, friendly, alight, evoking curiosity yet compelling trust. "and you didn't tell me," he reproached her, "that you were at i.w.w. headquarters." a desire for self-justification impelled her to exclaim: "you don't believe in syndicalism--and yet you've come here to feed these children!" "oh, i think i understand the strike," he said. "how? have you seen it? have you heard the arguments?" "no. i've seen you. you've explained it." "to mrs. brocklehurst?" "it wasn't necessary," he replied--and immediately added, in semi-serious apology: "i thought it was admirable, what you said. if she'd talked to a dozen syndicalist leaders, she couldn't have had it put more clearly. only i'm afraid she doesn't know the truth when she hears it." "now you're making fun of me!" "indeed i'm not," he protested. "but i didn't give any of the arguments, any of the--philosophy," she pronounced the word hesitatingly. "i don't understand it yet as well as i should." "you are it," he said. "it's not always easy to understand what we are --it's generally after we've become something else that we comprehend what we have been." and while she was pondering over this one of the ladies who had been waiting on the table came toward insall. "the children have finished, brooks," she informed him. "it's time to let in the others." insall turned to janet. "this is miss bumpus--and this is mrs. maturin," he said. "mrs. maturin lives in silliston." the greeting of this lady differed from that of mrs. brocklehurst. she, too, took janet's hand. "have you come to help us?" she asked. and janet said: "oh, i'd like to, but i have other work." "come in and see us again," said insall, and janet, promising, took her leave.... "who is she, brooks?" mrs. maturin asked, when janet had gone. "well," he answered, "i don't know. what does it matter?" mrs. maturin smiled. "i should say that it did matter," she replied. "but there's something unusual about her--where did you find her?" "she found me." and insall explained. "she was a stenographer, it seems, but now she's enlisted heart and soul with the syndicalists," he added. "a history?" mrs. maturin queried. "well, i needn't ask--it's written on her face." "that's all i know," said insall. "i'd like to know," said mrs. maturin. "you say she's in the strike?" "i should rather put it that the strike is in her." "what do you mean, brooks?" but insall did not reply. janet came away from dey street in a state of mental and emotional confusion. the encounter with mrs. brocklehurst had been upsetting; she had an uneasy feeling of having made a fool of herself in insall's eyes; she desired his approval, even on that occasion when she had first met him and mistaken him for a workman she had been conscious of a compelling faculty in him, of a pressure he exerted demanding justification of herself; and to-day, because she was now pledged to syndicalism, because she had made the startling discovery that he was a writer of some renown, she had been more than ever anxious to vindicate her cause. she found herself, indeed, wondering uneasily whether there were a higher truth of which he was in possession. and the fact that his attitude toward her had been one of sympathy and friendliness rather than of disapproval, that his insight seemed to have fathomed her case, apprehended it in all but the details, was even more disturbing--yet vaguely consoling. the consolatory element in the situation was somehow connected with the lady, his friend from silliston, to whom he had introduced her and whose image now came before her the more vividly, perhaps, in contrast with that of mrs. brocklehurst. mrs. maturin--could janet have so expressed her thought! had appeared as an extension of insall's own personality. she was a strong, tall, vital woman with a sweet irregularity of feature, with a heavy crown of chestnut hair turning slightly grey, quaintly braided, becomingly framing her face. her colour was high. the impression she conveyed of having suffered was emphasized by the simple mourning gown she wore, but the dominant note she had struck was one of dependability. it was, after all, insall's dominant, too. insall had asked her to call again; and the reflection that she might do so was curiously comforting. the soup kitchen in the loft, with these two presiding over it, took on something of the aspect of a sanctuary.... insall, in some odd manner, and through the medium of that frivolous lady, had managed to reenforce certain doubts that had been stirring in janet--doubts of rolfe, of the verity of the doctrine which with such abandon she had embraced. it was insall who, though remaining silent, just by being there seemed to have suggested her manner of dealing with mrs. brocklehurst. it had, indeed, been his manner of dealing with mrs. brocklehurst. janet had somehow been using his words, his method, and thus for the first time had been compelled to look objectively on what she had deemed a part of herself. we never know what we are, he had said, until we become something else! he had forced her to use an argument that failed to harmonize, somehow, with rolfe's poetical apologetics. stripped of the glamour of these, was not rolfe's doctrine just one of taking, taking? and when the workers were in possession of all, would not they be as badly off as mrs. brocklehurst or ditmar? rolfe, despite the inspiring intellectual creed he professed, lacked the poise and unity that go with happiness. he wanted things, for himself: whereas she beheld in insall one who seemed emancipated from possessions, whose life was so organized as to make them secondary affairs. and she began to wonder what insall would think of ditmar. these sudden flashes of tenderness for ditmar startled and angered her. she had experienced them before, and always had failed to account for their intrusion into a hatred she cherished. often, at her desk in the bibliotheque, she had surprised herself speculating upon what ditmar might be doing at that moment; and it seemed curious, living in the same city with him, that she had not caught a glimpse of him during the strike. more than once, moved by a perverse impulse, she had ventured of an evening down west street toward the guard of soldiers in the hope of catching sight of him. he had possessed her, and the memory of the wild joy of that possession, of that surrender to great strength, refused to perish. why, at such moments, should she glory in a strength that had destroyed her and why, when she heard him cursed as the man who stood, more than any other, in the way of the strikers victory, should she paradoxically and fiercely rejoice? why should she feel pride when she was told of the fearlessness with which he went about the streets, and her heart stop beating when she thought of the possibility of his being shot? for these unwelcome phenomena within herself janet could not account. when they disturbed and frightened her, she plunged into her work with the greater zeal.... as the weeks went by, the strain of the strike began to tell on the weak, the unprepared, on those who had many mouths to feed. shivering with the cold of that hardest of winters, these unfortunates flocked to the franco-belgian hall, where a little food or money in proportion to the size of their families was doled out to them. in spite of the contributions received by mail, of the soup kitchens and relief stations set up by various organizations in various parts of the city, the supply little more than sufficed to keep alive the more needy portion of the five and twenty thousand who now lacked all other means of support. janet's heart was wrung as she gazed at the gaunt, bewildered faces growing daily more tragic, more bewildered and gaunt; she marvelled at the animal-like patience of these europeans, at the dumb submission of most of them to privations that struck her as appalling. some indeed complained, but the majority recited in monotonous, unimpassioned tones their stories of suffering, or of ill treatment by the "cossacks" or the police. the stipends were doled out by czernowitz, but all through the week there were special appeals. once it was a polish woman, wan and white, who carried her baby wrapped in a frayed shawl. "wahna littel money for milk," she said, when at length their attention was drawn to her. "but you get your money, every saturday," the secretary informed her kindly. she shook her head. "baby die, 'less i have littel milk--i show you." janet drew back before the sight of the child with its sunken cheeks and ghastly blue lips .... and she herself went out with the woman to buy the milk, and afterwards to the dive in kendall street which she called home--in one of those "rear" tenements separated from the front buildings by a narrow court reeking with refuse. the place was dank and cold, malodorous. the man of the family, the lodgers who lived in the other room of the kennel, were out on the streets. but when her eyes grew used to the darkness she perceived three silent children huddled in the bed in the corner.... on another occasion a man came running up the stairs of the hall and thrust his way into a meeting of the committee--one of those normally happy, irresponsible syrians who, because of a love for holidays, are the despair of mill overseers. now he was dazed, breathless, his great eyes grief-stricken like a wounded animal's. "she is killidd, my wife--de polees, dey killidd her!" it was anna mower who investigated the case. "the girl wasn't doing nothing but walk along hudson street when one of those hirelings set on her and beat her. she put out her hand because she thought he'd hit her --and he gave her three or four with his billy and left her in the gutter. if you'd see her you'd know she wouldn't hurt a fly, she's that gentle looking, like all the syrian women. she had a `don't be a scab' ribbon on--that's all she done! somebody'll shoot that guy, and i wouldn't blame 'em." anna stood beside janet's typewriter, her face red with anger as she told the story. "and how is the woman now?" asked janet. "in bed, with two ribs broken and a bruise on her back and a cut on her head. i got a doctor. he could hardly see her in that black place they live."... such were the incidents that fanned the hatred into hotter and hotter flame. daily reports were brought in of arrests, of fines and imprisonments for picketing, or sometimes merely for booing at the remnant of those who still clung to their employment. one magistrate in particular, a judge hennessy, was hated above all others for giving the extreme penalty of the law, and even stretching it. "minions, slaves of the capitalists, of the masters," the courts were called, and janet subscribed to these epithets, beheld the judges as willing agents of a tyranny from which she, too, had suffered. there arrived at headquarters frenzied bearers of rumours such as that of the reported intention of landlords to remove the windows from the tenements if the rents were not paid. antonelli himself calmed these. "let the landlords try it!" he said phlegmatically.... after a while, as the deadlock showed no signs of breaking, the siege of privation began to tell, ominous signs of discontent became apparent. chief among the waverers were those who had come to america with visions of a fortune, who had practised a repulsive thrift in order to acquire real estate, who carried in their pockets dog-eared bank books recording payments already made. these had consented to the strike reluctantly, through fear, or had been carried away by the eloquence and enthusiasm of the leaders, by the expectation that the mill owners would yield at once. some went back to work, only to be "seen" by the militant, watchful pickets--generally in their rooms, at night. one evening, as janet was walking home, she chanced to overhear a conversation taking place in the dark vestibule of a tenement. "working to-day?" "yah." "work to-morrow?" hesitation. "i d'no." "you work, i cut your throat." a significant noise. "naw, i no work." "shake!" she hurried on trembling, not with fear, but exultingly. nor did she reflect that only a month ago such an occurrence would have shocked and terrified her. this was war.... on her way to fillmore street she passed, at every street corner in this district, a pacing sentry, muffled in greatcoat and woollen cap, alert and watchful, the ugly knife on the end of his gun gleaming in the blue light of the arc. it did not occur to her, despite the uniform, that the souls of many of these men were divided also, that their voices and actions, when she saw them threatening with their bayonets, were often inspired by that inner desperation characteristic of men who find themselves unexpectedly in false situations. once she heard a woman shriek as the sharp knife grazed her skirt: at another time a man whose steps had been considerably hurried turned, at a safe distance, and shouted defiantly: "say, who are you working for? me or the wool trust?" "aw, get along," retorted the soldier, "or i'll give you yours." the man caught sight of janet's button as she overtook him. he was walking backward. "that feller has a job in a machine shop over in barrington, i seen him there when i was in the mills. and here he is tryin' to put us out --ain't that the limit?" the thud of horses' feet in the snow prevented her reply. the silhouettes of the approaching squad of cavalry were seen down the street, and the man fled precipitately into an alleyway.... there were ludicrous incidents, too, though never lacking in a certain pathos. the wife of a russian striker had her husband arrested because he had burned her clothes in order to prevent her returning to the mill. from the police station he sent a compatriot with a message to headquarters. "oye, he fix her! she no get her jawb now--she gotta stay in bed!" this one cried triumphantly. "she was like to tear me in pieces when i brought her the clothes," said anna mower, who related her experience with mingled feelings. "i couldn't blame her. you see, it was the kids crying with cold and starvation, and she got so she just couldn't stand it. i couldn't stand it, neither." day by day the element who wished to compromise and end the strike grew stronger, brought more and more pressure on the leaders. these people were subsidized, antonelli declared, by the capitalists.... chapter xviii a more serious atmosphere pervaded headquarters, where it was realized that the issue hung in the balance. and more proclamations, a la napoleon, were issued to sustain and hearten those who were finding bread and onions meagre fare, to shame the hesitating, the wavering. as has been said, it was rolfe who, because of his popular literary gift, composed these appeals for the consideration of the committee, dictating them to janet as he paced up and down the bibliotheque, inhaling innumerable cigarettes and flinging down the ends on the floor. a famous one was headed "shall wool and cotton kings rule the nation?" "we are winning" it declared. "the world is with us! forced by the unshaken solidarity of tens of thousands, the manufacturers offer bribes to end the reign of terror they have inaugurated.... inhuman treatment and oppressive toil have brought all nationalities together into one great army to fight against a brutal system of exploitation. in years and years of excessive labour we have produced millions for a class of idle parasites, who enjoy all the luxuries of life while our wives have to leave their firesides and our children their schools to eke out a miserable existence." and this for the militia: "the lowest aim of life is to be a soldier! the `good' soldier never tries to distinguish right from wrong, he never thinks, he never reasons, he only obeys--" "but," janet was tempted to say, "your syndicalism declares that none of us should think or reason. we should only feel." she was beginning to detect rolfe's inconsistencies, yet she refrained from interrupting the inspirational flow. "the soldier is a blind, heartless, soulless, murderous machine." rolfe was fond of adjectives. "all that is human in him, all that is divine has been sworn away when he took the enlistment oath. no man can fall lower than a soldier. it is a depth beyond which we cannot go." "all that is human, all that is divine," wrote janet, and thrilled a little at the words. why was it that mere words, and their arrangement in certain sequences, gave one a delicious, creepy feeling up and down the spine? her attitude toward him had become more and more critical, she had avoided him when she could, but when he was in this ecstatic mood she responded, forgot his red lips, his contradictions, lost herself in a medium she did not comprehend. perhaps it was because, in his absorption in the task, he forgot her, forgot himself. she, too, despised the soldiers, fervently believed they had sold themselves to the oppressors of mankind. and rolfe, when in the throes of creation, had the manner of speaking to the soldiers themselves, as though these were present in the lane just below the window; as though he were on the tribune. at such times he spoke with such rapidity that, quick though she was, she could scarcely keep up with him. "most of you, soldiers, are workingmen!" he cried. "yesterday you were slaving in the mills yourselves. you will profit by our victory. why should you wish to crush us? be human!" pale, excited, he sank down into the chair by her side and lit another cigarette. "they ought to listen to that!" he exclaimed. "it's the best one i've done yet." night had come. czernowitz sat in the other room, talking to jastro, a buzz of voices came from the hall through the thin pine panels of the door. all day long a sixty-mile gale had twisted the snow of the lane into whirling, fantastic columns and rattled the windows of franco-belgian hall. but now the wind had fallen.... presently, as his self-made music ceased to vibrate within him, rolfe began to watch the girl as she sat motionless, with parted lips and eyes alight, staring at the reflection of the lamp in the blue-black window. "is that the end?" she asked, at length. "yes," he replied sensitively. "can't you see it's a climax? don't you think it's a good one?" she looked at him, puzzled. "why, yes," she said, "i think it's fine. you see, i have to take it down so fast i can't always follow it as i'd like to." "when you feel, you can do anything," he exclaimed. "it is necessary to feel." "it is necessary to know," she told him. "i do not understand you," he cried, leaning toward her. "sometimes you are a flame--a wonderful, scarlet flame i can express it in no other way. or again, you are like the madonna of our new faith, and i wish i were a del sarto to paint you. and then again you seem as cold as your new england snow, you have no feeling, you are an anglo-saxon--a puritan." she smiled, though she felt a pang of reminiscence at the word. ditmar had called her so, too. "i can't help what i am," she said. "it is that which inhibits you," he declared. "that puritanism. it must be eradicated before you can develop, and then--and then you will be completely wonderful. when this strike is over, when we have time, i will teach you many things--develop you. we will read sorel together he is beautiful, like poetry--and the great poets, dante and petrarch and tasso--yes, and d'annunzio. we shall live." "we are living, now," she answered. the look with which she surveyed him he found enigmatic. and then, abruptly, she rose and went to her typewriter. "you don't believe what i say!" he reproached her. but she was cool. "i'm not sure that i believe all of it. i want to think it out for myself--to talk to others, too." "what others?" "nobody in particular--everybody," she replied, as she set her notebook on the rack. "there is some one else!" he exclaimed, rising. "there is every one else," she said. as was his habit when agitated, he began to smoke feverishly, glancing at her from time to time as she fingered the keys. experience had led him to believe that he who finds a woman in revolt and gives her a religion inevitably becomes her possessor. but more than a month had passed, he had not become her possessor--and now for the first time there entered his mind a doubt as to having given her a religion! the obvious inference was that of another man, of another influence in opposition to his own; characteristically, however, he shrank from accepting this, since he was of those who believe what they wish to believe. the sudden fear of losing her--intruding itself immediately upon an ecstatic, creative mood--unnerved him, yet he strove to appear confident as he stood over her. "when you've finished typewriting that, we'll go out to supper," he told her. but she shook her head. "why not?" "i don't want to," she replied--and then, to soften her refusal, she added, "i can't, to-night." "but you never will come with me anymore. why is it?" "i'm very tired at night. i don't feel like going out." she sought to temporize. "you've changed!" he accused her. "you're not the same as you were at first--you avoid me." the swift gesture with which she flung over the carriage of her machine might have warned him. "i don't like that hampton hotel," she flashed back. "i'm--i'm not a vagabond--yet." "a vagabond!" he repeated. she went on savagely with her work.. "you have two natures," he exclaimed. "you are still a bourgeoise, a puritan. you will not be yourself, you will not be free until you get over that." "i'm not sure i want to get over it." he leaned nearer to her. "but now that i have found you, janet, i will not let you go." "you've no rights over me," she cried, in sudden alarm and anger. "i'm not doing this work, i'm not wearing myself out here for you." "then--why are you doing it?" his suspicions rose again, and made him reckless. "to help the strikers," she said.... he could get no more out of her, and presently, when anna mower entered the room, he left it.... more than once since her first visit to the soup kitchen in dey street janet had returned to it. the universe rocked, but here was equilibrium. the streets were filled with soldiers, with marching strikers, terrible things were constantly happening; the tension at headquarters never seemed to relax. out in the world and within her own soul were strife and suffering, and sometimes fear; the work in which she sought to lose herself no longer sufficed to keep her from thinking, and the spectacle --when she returned home--of her mother's increasing apathy grew more and more appalling. but in dey street she gained calmness, was able to renew something of that sense of proportion the lack of which, in the chaos in which she was engulfed, often brought her to the verge of madness. at first she had had a certain hesitation about going back, and on the occasion of her second visit had walked twice around the block before venturing to enter. she had no claim on this man. he was merely a chance acquaintance, a stranger--and yet he seemed nearer to her, to understand her better than any one else she knew in the world. this was queer, because she had not explained herself; nor had he asked her for any confidences. she would have liked to confide in him--some things: he gave her the impression of comprehending life; of having, as his specialty, humanity itself; he should, she reflected, have been a minister, and smiled at the thought: ministers, at any rate, ought to be like him, and then one might embrace christianity--the religion of her forefathers that rolfe ridiculed. but there was about insall nothing of religion as she had grown up to apprehend the term. now that she had taken her courage in her hands and renewed her visits, they seemed to be the most natural proceedings in the world. on that second occasion, when she had opened the door and palpitatingly climbed to the loft, the second batch of children were finishing their midday meal,--rather more joyously, she thought, than before,--and insall himself was stooping over a small boy whom he had taken away from the table. he did not notice her at once, and janet watched them. the child had a cough, his extreme thinness was emphasized by the coat he wore, several sizes too large for him. "you come along with me, marcus, i guess i can fit you out," insall was saying, when he looked up and saw janet. "why, if it isn't miss bumpus! i thought you'd forgotten us." "oh no," she protested. "i wanted to come." "then why didn't you?" "well, i have come," she said, with a little sigh, and he did not press her further. and she refrained from offering any conventional excuse, such as that of being interested in the children. she had come to see him, and such was the faith with which he inspired her--now that she was once more in his presence--that she made no attempt to hide the fact. "you've never seen my clothing store, have you?" he asked. and with the child's hand in his he led the way into a room at the rear of the loft. a kit of carpenter's tools was on the floor, and one wall was lined with box-like compartments made of new wood, each with its label in neat lettering indicating the articles contained therein. "shoes?" he repeated, as he ran his eye down the labels and suddenly opened a drawer. "here we are, marcus. sit down there on the bench, and take off the shoes you have on." the boy had one of those long faces of the higher jewish type, intelligent, wistful. he seemed dazed by insall's kindness. the shoes he wore were those of an adult, but cracked and split, revealing the cotton stocking and here and there the skin. his little blue hands fumbled with the knotted strings that served for facings until insall, producing a pocket knife, deftly cut the strings. "those are summer shoes, marcus--well ventilated." "they're by me since august," said the boy. "and now the stockings," prompted insall. the old ones, wet, discoloured, and torn, were stripped off, and thick, woollen ones substituted. insall, casting his eye over the open drawer, chose a pair of shoes that had been worn, but which were stout and serviceable, and taking one in his hand knelt down before the child. "let's see how good a guesser i am," he said, loosening the strings and turning back the tongue, imitating good-humouredly the deferential manner of a salesman of footwear as he slipped on the shoe. "why, it fits as if it were made for you! now for the other one. yes, your feet are mates--i know a man who wears a whole size larger on his left foot." the dazed expression remained on the boy's face. the experience was beyond him. "that's better," said insall, as he finished the lacing. "keep out of the snow, marcus, all you can. wet feet aren't good for a cough, you know. and when you come in to supper a nice doctor will be here, and we'll see if we can't get rid of the cough." the boy nodded. he got to his feet, stared down at the shoes, and walked slowly toward the door, where he turned. "thank you, mister insall," he said. and insall, still sitting on his heels, waved his hand. "it is not to mention it," he replied. "perhaps you may have a clothing store of your own some day--who knows!" he looked up at janet amusedly and then, with a spring, stood upright, his easy, unconscious pose betokening command of soul and body. "i ought to have kept a store," he observed. "i missed my vocation." "it seems to me that you missed a great many vocations," she replied. commonplaces alone seemed possible, adequate. "i suppose you made all those drawers yourself." he bowed in acknowledgment of her implied tribute. with his fine nose and keen eyes--set at a slightly downward angle, creased at the corners --with his thick, greying hair, despite his comparative youth he had the look one associates with portraits of earlier, patriarchal americans.... these calls of janet's were never of long duration. she had fallen into the habit of taking her lunch between one and two, and usually arrived when the last installment of youngsters were finishing their meal; sometimes they were filing out, stopping to form a group around insall, who always managed to say something amusing--something pertinent and good-naturedly personal. for he knew most of them by name, and had acquired a knowledge of certain individual propensities and idiosyncrasies that delighted their companions. "what's the trouble, stepan--swallowed your spoon?" stepan was known to be greedy. or he would suddenly seize an unusually solemn boy from behind and tickle him until the child screamed with laughter. it was, indeed, something of an achievement to get on terms of confidence with these alien children of the tenements and the streets who from their earliest years had been forced to shift for themselves, and many of whom had acquired a precocious suspicion of greeks bearing gifts. insall himself had used the phrase, and explained it to janet. that sense of caveat donor was perhaps their most pathetic characteristic. but he broke it down; broke down, too, the shyness accompanying it, the shyness and solemnity emphasized in them by contact with hardship and poverty, with the stark side of life they faced at home. he had made them--mrs. maturin once illuminatingly remarked--more like children. sometimes he went to see their parents,--as in the case of marcus--to suggest certain hygienic precautions in his humorous way; and his accounts of these visits, too, were always humorous. yet through that humour ran a strain of pathos that clutched--despite her smile--at janet's heartstrings. this gift of emphasizing and heightening tragedy while apparently dealing in comedy she never ceased to wonder at. she, too, knew that tragedy of the tenements, of the poor, its sordidness and cruelty. all her days she had lived precariously near it, and lately she had visited these people, had been torn by the sight of what they endured. but insall's jokes, while they stripped it of sentimentality of which she had an instinctive dislike--made it for her even more poignant. one would have thought, to have such an insight into it, that he too must have lived it, must have been brought up in some dirty alley of a street. that gift, of course, must be a writer's gift. when she saw the waifs trooping after him down the stairs, mrs. maturin called him the pied piper of hampton. as time went on, janet sometimes wondered over the quiet manner in which these two people, insall and mrs. maturin, took her visits as though they were matters of course, and gave her their friendship. there was, really, no obvious excuse for her coming, not even that of the waifs for food--and yet she came to be fed. the sustenance they gave her would have been hard to define; it flowed not so much from what they said, as from what they were; it was in the atmosphere surrounding them. sometimes she looked at mrs. maturin to ask herself what this lady would say if she knew her history, her relationship with ditmar--which had been her real reason for entering the ranks of the strikers. and was it fair for her, janet, to permit mrs. maturin to bestow her friendship without revealing this? she could not make up her mind as to what this lady would say. janet had had no difficulty in placing ditmar; not much trouble, after her first surprise was over, in classifying rolfe and the itinerant band of syndicalists who had descended upon her restricted world. but insall and mrs. maturin were not to be ticketed. what chiefly surprised her, in addition to their kindliness, to their taking her on faith without the formality of any recommendation or introduction, was their lack of intellectual narrowness. she did not, of course, so express it. but she sensed, in their presence, from references casually let fall in their conversation, a wider culture of which they were in possession, a culture at once puzzling and exciting, one that she despaired of acquiring for herself. though it came from reading, it did not seem "literary," according to the notion she had conceived of the term. her speculations concerning it must be focussed and interpreted. it was a culture, in the first place, not harnessed to an obvious cause: something like that struck her. it was a culture that contained tolerance and charity, that did not label a portion of mankind as its enemy, but seemed, by understanding all, to forgive all. it had no prejudices; nor did it boast, as the syndicalists boasted, of its absence of convention. and little by little janet connected it with silliston. "it must be wonderful to live in such a place as that," she exclaimed, when the academy was mentioned. on this occasion insall had left for a moment, and she was in the little room he called his "store," alone with mrs. maturin, helping to sort out a batch of garments just received. "it was there you first met brooks, wasn't it?" she always spoke of him as brooks. "he told me about it, how you walked out there and asked him about a place to lunch." mrs. maturin laughed. "you didn't know what to make of him, did you?" "i thought he was a carpenter!" said janet. "i--i never should have taken him for an author. but of course i don't know any other authors." "well, he's not like any of them, he's just like himself. you can't put a tag on people who are really big." janet considered this. "i never thought of that. i suppose not," she agreed. mrs. maturin glanced at her. "so you liked sflliston," she said. "i liked it better than any place i ever saw. i haven't seen many places, but i'm sure that few can be nicer." "what did you like about it, janet?" mrs. maturin was interested. "it's hard to say," janet replied, after a moment. "it gave me such a feeling of peace--of having come home, although i lived in hampton. i can't express it." "i think you're expressing it rather well," said mrs. maturin. "it was so beautiful in the spring," janet continued, dropping the coat she held into the drawer. "and it wasn't just the trees and the grass with the yellow dandelions, it was the houses, too--i've often wondered why those houses pleased me so much. i wanted to live in every one of them. do you know that feeling?" mrs. maturin nodded. "they didn't hurt your eyes when you looked at them, and they seemed to be so much at home there, even the new ones. the new ones were like the children of the old." "i'll tell the architect. he'll be pleased," said mrs. maturin. janet flushed. "am i being silly?" she asked. "no; my dear," mrs. maturin replied. "you've expressed what i feel about silliston. what do you intend to do when the strike is over?" "i hadn't thought." janet started at the question, but mrs. maturin did not seem to notice the dismay in her tone. "you don't intend to--to travel around with the i. w. w. people, do you?" "i--i hadn't thought," janet faltered. it was the first time mrs. maturin had spoken of her connection with syndicalism. and she surprised herself by adding: "i don't see how i could. they can get stenographers anywhere, and that's all i'm good for." and the question occurred to her--did she really wish to? "what i was going to suggest," continued mrs. maturin, quietly, "was that you might try silliston. there's a chance for a good stenographer there, and i'm sure you are a good one. so many of the professors send to boston." janet stood stock still. then she said: "but you don't know anything about me, mrs. maturin." kindliness burned in the lady's eyes as she replied: "i know more now --since you've told me i know nothing. of course there's much i don't know, how you, a stenographer, became involved in this strike and joined the i. w. w. but you shall tell me or not, as you wish, when we become better friends." janet felt the blood beating in her throat, and an impulse to confess everything almost mastered her. from the first she had felt drawn toward mrs. maturin, who seemed to hold out to her the promise of a woman's friendship--for which she had felt a life-long need: a woman friend who would understand the insatiate yearning in her that gave her no rest in her search for a glittering essence never found, that had led her only to new depths of bitterness and despair. it would destroy her, if indeed it had not already done so. mrs. maturin, insall, seemed to possess the secret that would bring her peace--and yet, in spite of something urging her to speak, she feared the risk of losing them. perhaps, after all, they would not understand! perhaps it was too late! "you do not believe in the industrial workers of the world," was what she said. mrs. maturin herself, who had been moved and excited as she gazed at janet, was taken by surprise. a few moments elapsed before she could gather herself to reply, and then she managed to smile. "i do not believe that wisdom will die with them, my dear. their--their doctrine is too simple, it does not seem as if life, the social order is to be so easily solved." "but you must sympathize with them, with the strikers." janet's gesture implied that the soup kitchen was proof of this. "ah," replied mrs. maturin, gently, "that is different to understand them. there is one philosophy for the lamb, and another for the wolf." "you mean," said janet, trembling, "that what happens to us makes us inclined to believe certain things?" "precisely," agreed mrs. maturin, in admiration. "but i must be honest with you, it was brooks who made me see it." "but--he never said that to me. and i asked him once, almost the same question." "he never said it to me, either," mrs. maturin confessed. "he doesn't tell you what he believes; i simply gathered that this is his idea. and apparently the workers can only improve their condition by strikes, by suffering--it seems to be the only manner in which they can convince the employers that the conditions are bad. it isn't the employers' fault." "not their fault!" janet repeated. "not in a large sense," said mrs. maturin. "when people grow up to look at life in a certain way, from a certain viewpoint, it is difficult, almost impossible to change them. it's--it's their religion. they are convinced that if the world doesn't go on in their way, according to their principles, everything will be destroyed. they aren't inhuman. within limits everybody is more than willing to help the world along, if only they can be convinced that what they are asked to do will help." janet breathed deeply. she was thinking of ditmar. and mrs. maturin, regarding her, tactfully changed the subject. "i didn't intend to give you a lecture on sociology or psychology, my dear," she said. "i know nothing about them, although we have a professor who does. think over what i've said about coming to silliston. it will do you good--you are working too hard here. i know you would enjoy silliston. and brooks takes such an interest in you," she added impulsively. "it is quite a compliment." "but why?" janet demanded, bewildered. "perhaps it's because you have--possibilities. you may be typewriting his manuscripts. and then, i am a widow, and often rather lonely--you could come in and read to me occasionally." "but--i've never read anything." "how fortunate!" said insall, who had entered the doorway in time to hear janet's exclamation. "more than half of modern culture depends on what one shouldn't read." mrs. maturin laughed. but insall waved his hand deprecatingly. "that isn't my own," he confessed. "i cribbed it from a clever englishman. but i believe it's true." "i think i'll adopt her," said mrs. maturin to insall, when she had repeated to him the conversation. "i know you are always convicting me of enthusiasms, brooks, and i suppose i do get enthusiastic." "well, you adopt her--and i'll marry her," replied insall, with a smile, as he cut the string from the last bundle of clothing. "you might do worse. it would be a joke if you did--!" his friend paused to consider this preposterous possibility. "one never can tell whom a man like you, an artist, will marry." "we've no business to marry at all," said insall, laughing. "i often wonder where that romantic streak will land you, augusta. but you do have a delightful time!" "don't begrudge it me, it makes life so much more interesting," mrs. maturin begged, returning his smile. "i haven't the faintest idea that you will marry her or any one else. but i insist on saying she's your type--she's the kind of a person artists do dig up and marry--only better than most of them, far better." "dig up?" said insall. "well, you know i'm not a snob--i only mean that she seems to be one of the surprising anomalies that sometimes occur in--what shall i say?--in the working-classes. i do feel like a snob when i say that. but what is it? where does that spark come from? is it in our modern air, that discontent, that desire, that thrusting forth toward a new light --something as yet unformulated, but which we all feel, even at small institutions of learning like silliston?" "now you're getting beyond me." "oh no, i'm not," mrs. maturin retorted confidently. "if you won't talk about it, i will, i have no shame. and this girl has it--this thing i'm trying to express. she's modern to her finger tips, and yet she's extraordinarily american--in spite of her modernity, she embodies in some queer way our tradition. she loves our old houses at silliston--they make her feel at home--that's her own expression." "did she say that?" "exactly. and i know she's of new england ancestry, she told me so. what i can't make out is, why she joined the i.w.w. that seems so contradictory." "perhaps she was searching for light there," insall hazarded. "why don't you ask her?" "i don't know," replied mrs. maturin, thoughtfully. "i want to, my curiosity almost burns me alive, and yet i don't. she isn't the kind you can ask personal questions of--that's part of her charm, part of her individuality. one is a little afraid to intrude. and yet she keeps coming here--of course you are a sufficient attraction, brooks. but i must give her the credit of not flirting with you." "i've noticed that, too," said insall, comically. "she's searching for light," mrs. maturin went on, struck by the phrase. "she has an instinct we can give it to her, because we come from an institution of learning. i felt something of the kind when i suggested her establishing herself in silliston. well, she's more than worth while experimenting on, she must have lived and breathed what you call the `movie atmosphere' all her life, and yet she never seems to have read and absorbed any sentimental literature or cheap religion. she doesn't suggest the tawdry. that part of her, the intellectual part, is a clear page to be written upon." "there's my chance," said insall. "no, it's my chance--since you're so cynical." "i'm not cynical," he protested. "i don't believe you really are. and if you are, there may be a judgment upon you," she added playfully. "i tell you she's the kind of woman artists go mad about. she has what sentimentalists call temperament, and after all we haven't any better word to express dynamic desires. she'd keep you stirred up, stimulated, and you could educate her." "no, thanks, i'll leave that to you. he who educates a woman is lost. but how about syndicalism and all the mysticism that goes with it? there's an intellectual over at headquarters who's been talking to her about bergson, the life-force, and the world-we-ourselves-create." mrs. maturin laughed. "well, we go wrong when we don't go right. that's just it, we must go some way. and i'm sure, from what i gather, that she isn't wholly satisfied with syndicalism." "what is right?" demanded insall. "oh, i don't intend to turn her over to mr. worrall and make a sociologist and a militant suffragette out of her. she isn't that kind, anyhow. but i could give her good literature to read--yours, for instance," she added maliciously. "you're preposterous, augusta," insall exclaimed. "i may be, but you've got to indulge me. i've taken this fancy to her --of course i mean to see more of her. but--you know how hard it is for me, sometimes, since i've been left alone." insall laid his hand affectionately on her shoulder. "i remember what you said the first day i saw her, that the strike was in her," mrs. maturin continued. "well, i see now that she does express and typify it--and i don't mean the `labour movement' alone, or this strike in rampton, which is symptomatic, but crude. i mean something bigger --and i suppose you do--the protest, the revolt, the struggle for self-realization that is beginning to be felt all over the nation, all over the world today, that is not yet focussed and self-conscious, but groping its way, clothing itself in any philosophy that seems to fit it. i can imagine myself how such a strike as this might appeal to a girl with a sense of rebellion against sordidness and lack of opportunity--especially if she has had a tragic experience. and sometimes i suspect she has had one." "well, it's an interesting theory," insall admitted indulgently. "i'm merely amplifying your suggestions, only you won't admit that they are yours. and she was your protegee." "and you are going to take her off my hands." "i'm not so sure," said mrs. maturin. chapter xix the hampton strike had reached the state of grim deadlock characteristic of all stubborn wars. there were aggressions, retaliations on both sides, the antagonism grew more intense. the older labour unions were accused by the strikers of playing the employers' game, and thus grew to be hated even more than the "capitalists." these organizations of the skilled had entered but half-heartedly into a struggle that now began to threaten, indeed, their very existence, and when it was charged that the textile workers had been attempting to secure recruits from the ranks of the strikers, and had secretly offered the millowners a scale of demands in the hope that a sufficient number of operatives would return to work, and so break the strike; a serious riot was barely averted. "scab-hunting agencies," the unions were called. one morning when it was learned that the loom-fixers, almost to a man, had gone back to the mills, a streetcar was stopped near the power house at the end of faber street, and in a twinkling, before the militia or police could interfere, motorman, conductor, and passengers were dragged from it and the trolley pole removed. this and a number of similar aggressive acts aroused the mill-owners and their agents to appeal with renewed vigour to the public through the newspapers, which it was claimed they owned or subsidized. then followed a series of arraignments of the strike leaders calculated to stir the wildest prejudices and fears of the citizens of hampton. antonelli and jastro--so rumour had it--in various nightly speeches had advised their followers to "sleep in the daytime and prowl like wild animals at night"; urged the power house employees to desert and leave the city in darkness; made the declaration, "we will win if we raise scaffolds on every street!" insisted that the strikers, too, should have "gun permits," since the police hirelings carried arms. and the fact that the mill-owners replied with pamphlets whose object was proclaimed to be one of discrediting their leaders in the eyes of the public still further infuriated the strikers. such charges, of course, had to be vehemently refuted, the motives behind them made clear, and counter-accusations laid at the door of the mill-owners. the atmosphere at headquarters daily grew more tense. at any moment the spark might be supplied to precipitate an explosion that would shake the earth. the hungry, made more desperate by their own sufferings or the spectacle of starving families, were increasingly difficult to control: many wished to return to work, others clamoured for violence, nor were these wholly discouraged by a portion of the leaders. a riot seemed imminent--a riot antonelli feared and firmly opposed, since it would alienate the sympathy of that wider public in the country on which the success of the strike depended. watchful, yet apparently unconcerned, unmoved by the quarrels, the fierce demands for "action," he sat on the little stage, smoking his cigars and reading his newspapers. janet's nerves were taut. there had been times during the past weeks when she had been aware of new and vaguely disquieting portents. inexperience had led her to belittle them, and the absorbing nature of her work, the excitement due to the strange life of conflict, of new ideas, into which she had so unreservedly flung herself, the resentment that galvanized her--all these had diverted her from worry. at night, hers had been the oblivious slumber of the weary.... and then, as a desperate wayfarer, pressing on, feels a heavy drop of rain and glances up to perceive the clouds that have long been gathering, she awoke in the black morning hours, and fear descended upon her. suddenly her brain became hideously active as she lay, dry-upped, staring into the darkness, striving to convince herself that it could not be. but the thing had its advocate, also, to summon ingeniously, in cumulative array, those omens she had ignored: to cause her to piece together, in this moment of torture, portions of the knowledge of sexual facts that prudery banishes from education, a smattering of which reaches the ears of such young women as janet in devious, roundabout ways. several times, in the month just past, she had had unwonted attacks of dizziness, of faintness, and on one occasion anna mower, alarmed, had opened the window of the bibliotheque and thrust her into the cold air. now, with a pang of fear she recalled what anna had said:--"you're working too hard--you hadn't ought to stay here nights. if it was some girls i've met, i'd know what to think." strange that the significance of this sentence had failed to penetrate her consciousness until now! "if it was some girls i've met, i'd know what to think!" it had come into her mind abruptly; and always, when she sought to reassure herself, to declare her terror absurd, it returned to confront her. heat waves pulsed through her, she grew intolerably warm, perspiration started from her pores, and she flung off the blankets. the rain from the roofs was splashing on the bricks of the passage.... what would mr. insall say, if he knew? and mrs. maturin? she could never see them again. now there was no one to whom to turn, she was cut off, utterly, from humanity, an outcast. like lise! and only a little while ago she and lise had lain in that bed together! was there not somebody --god? other people believed in god, prayed to him. she tried to say, "oh god, deliver me from this thing!" but the words seemed a mockery. after all, it was mechanical, it had either happened or it hadn't happened. a life-long experience in an environment where only unpleasant things occurred, where miracles were unknown, had effaced a fleeting, childhood belief in miracles. cause and effect were the rule. and if there were a god who did interfere, why hadn't he interfered before this thing happened? then would have been the logical time. why hadn't he informed her that in attempting to escape from the treadmill in which he had placed her, in seeking happiness, she had been courting destruction? why had he destroyed lise? and if there were a god, would he comfort her now, convey to her some message of his sympathy and love? no such message, alas, seemed to come to her through the darkness. after a while--a seemingly interminable while--the siren shrieked, the bells jangled loudly in the wet air, another day had come. could she face it--even the murky grey light of this that revealed the ashes and litter of the back yard under the downpour? the act of dressing brought a slight relief; and then, at breakfast, a numbness stole over her--suggested and conveyed, perchance, by the apathy of her mother. something had killed suffering in hannah; perhaps she herself would mercifully lose the power to suffer! but the thought made her shudder. she could not, like her mother, find a silly refuge in shining dishes, in cleaning pots and pans, or sit idle, vacant-minded, for long hours in a spotless kitchen. what would happen to her?... howbeit, the ache that had tortured her became a dull, leaden pain, like that she had known at another time--how long ago--when the suffering caused by ditmar's deception had dulled, when she had sat in the train on her way back to hampton from boston, after seeing lise. the pain would throb again, unsupportably, and she would wake, and this time it would drive her--she knew not where. she was certain, now, that the presage of the night was true.... she reached franco-belgian hall to find it in an uproar. anna mower ran up to her with the news that dynamite had been discovered by the police in certain tenements of the syrian quarter, that the tenants had been arrested and taken to the police station where, bewildered and terrified, they had denied any knowledge of the explosive. dynamite had also been found under the power house, and in the mills--the sources of hampton's prosperity. and hampton believed, of course, that this was the inevitable result of the anarchistic preaching of such enemies of society as jastro and antonelli if these, indeed, had not incited the syrians to the deed. but it was a plot of the mill-owners, anna insisted--they themselves had planted the explosive, adroitly started the rumours, told the police where the dynamite was to be found. such was the view that prevailed at headquarters, pervaded the angrily buzzing crowd that stood outside--heedless of the rain--and animated the stormy conferences in the salle de reunion. the day wore on. in the middle of the afternoon, as she was staring out of the window, anna mower returned with more news. dynamite had been discovered in hawthorne street, and it was rumoured that antonelli and jastro were to be arrested. "you ought to go home and rest, janet," she said kindly. janet shook her head. "rolfe's back," anna informed her, after a moment. "he's talking to antonelli about another proclamation to let people know who's to blame for this dynamite business. i guess he'll be in here in a minute to dictate the draft. say, hadn't you better let minnie take it, and go home?" "i'm not sick," janet repeated, and anna reluctantly left her. rolfe had been absent for a week, in new york, consulting with some of the i.w.w. leaders; with lockhart, the chief protagonist of syndicalism in america, just returned from colorado, to whom he had given a detailed account of the hampton strike. and lockhart, next week, was coming to hampton to make a great speech and look over the ground for himself. all this rolfe told janet eagerly when he entered the bibliotheque. he was glad to get back; he had missed her. "but you are pale!" he exclaimed, as he seized her hand, "and how your eyes burn! you do not take care of yourself when i am not here to watch you." his air of solicitude, his assumption of a peculiar right to ask, might formerly have troubled and offended her. now she was scarcely aware of his presence. "you feel too much--that is it you are like a torch that consumes itself in burning. but this will soon be over, we shall have them on their knees, the capitalists, before very long, when it is known what they have done to-day. it is too much--they have overreached themselves with this plot of the dynamite." "you have missed me, a little?" "i have been busy," she said, releasing her hand and sitting down at her desk and taking up her notebook. "you are not well," he insisted. "i'm all right," she replied. he lit a cigarette and began to pace the room--his customary manner of preparing himself for the creative mood. after a while he began to dictate--but haltingly. he had come here from antonelli all primed with fervour and indignation, but it was evident that this feeling had ebbed, that his mind refused to concentrate on what he was saying. despite the magnificent opportunity to flay the capitalists which their most recent tactics afforded him, he paused, repeated himself, and began again, glancing from time to time reproachfully, almost resentfully at janet. usually, on these occasions, he was transported, almost inebriated by his own eloquence; but now he chafed at her listlessness, he was at a loss to account for the withdrawal of the enthusiasm he had formerly been able to arouse. lacking the feminine stimulus, his genius limped. for rolfe there had been a woman in every strike--sometimes two. what had happened, during his absence, to alienate the most promising of all neophytes he had ever encountered? "the eyes of the world are fixed on the workers of hampton! they must be true to the trust their fellows have placed in them! to-day the mill-owners, the masters, are at the end of their tether. always unscrupulous, they have descended to the most despicable of tactics in order to deceive the public. but truth will prevail!..." rolfe lit another cigarette, began a new sentence and broke it off. suddenly he stood over her. "it's you!" he said. "you don't feel it, you don't help me, you're not in sympathy." he bent over her, his red lips gleaming through his beard, a terrible hunger in his lustrous eyes--the eyes of a soul to which self-denial was unknown. his voice was thick with uncontrolled passion, his hand was cold. "janet, what has happened? i love you, you must love me--i cannot believe that you do not. come with me. we shall work together for the workers--it is all nothing without you." for a moment she sat still, and then a pain shot through her, a pain as sharp as a dagger thrust. she drew her hand away. "i can't love--i can only hate," she said. "but you do not hate me!" rolfe repudiated so gross a fact. his voice caught as in a sob. "i, who love you, who have taught you!" she dismissed this--what he had taught her--with a gesture which, though slight, was all-expressive. he drew back from her. "shall i tell you who has planned and carried out this plot?" he cried. "it is ditmar. he is the one, and he used janes, the livery stable keeper, the politician who brought the dynamite to hampton, as his tool. half an hour before janes got to the station in boston he was seen by a friend of ours talking to ditmar in front of the chippering offices, and janes had the satchel with him then. ditmar walked to the corner with him." janet, too, had risen. "i don't believe it," she said. "ah, i thought you wouldn't! but we have the proof that dynamite was in the satchel, we've found the contractor from whom it was bought. i was a fool--i might have known that you loved ditmar." "i hate him!" said janet. "it is the same thing," said rolfe. she did not answer.... he watched her in silence as she put on her hat and coat and left the room. the early dusk was gathering when she left the hall and made her way toward the city. the huge bottle-shaped chimneys of the power plant injected heavy black smoke into the wet air. in faber street the once brilliant signs above the "ten-foot" buildings seemed dulled, the telegraph poles starker, nakeder than ever, their wires scarcely discernible against the smeared sky. the pedestrians were sombrely garbed, and went about in "rubbers"--the most depressing of all articles worn by man. sodden piles of snow still hid the curb and gutters, but the pavements were trailed with mud that gleamed in the light from the shop windows. and janet, lingering unconsciously in front of that very emporium where lisehad been incarcerated, the bagatelle, stared at the finery displayed there, at the blue tulle dress that might be purchased, she read, for $ . . she found herself repeating, in meaningless, subdued tones, the words, "twenty-two ninety-nine." she even tried--just to see if it were possible--to concentrate her mind on that dress, on the fur muffs and tippets in the next window; to act as if this were just an ordinary, sad february afternoon, and she herself once more just an ordinary stenographer leading a monotonous, uneventful existence. but she knew that this was not true, because, later on, she was going to do something--to commit some act. she didn't know what this act would be. her head was hot, her temples throbbed.... night had fallen, the electric arcs burned blue overhead, she was in another street--was it stanley? sounds of music reached her, the rumble of marching feet; dark, massed figures were in the distance swimming toward her along the glistening line of the car tracks, and she heard the shrill whistling of the doffer boys, who acted as a sort of fife corps in these parades--which by this time had become familiar to the citizens of hampton. and janet remembered when the little red book that contained the songs had arrived at headquarters from the west and had been distributed by thousands among the strikers. she recalled the words of this song, though the procession was as yet too far away for her to distinguish them:-- "the people's flag is deepest red, it shrouded oft our martyred dead, and ere their limbs grew stiff and cold, their life-blood dyed its every fold." the song ceased, and she stood still, waiting for the procession to reach her. a group of heavy belgian women were marching together. suddenly, as by a simultaneous impulse, their voices rang out in the internationale--the terrible marseillaise of the workers:-- "arise, ye prisoners of starvation! arise, ye wretched of the earth!" and the refrain was taken up by hundreds of throats:-- "'tis the final conflict, let each stand in his place!" the walls of the street flung it back. on the sidewalk, pressed against the houses, men and women heard it with white faces. but janet was carried on.... the scene changed, now she was gazing at a mass of human beings hemmed in by a line of soldiers. behind the crowd was a row of old-fashioned brick houses, on the walls of which were patterned, by the cold electric light, the branches of the bare elms ranged along the sidewalk. people leaned out of the windows, like theatregoers at a play. the light illuminated the red and white bars of the ensign, upheld by the standard bearer of the regiment, the smaller flags flaunted by the strikers--each side clinging hardily to the emblem of human liberty. the light fell, too, harshly and brilliantly, on the workers in the front rank confronting the bayonets, and these seemed strangely indifferent, as though waiting for the flash of a photograph. a little farther on a group of boys, hands in pockets, stared at the soldiers with bravado. from the rear came that indescribable "booing" which those who have heard never forget, mingled with curses and cries:--"vive la greve!" "to hell with the cossacks!" "kahm on--shoot!" the backs of the soldiers, determined, unyielding, were covered with heavy brown capes that fell below the waist. as janet's glance wandered down the line it was arrested by the face of a man in a visored woollen cap--a face that was almost sepia, in which large white eyeballs struck a note of hatred. and what she seemed to see in it, confronting her, were the hatred and despair of her own soul! the man might have been a hungarian or a pole; the breadth of his chin was accentuated by a wide, black moustache, his attitude was tense,--that of a maddened beast ready to spring at the soldier in front of him. he was plainly one of those who had reached the mental limit of endurance. in contrast with this foreigner, confronting him, a young lieutenant stood motionless, his head cocked on one side, his hand grasping the club held a little behind him, his glance meeting the other's squarely, but with a different quality of defiance. all his faculties were on the alert. he wore no overcoat, and the uniform fitting close to his figure, the broad-brimmed campaign hat of felt served to bring into relief the physical characteristics of the american anglo-saxon, of the individualist who became the fighting pioneer. but janet, save to register the presence of the intense antagonism between the two, scarcely noticed her fellow countryman.... every moment she expected to see the black man spring,--and yet movement would have marred the drama of that consuming hatred.... then, by one of those bewildering, kaleidoscopic shifts to which crowds are subject, the scene changed, more troops arrived, little by little the people were dispersed to drift together again by chance--in smaller numbers--several blocks away. perhaps a hundred and fifty were scattered over the space formed by the intersection of two streets, where three or four special policemen with night sticks urged them on. not a riot, or anything approaching it. the police were jeered, but the groups, apparently, had already begun to scatter, when from the triangular vestibule of a saloon on the corner darted a flame followed by an echoing report, a woman bundled up in a shawl screamed and sank on the snow. for an instant the little french-canadian policeman whom the shot had missed gazed stupidly down at her.... as janet ran along the dark pavements the sound of the shot and of the woman's shriek continued to ring in her ears. at last she stopped in front of the warehouse beyond mr. tiernan's shop, staring at the darkened windows of the flat--of the front room in which her mother now slept alone. for a minute she stood looking at these windows, as though hypnotized by some message they conveyed--the answer to a question suggested by the incident that had aroused and terrified her. they drew her, as in a trance, across the street, she opened the glass-panelled door, remembering mechanically the trick it had of not quite closing, turned and pushed it to and climbed the stairs. in the diningroom the metal lamp, brightly polished, was burning as usual, its light falling on the chequered red table-cloth, on her father's empty chair, on that somewhat battered heirloom, the horsehair sofa. all was so familiar, and yet so amazingly unfamiliar, so silent! at this time edward should be reading the banner, her mother bustling in and out, setting the table for supper. but not a dish was set. the ticking of the ancient clock only served to intensify the silence. janet entered, almost on tiptoe, made her way to the kitchen door, and looked in. the stove was polished, the pans bright upon the wall, and hannah was seated in a corner, her hands folded across a spotless apron. her scant hair was now pure white, her dress seemed to have fallen away from her wasted neck, which was like a trefoil column. "is that you, janet? you hain't seen anything of your father?" the night before janet had heard this question, and she had been puzzled as to its meaning--whether in the course of the day she had seen her father, or whether hannah thought he was coming home. "he's at the mill, mother. you know he has to stay there." "i know," replied hannah, in a tone faintly reminiscent of the old aspersion. "but i've got everything ready for him in case he should come--any time--if the strikers hain't killed him." "but he's safe where he is." "i presume they will try to kill him, before they get through," hannah continued evenly. "but in case he should come at any time, and i'm not here, you tell him all those bumpus papers are put away in the drawer of that old chest, in the corner. i can't think what he'd do without those papers. that is," she added, "if you're here yourself." "why shouldn't you be here?" asked janet, rather sharply. "i dunno, i seem to have got through." she glanced helplessly around the kitchen. "there don't seem to be much left to keep me alive.... i guess you'll be wanting your supper, won't you? you hain't often home these days--whatever it is you're doing. i didn't expect you." janet did not answer at once. "i--i have to go out again, mother," she said. hannah accepted the answer as she had accepted every other negative in life, great and small. "well, i guessed you would." janet made a step toward her. "mother!" she said, but hannah gazed at her uncomprehendingly. janet stooped convulsively, and kissed her. straightening up, she stood looking down at her mother for a few moments, and went out of the room, pausing in the dining-room, to listen, but hannah apparently had not stirred. she took the box of matches from its accustomed place on the shelf beside the clock, entered the dark bedroom in the front of the flat, closing the door softly behind her. the ghostly blue light from a distant arc came slanting in at the window, glinting on the brass knobs of the chest of drawers-another bumpus heirloom. she remembered that chest from early childhood; it was one of the few pieces that, following them in all their changes of residence, had been faithful to the end: she knew everything in it, and the place for everything. drawing a match from the box, she was about to turn on the gas--but the light from the arc would suffice. as she made her way around the walnut bed she had a premonition of poignant anguish as yet unrealized, of anguish being held at bay by a stronger, fiercer, more imperative emotion now demanding expression, refusing at last to be denied. she opened the top drawer of the chest, the drawer in which hannah, breaking tradition, had put the bumpus genealogy. edward had never kept it there. would the other things be in place? groping with her hands in the left-hand corner, her fingers clasped exultantly something heavy, something wrapped carefully in layers of flannel. she had feared her father might have taken it to the mill! she drew it out, unwound the flannel, and held to the light an old-fashioned revolver, the grease glistening along its barrel. she remembered, too, that the cartridges had lain beside it, and thrusting her hand once more into the drawer found the box, extracting several, and replacing the rest, closed the drawer, and crept through the dining-room to her bedroom, where she lit the gas in order to examine the weapon --finally contriving, more by accident than skill, to break it. the cartridges, of course, fitted into the empty cylinder. but before inserting them she closed the pistol once more, cocked it, and held it out. her arm trembled violently as she pulled the trigger. could she do it? as though to refute this doubt of her ability to carry out an act determined upon, she broke the weapon once more, loaded and closed it, and thrust it in the pocket of her coat. then, washing the grease from her hands, she put on her gloves, and was about to turn out the light when she saw reflected in the glass the red button of the i.w.w. still pinned on her coat. this she tore off, and flung on the bureau. when she had kissed her mother, when she had stood hesitatingly in the darkness of the familiar front bedroom in the presence of unsummoned memories of a home she had believed herself to resent and despise, she had nearly faltered. but once in the street, this weakness suddenly vanished, was replaced by a sense of wrong that now took complete and furious possession of her, driving her like a gale at her back. she scarcely felt on her face the fine rain that had begun to fall once more. her feet were accustomed to the way. when she had turned down west street and almost gained the canal, it was with a shock of surprise that she found herself confronted by a man in a long cape who held a rifle and barred her path. she stared at him as at an apparition. "you can't get by here," he said. "don't you know that?" she did not reply. he continued to look at her, and presently asked, in a gentler tone:--"where did you wish to go, lady?" "into the mill," she replied, "to the offices." "but there can't anybody go through here unless they have a pass. i'm sorry, but that's the order." her answer came so readily as to surprise her. "i was mr. ditmar's private stenographer. i have to see him." the sentry hesitated, and then addressed another soldier, who was near the bridge. "hi, sergeant!" he called. the sergeant came up--a conscientious boston clerk who had joined the militia from a sense of duty and a need for exercise. while the sentry explained the matter he gazed at janet. then he said politely:--"i'm sorry, miss, but i can't disobey orders." "but can't you send word to mr. ditmar, and tell him i want to see him?" she asked. "why, i guess so," he answered, after a moment. "what name shall i say?" "miss bumpus." "bumpus," he repeated. "that's the gatekeeper's name." "i'm his daughter--but i want to see mr. ditmar." "well," said the sergeant, "i'm sure it's all right, but i'll have to send in anyway. orders are orders. you understand?" she nodded as he departed. she saw him cross the bridge like a ghost through the white mist rising from the canal. and through the mist she could make out the fortress-like mass of the mill itself, and the blurred, distorted lights in the paymaster's offices smeared on the white curtain of the vapour. "nasty weather," the sentry remarked, in friendly fashion. he appeared now, despite his uniform, as a good-natured, ungainly youth. janet nodded. "you'd ought to have brought an umbrella," he said. "i guess it'll rain harder, before it gets through. but it's better than ten below zero, anyhow." she nodded again, but he did not seem to resent her silence. he talked about the hardship of patrolling in winter, until the sergeant came back. "it's all right, miss bumpus," he said, and touched his hat as he escorted her to the bridge. she crossed the canal and went through the vestibule without replying to the greeting of the night-watchman, or noticing his curious glance; she climbed the steel-clad stairway, passed the paymaster's offices and mr. orcutt's, and gained the outer office where she had worked as a stenographer. it was dark, but sufficient light came through ditmar's open door to guide her beside the rail. he had heard her step, and as she entered his room he had put his hands heavily on his desk, in the act of rising from his chair. "janet!" he said, and started toward her, but got no farther than the corner of the desk. the sight of her heaving breast, of the peculiar light that flashed from beneath her lashes stopped him suddenly. her hands were in her pockets. "what is it?" he demanded stupidly. but she continued to stand there, breathing so heavily that she could not speak. it was then that he became aware of an acute danger. he did not flinch. "what is it?" he repeated. still she was silent. one hand was thrust deeper into its pocket, he saw a shudder run through her, and suddenly she burst into hysterical weeping, sinking into a chair. he stood for some moments helplessly regarding her before he gained the presence of mind to go to the door and lock it, returning to bend over her. "don't touch me!" she said, shrinking from him. "for god's sake tell me what's the matter," he begged. she looked up at him and tried to speak, struggling against the sobs that shook her. "i--i came here to--to kill you--only i can't do it." "to kill me!" he said, after a pause. in spite of the fact that he had half divined her intention, the words shocked him. whatever else may be said of him, he did not lack courage, his alarm was not of a physical nature. mingled with it were emotions he himself did not understand, caused by the unwonted sight of her loss of self-control, of her anger, and despair. "why did you want to kill me?" and again he had to wait for an answer. "because you've spoiled my life--because i'm going to have a child!" "what do you mean? are you?... it can't be possible." "it is possible, it's true--it's true. i've waited and waited, i've suffered, i've almost gone crazy--and now i know. and i said i'd kill you if it were so, i'd kill myself--only i can't. i'm a coward." her voice was drowned again by weeping. a child! he had never imagined such a contingency! and as he leaned back against the desk, his emotions became chaotic. the sight of her, even as she appeared crazed by anger, had set his passion aflame--for the intensity and fierceness of her nature had always made a strong appeal to dominant qualities in ditmar's nature. and then--this announcement! momentarily it turned his heart to water. now that he was confronted by an exigency that had once vicariously yet deeply disturbed him in a similar affair of a friend of his, the code and habit of a lifetime gained an immediate ascendency--since then he had insisted that this particular situation was to be avoided above all others. and his mind leaped to possibilities. she had wished to kill him--would she remain desperate enough to ruin him? even though he were not at a crisis in his affairs, a scandal of this kind would be fatal. "i didn't know," he said desperately, "i couldn't guess. do you think i would have had this thing happen to you? i was carried away--we were both carried away--" "you planned it!" she replied vehemently, without looking up. "you didn't care for me, you only--wanted me." "that isn't so--i swear that isn't so. i loved you i love you." "oh, do you think i believe that?" she exclaimed. "i swear it--i'll prove it!" he protested. still under the influence of an acute anxiety, he was finding it difficult to gather his wits, to present his case. "when you left me that day the strike began--when you left me without giving me a chance--you'll never know how that hurt me." "you'll never know how it hurt me!" she interrupted. "then why, in god's name, did you do it? i wasn't myself, then, you ought to have seen that. and when i heard from caldwell here that you'd joined those anarchists--" "they're no worse than you are--they only want what you've got," she said. he waved this aside. "i couldn't believe it--i wouldn't believe it until somebody saw you walking with one of them to their headquarters. why did you do it?" "because i know how they feel, i sympathize with the strikers, i want them to win--against you!" she lifted her head and looked at him, and in spite of the state of his feelings he felt a twinge of admiration at her defiance. "because you love me!" he said. "because i hate you," she answered. and yet a spark of exultation leaped within him at the thought that love had caused this apostasy. he had had that suspicion before, though it was a poor consolation when he could not reach her. now she had made it vivid. a woman's logic, or lack of logic--her logic. "listen!" he pleaded. "i tried to forget you--i tried to keep myself going all the time that i mightn't think of you, but i couldn't help thinking of you, wanting you, longing for you. i never knew why you left me, except that you seemed to believe i was unkind to you, and that something had happened. it wasn't my fault--" he pulled himself up abruptly. "i found out what men were like," she said. "a man made my sister a woman of the streets--that's what you've done to me." he winced. and the calmness she had regained, which was so characteristic of her, struck him with a new fear. "i'm not that kind of a man," he said. but she did not answer. his predicament became more trying. "i'll take care of you," he assured her, after a moment. "if you'll only trust me, if you'll only come to me i'll see that no harm comes to you." she regarded him with a sort of wonder--a look that put a fine edge of dignity and scorn to her words when they came. "i told you i didn't want to be taken care of--i wanted to kill you, and kill myself. i don't know why i can't what prevents me." she rose. "but i'm not going to trouble you any more--you'll never hear of me again." she would not trouble him, she was going away, he would never hear of her again! suddenly, with the surge of relief he experienced, came a pang. he could not let her go--it was impossible. it seemed that he had never understood his need of her, his love for her, until now that he had brought her to this supreme test of self-revelation. she had wanted to kill him, yes, to kill herself--but how could he ever have believed that she would stoop to another method of retaliation? as she stood before him the light in her eyes still wet with tears--transfigured her. "i love you, janet," he said. "i want you to marry me." "you don't understand," she answered. "you never did. if i had married you, i'd feel just the same--but it isn't really as bad as if we had been married." "not as bad!" he exclaimed. "if we were married, you'd think you had rights over me," she explained, slowly. "now you haven't any, i can go away. i couldn't live with you. i know what happened to me, i've thought it all out, i wanted to get away from the life i was leading--i hated it so, i was crazy to have a chance, to see the world, to get nearer some of the beautiful things i knew were there, but couldn't reach.... and you came along. i did love you, i would have done anything for you--it was only when i saw that you didn't really love me that i began to hate you, that i wanted to get away from you, when i saw that you only wanted me until you should get tired of me. that's your nature, you can't help it. and it would have been the same if we were married, only worse, i couldn't have stood it any more than i can now--i'd have left you. you say you'll marry me now, but that's because you're sorry for me--since i've said i'm not going to trouble you any more. you'll be glad i've gone. you may--want me now, but that isn't love. when you say you love me, i can't believe you." "you must believe me! and the child, janet,--our child--" "if the world was right," she said, "i could have this child and nobody would say anything. i could support it--i guess i can anyway. and when i'm not half crazy i want it. maybe that's the reason i couldn't do what i tried to do just now. it's natural for a woman to want a child --especially a woman like me, who hasn't anybody or anything." ditmar's state of mind was too complicated to be wholly described. as the fact had been gradually brought home to him that she had not come as a supplicant, that even in her misery she was free, and he helpless, there revived in him wild memories of her body, of the kisses he had wrung from her--and yet this physical desire was accompanied by a realization of her personality never before achieved. and because he had hitherto failed to achieve it, she had escaped him. this belated, surpassing glimpse of what she essentially was, and the thought of the child their child--permeating his passion, transformed it into a feeling hitherto unexperienced and unimagined. he hovered over her, pitifully, his hands feeling for her, yet not daring to touch her. "can't you see that i love you?" he cried, "that i'm ready to marry you now, to-night. you must love me, i won't believe that you don't after --after all we have been to each other." but even then she could not believe. something in her, made hard by the intensity of her suffering, refused to melt. and her head was throbbing, and she scarcely heard him. "i can't stay any longer," she said, getting to her feet. "i can't bear it." "janet, i swear i'll care for you as no woman was ever cared for. for god's sake listen to me, give me a chance, forgive me!" he seized her arm; she struggled, gently but persistently, to free herself from his hold. "let me go, please." all the passionate anger had gone out of her, and she spoke in a monotone, as one under hypnosis, dominated by a resolution which, for the present at least, he was powerless to shake. "but to-morrow?" he pleaded. "you'll let me see you to-morrow, when you've had time to think it over, when you realize that i love you and want you, that i haven't meant to be cruel--that you've misjudged me --thought i was a different kind of a man. i don't blame you for that, i guess something happened to make you believe it. i've got enemies. for the sake of the child, janet, if for nothing else, you'll come back to me! you're--you're tired tonight, you're not yourself. i don't wonder, after all you've been through. if you'd only come to me before! god knows what i've suffered, too!" "let me go, please," she repeated, and this time, despairingly, he obeyed her, a conviction of her incommunicability overwhelming him. he turned and, fumbling with the key, unlocked the door and opened it. "i'll see you to-morrow," he faltered once more, and watched her as she went through the darkened outer room until she gained the lighted hallway beyond and disappeared. her footsteps died away into silence. he was trembling. for several minutes he stood where she had left him, tortured by a sense of his inability to act, to cope with this, the great crisis of his life, when suddenly the real significance of that strange last look in her eyes was borne home to him. and he had allowed her to go out into the streets alone! seizing his hat and coat, he fairly ran out of the office and down the stairs and across the bridge. "which way did that young lady go?" he demanders of the sergeant. "why--uh, west street, mr. ditmar." he remembered where fillmore street was; he had, indeed, sought it out one evening in the hope of meeting her. he hurried toward it now, his glance strained ahead to catch sight of her figure under a lamp. but he reached fillmore street without overtaking her, and in the rain he stood gazing at the mean houses there, wondering in which of them she lived, and whether she had as yet come home.... after leaving ditmar janet, probably from force of habit, had indeed gone through west street, and after that she walked on aimlessly. it was better to walk than to sit alone in torment, to be gnawed by that thing from which she had so desperately attempted to escape, and failed. she tried to think why she had failed.... though the rain fell on her cheeks, her mouth was parched; and this dryness of her palate, this physical sense of lightness, almost of dizziness, were intimately yet incomprehensibly part and parcel of the fantastic moods into which she floated. it was as though, in trying to solve a problem, she caught herself from time to time falling off to sleep. in her waking moments she was terror-stricken. scarce an hour had passed since, in a terrible exaltation at having found a solution, she had gone to ditmar's office in the mill. what had happened to stay her? it was when she tried to find the cause of the weakness that so abruptly had overtaken her, or to cast about for a plan to fit the new predicament to which her failure had sentenced her, that the fantasies intruded. she heard ditmar speaking, the arguments were curiously familiar--but they were not ditmar's! they were her father's, and now it was edward's voice to which she listened, he was telling her how eminently proper it was that she should marry ditmar, because of her bumpus blood. and this made her laugh.... again, ditmar was kissing her hair. he had often praised it. she had taken it down and combed it out for him; it was like a cloud, he said--so fine; its odour made him faint--and then the odour changed, became that of the detested perfume of miss lottie myers! even that made janet smile! but ditmar was strong, he was powerful, he was a fact, why not go back to him and let him absorb and destroy her? that annihilation would be joy.... it could not have been much later than seven o'clock when she found herself opposite the familiar, mulberry-shingled protestant church. the light from its vestibule made a gleaming square on the wet sidewalk, and into this area, from the surrounding darkness, came silhouetted figures of men and women holding up umbrellas; some paused for a moment's chat, their voices subdued by an awareness of the tabernacle. at the sight of this tiny congregation something stirred within her. she experienced a twinge of surprise at the discovery that other people in the world, in hampton, were still leading tranquil, untormented existences. they were contented, prosperous, stupid, beyond any need of help from god, and yet they were going to prayer-meeting to ask something! he refused to find her in the dark streets. would she find him if she went in there? and would he help her? the bell in the tower began to clang, with heavy, relentless strokes --like physical blows from which she flinched--each stirring her reluctant, drowsy soul to a quicker agony. from the outer blackness through which she fled she gazed into bright rooms of homes whose blinds were left undrawn, as though to taunt and mock the wanderer. she was an outcast! who henceforth would receive her save those, unconformed and unconformable, sentenced to sin in this realm of blackness? henceforth from all warmth and love she was banished.... in the middle of the stanley street bridge she stopped to lean against the wet rail; the mill lights were scattered, dancing points of fire over the invisible swift waters, and she raised her eyes presently to the lights themselves, seeking one unconsciously--ditmar's! yes, it was his she sought; though it was so distant, sometimes it seemed to burn like a red star, and then to flicker and disappear. she could not be sure.... something chill and steely was in the pocket of her coat--it made a heavy splash in the water when she dropped it. the river could not be so very cold! she wished she could go down like that into forgetfulness. but she couldn't.... where was lise now?... it would be so easy just to drop over that parapet and be whirled away, and down and down. why couldn't she? well, it was because--because--she was going to have a child. well, if she had a child to take care of, she would not be so lonely--she would have something to love. she loved it now, as though she felt it quickening within her, she wanted it, to lavish on it all of a starved affection. she seemed actually to feel in her arms its soft little body pressed against her. claude ditmar's child! and she suddenly recalled, as an incident of the remote past, that she had told him she wanted it! this tense craving for it she felt now was somehow the answer to an expressed wish which had astonished her. perhaps that was the reason why she had failed to do what she had tried to do, to shoot ditmar and herself! it was ditmar's child, ditmar's and hers! he had loved her, long ago, and just now--was it just now?--he had said he loved her still, he had wanted to marry her. then why had she run away from him? why had she taken the child into outer darkness, to be born without a father,--when she loved ditmar? wasn't that one reason why she wanted the child? why, even in her moments of passionate hatred she recalled having been surprised by some such yearning as now came over her? and for an interval, a brief interval, she viewed him with startling clarity. not because he embodied any ideal did she love him, but because he was what he was, because he had overcome her will, dominated and possessed her, left his mark upon her indelibly. he had been cruel to her, willing to sacrifice her to his way of life, to his own desires, but he loved her, for she had seen, if not heeded in his eyes the look that a woman never mistakes! she remembered it now, and the light in his window glowed again, like a star to guide her back to him. it was drawing her, irresistibly.... the sentry recognized her as she came along the canal. "mr. ditmar's gone," he told her. "gone!" she repeated. "gone!" "why, yes, about five minutes after you left he was looking for you--he asked the sergeant about you." "and--he won't be back?" "i guess not," answered the man, sympathetically. "he said good-night." she turned away dully. the strength and hope with which she had been so unexpectedly infused while gazing from the bridge at his window had suddenly ebbed; her legs ached, her feet were wet, and she shivered, though her forehead burned. the world became distorted, people flitted past her like weird figures of a dream, the myriad lights of faber street were blurred and whirled in company with the electric signs. seeking to escape from their confusion she entered a side street leading north, only to be forcibly seized by some one who darted after her from the sidewalk. "excuse me, but you didn't see that automobile," he said, as he released her. shaken, she went on through several streets to find herself at length confronted by a pair of shabby doors that looked familiar, and pushing one of them open, baited at the bottom of a stairway to listen. the sound of cheerful voices camp to her from above; she started to climb--even with the help of the rail it seemed as if she would never reach the top of that stairway. but at last she stood in a loft where long tables were set, and at the end of one of these, sorting out spoons and dishes, three women and a man were chatting and laughing together. janet was troubled because she could not remember who the man was, although she recognized his bold profile, his voice and gestures.... at length one of the women said something in a low tone, and he looked around quickly and crossed the room. "why, it's you!" he said, and suddenly she recalled his name. "mr. insall!" but his swift glance had noticed the expression in her eyes, the sagged condition of her clothes, the attitude that proclaimed exhaustion. he took her by the arm and led her to the little storeroom, turning on the light and placing her in a chair. darkness descended on her.... mrs. maturin, returning from an errand, paused for an instant in the doorway, and ran forward and bent over janet. "oh, brooks, what is it--what's happened to her?" "i don't know," he replied, "i didn't have a chance to ask her. i'm going for a doctor." "leave her to me, and call miss hay." mrs. maturin was instantly competent .... and when insall came back from the drug store where he had telephoned she met him at the head of the stairs. "we've done everything we can, edith hay has given her brandy, and gone off for dry clothes, and we've taken all the children's things out of the drawers and laid her on the floor, but she hasn't come to. poor child,--what can have happened to her? is the doctor coming?" "right away," said insall, and mrs. maturin went back into the storeroom. miss hay brought the dry clothes before the physician arrived. "it's probably pneumonia," he explained to insall a little later. "she must go to the hospital--but the trouble is all our hospitals are pretty full, owing to the sickness caused by the strike." he hesitated. "of course, if she has friends, she could have better care in a private institution just now." "oh, she has friends," said mrs. maturin. "couldn't we take her to our little hospital at silliston, doctor? it's only four miles--that isn't much in an automobile, and the roads are good now." "well, the risk isn't much greater, if you have a closed car, and she would, of course, be better looked after," the physician consented. "i'll see to it at once," said insall.... chapter xx the martha wootton memorial hospital was the hobby of an angel alumnus of silliston. it was situated in hovey's lane, but from the window of the white-enameled room in which she lay janet could see the bare branches of the common elms quivering to the spring gusts, could watch, day by day, the grass changing from yellow-brown to vivid green in the white sunlight. in the morning, when the nurse opened the blinds, that sunlight swept radiantly into the room, lavish with its caresses; always spending, always giving, the symbol of a loving care that had been poured out on her, unasked and unsought. it was sweet to rest, to sleep. and instead of the stringent monster-cry of the siren, of the discordant clamour of the mill bells, it was sweet yet strange to be awakened by silvertoned chimes proclaiming peaceful hours. at first she surrendered to the spell, and had no thought of the future. for a little while every day, mrs. maturin read aloud, usually from books of poetry. and knowing many of the verses by heart, she would watch janet's face, framed in the soft dark hair that fell in two long plaits over her shoulders. for janet little guessed the thought that went into the choosing of these books, nor could she know of the hours spent by this lady pondering over library shelves or consulting eagerly with brooks insall. sometimes augusta maturin thought of janet as a wildflower--one of the rare, shy ones, hiding under its leaves; sprung up in hampton, of all places, crushed by a heedless foot, yet miraculously not destroyed, and already pushing forth new and eager tendrils. and she had transplanted it. to find the proper nourishment, to give it a chance to grow in a native, congenial soil, such was her breathless task. and so she had selected "the child's garden of verses." "i should like to rise and go where the golden apples grow"... when she laid down her book it was to talk, perhaps, of silliston. established here before the birth of the republic, its roots were bedded in the soil of a racial empire, to a larger vision of which augusta maturin clung: an empire of anglo-saxon tradition which, despite disagreements and conflicts--nay, through them--developed imperceptibly toward a sublimer union, founded not on dominion, but on justice and right. she spoke of the england she had visited on her wedding journey, of the landmarks and literature that also through generations have been american birthrights; and of that righteous self-assertion and independence which, by protest and even by war, america had contributed to the democracy of the future. silliston, indifferent to cults and cataclysms, undisturbed by the dark tides flung westward to gather in deposits in other parts of the land, had held fast to the old tradition, stood ready to do her share to transform it into something even nobler when the time should come. simplicity and worth and beauty--these elements at least of the older republic should not perish, but in the end prevail. she spoke simply of these things, connecting them with a silliston whose spirit appealed to all that was inherent and abiding in the girl. all was not chaos: here at least, a beacon burned with a bright and steady flame. and she spoke of andrew silliston, the sturdy colonial prototype of the american culture, who had fought against his king, who had spent his modest fortune to found this seat of learning, believing as he did that education is the cornerstone of republics; divining that lasting unity is possible alone by the transformation of the individual into the citizen through voluntary bestowal of service and the fruits of labour. samuel wootton, the boston merchant who had given the hospital, was andrew's true descendant, imbued with the same half-conscious intuition that builds even better that it reeks. and andrew, could he have returns to earth in his laced coat and long silk waistcoat, would still recognize his own soul in silliston academy, the soul of his creed and race. "away down the river, a hundred miles or more, other little children shall bring my boats ashore."... janet drew in a great breath, involuntarily. these were moments when it seemed that she could scarcely contain what she felt of beauty and significance, when the ecstasy and pain were not to be borne. and sometimes, as she listened to mrs. maturin's voice, she wept in silence. again a strange peace descended on her, the peace of an exile come home; if not to remain, at least to know her own land and people before faring forth. she would not think of that faring yet awhile, but strive to live and taste the present--and yet as life flowed back into her veins that past arose to haunt her, she yearned to pour it out to her new friend, to confess all that had happened to her. why couldn't she? but she was grateful because mrs. maturin betrayed no curiosity. janet often lay watching her, puzzled, under the spell of a frankness, an ingenuousness, a simplicity she had least expected to find in one who belonged to such a learned place as that of silliston. but even learning, she was discovering, could be amazingly simple. freely and naturally mrs. maturin dwelt on her own past, on the little girl of six taken from her the year after her husband died, on her husband himself, once a professor here, and who, just before his last illness, had published a brilliant book on russian literature which resulted in his being called to harvard. they had gone to switzerland instead, and augusta maturin had come back to silliston. she told janet of the loon-haunted lake, hemmed in by the laurentian hills, besieged by forests, where she had spent her girlhood summers with her father, professor wishart, of the university of toronto. there, in search of health, gifford maturin had come at her father's suggestion to camp. janet, of course, could not know all of that romance, though she tried to picture it from what her friend told her. augusta wishart, at six and twenty, had been one of those magnificent canadian women who are most at home in the open; she could have carried gifford maturinout of the wilderness on her back. she was five feet seven, modelled in proportion, endowed by some celtic ancestor with that dark chestnut hair which, because of its abundance, she wore braided and caught up in a heavy knot behind her head. tanned by the northern sun, kneeling upright in a canoe, she might at a little distance have been mistaken for one of the race to which the forests and waters had once belonged. the instinct of mothering was strong in her, and from the beginning she had taken the shy and delicate student under her wing, recognizing in him one of the physically helpless dedicated to a supreme function. he was forever catching colds, his food disagreed with him, and on her own initiative she discharged his habitant cook and supplied him with one of her own choosing. when overtaken by one of his indispositions she paddled him about the lake with lusty strokes, first placing a blanket over his knees, and he submitted: he had no pride of that sort, he was utterly indifferent to the figure he cut beside his amazon. his gentleness of disposition, his brilliant conversations with those whom, like her father, he knew and trusted, captivated augusta. at this period of her life she was awakening to the glories of literature and taking a special course in that branch. he talked to her of gogol, turgenief, and dostoievsky, and seated on the log piazza read in excellent french "dead souls," "peres et enfants," and "the brothers karamazoff." at the end of august he went homeward almost gaily, quite ignorant of the arrow in his heart, until he began to miss augusta wishart's ministrations--and augusta wishart herself.... then had followed that too brief period of intensive happiness.... the idea of remarriage had never occurred to her. at eight and thirty, though tragedy had left its mark, it had been powerless to destroy the sweetness of a nature of such vitality as hers. the innate necessity of loving remained, and as time went on had grown more wistful and insistent. insall and her silliston neighbours were wont, indeed, gently to rally her on her enthusiasms, while understanding and sympathizing with this need in her. a creature of intuition, janet had appealed to her from the beginning, arousing first her curiosity, and then the maternal instinct that craved a mind to mould, a soul to respond to her touch.... mrs. maturin often talked to janet of insall, who had, in a way, long been connected with silliston. in his early wandering days, when tramping over new england, he used unexpectedly to turn up at dr. ledyard's, the principal's, remain for several weeks and disappear again. even then he, had been a sort of institution, a professor emeritus in botany, bird lore, and woodcraft, taking the boys on long walks through the neighbouring hills; and suddenly he had surprised everybody by fancying the tumble-down farmhouse in judith's lane, which he had restored with his own hands into the quaintest of old world dwellings. behind it he had made a dam in the brook, and put in a water wheel that ran his workshop. in play hours the place was usually overrun by boys.... but sometimes the old craving for tramping would overtake him, one day his friends would find the house shut up, and he would be absent for a fortnight, perhaps for a month--one never knew when he was going, or when he would return. he went, like his hero, silas simpkins, through the byways of new england, stopping at night at the farm-houses, or often sleeping out under the stars. and then, perhaps, he would write another book. he wrote only when he felt like writing. it was this book of insall's, "the travels of silas simpkins", rather than his "epworth green" or "the hermit of blue mountain," that mrs. maturin chose to read to janet. unlike the sage of walden, than whom he was more gregarious, instead of a log house for his castle silas simpkins chose a cart, which he drove in a most leisurely manner from the sea to the mountains, penetrating even to hamlets beside the silent lakes on the canadian border, and then went back to the sea again. two chunky grey horses with wide foreheads and sagacious eyes propelled him at the rate of three miles an hour; for these, as their master, had learned the lesson that if life is to be fully savoured it is not to be bolted. silas cooked and ate, and sometimes read under the maples beside the stone walls: usually he slept in the cart in the midst of the assortment of goods that proclaimed him, to the astute, an expert in applied psychology. at first you might have thought silos merely a peddler, but if you knew your thoreau you would presently begin to perceive that peddling was the paltry price he paid for liberty. silos was in a way a sage--but such a human sage! he never intruded with theories, he never even hinted at the folly of the mortals who bought or despised his goods, or with whom he chatted by the wayside, though he may have had his ideas on the subject: it is certain that presently one began to have one's own: nor did he exclaim with george sand, "il n'y a rien de plus betement mechant que l'habitant des petites villes!" somehow the meannesses and jealousies were accounted for, if not excused. to understand is to pardon. it was so like insall, this book, in its whimsicality, in its feeling of space and freedom, in its hidden wisdom that gradually revealed itself as one thought it over before falling off to sleep! new england in the early summer! here, beside the tender greens of the ipswich downs was the sparkling cobalt of the sea, and she could almost smell its cool salt breath mingling with the warm odours of hay and the pungent scents of roadside flowers. weathered grey cottages were scattered over the landscape, and dark copses of cedars, while oceanward the eye was caught by the gleam of a lighthouse or a lonely sail. even in that sandy plain, covered with sickly, stunted pines and burned patches, stretching westward from the merrimac, silas saw beauty and colour, life in the once prosperous houses not yet abandoned.... presently, the hills, all hyacinth blue, rise up against the sunset, and the horses' feet are on the "boston road"--or rud, according to the authorized pronunciation of that land. hardly, indeed, in many places, a "rud" to-day, reverting picturesquely into the forest trail over which the early inland settlers rode their horses or drove their oxen with upcountry produce to the sea. they were not a people who sought the easiest way, and the boston road reflects their characters: few valleys are deep enough to turn it aside; few mountains can appal it: railroads have given it a wide berth. here and there the forest opens out to reveal, on a knoll or "flat," a forgotten village or tavern-stand. over the high shelf of washington town it runs where the air is keen and the lakes are blue, where long-stemmed wild flowers nod on its sunny banks, to reach at length the rounded, classic hills and sentinel mountain that mark the sheep country of the connecticut.... it was before janet's convalescence began that mrs. maturin had consulted insall concerning her proposed experiment in literature. afterwards he had left silliston for a lumber camp on a remote river in northern maine, abruptly to reappear, on a mild afternoon late in april, in augusta maturin's garden. the crocuses and tulips were in bloom, and his friend, in a gardening apron, was on her knees, trowel in hand, assisting a hired man to set out marigolds and snapdragons. "well, it's time you were home again," she exclaimed, as she rose to greet him and led him to a chair on the little flagged terrace beside the windows of her library. "i've got so much to tell you about our invalid." "our invalid!" insall retorted. "of course. i look to you to divide the responsibility with me, and you've shirked by running off to maine. you found her, you know--and she's really remarkable." "now see here, augusta, you can't expect me to share the guardianship of an attractive and--well, a dynamic young woman. if she affects you this way, what will she do to me? i'm much too susceptible." "susceptible" she scoffed. "but you can't get out of it. i need you. i've never been so interested and so perplexed in my life." "how is she?" insall asked. "frankly, i'm worried," said mrs. maturin. "at first she seemed to be getting along beautifully. i read to her, a little every day, and it was wonderful how she responded to it. i'll tell you about that i've got so much to tell you! young dr. trent is puzzled, too, it seems there are symptoms in the case for which he cannot account. some three weeks ago he asked me what i made out of her, and i can't make anything--that's the trouble, except that she seems pathetically grateful, and that i've grown absurdly fond of her. but she isn't improving as fast as she should, and dr. trent doesn't know whether or not to suspect functional complications. her constitution seems excellent, her vitality unusual. trent's impressed by her, he inclines to the theory that she has something on her mind, and if this is so she should get rid of it, tell it to somebody--in short, tell it to me. i know she's fond of me, but she's so maddeningly self-contained, and at moments when i look at her she baffles me, she makes me feel like an atom. twenty times at least i've almost screwed up my courage to ask her, but when it comes to the point, i simply can't do it." "you ought to be able to get at it, if any one can," said insall. "i've a notion it may be connected with the strike," augusta maturin continued. "i never could account for her being mixed up in that, plunging into syndicalism. it seemed so foreign to her nature. i wish i'd waited a little longer before telling her about the strike, but one day she asked me how it had come out--and she seemed to be getting along so nicely i didn't see any reason for not telling her. i said that the strike was over, that the millowners had accepted the i.w.w. terms, but that antonelli and jastro had been sent to jail and were awaiting trial because they had been accused of instigating the murder of a woman who was shot by a striker aiming at a policeman. it seems that she had seen that! she told me so quite casually. but she was interested, and i went on to mention how greatly the strikers were stirred by the arrests, how they paraded in front of the jail, singing, and how the feeling was mostly directed against mr. ditmar, because he was accused of instigating the placing of dynamite in the tenements." "and you spoke of mr. ditmar's death?" insall inquired. "why yes, i told her how he had been shot in dover street by a demented italian, and if it hadn't been proved that the italian was insane and not a mill worker, the result of the strike might have been different." "how did she take it?" "well, she was shocked, of course. she sat up in bed, staring at me, and then leaned back on the pillows again. i pretended not to notice it--but i was sorry i'd said anything about it." "she didn't say anything?" "not a word." "didn't you know that, before the strike, she was ditmar's private stenographer?" "no!" augusta maturin exclaimed. "why didn't you tell me?" "it never occurred to me to tell you," insall replied. "that must have something to do with it!" said mrs. maturin. insall got up and walked to the end of the terrace, gazing at a bluebird on the edge of the lawn. "well, not necessarily," he said, after a while. "did you ever find out anything about her family?" "oh, yes, i met the father once, he's been out two or three times, on sunday, and came over here to thank me for what i'd done. the mother doesn't come--she has some trouble, i don't know exactly what. brooks, i wish you could see the father, he's so typically unique--if one may use the expression. a gatekeeper at the chippering mills!" "a gatekeeper?" "yes, and i'm quite sure he doesn't understand to this day how he became one, or why. he's delightfully naive on the subject of genealogy, and i had the bumpus family by heart before he left. that's the form his remnant of the intellectual curiosity of his ancestors takes. he was born in dolton, which was settled by the original bumpus, back in the plymouth colony days, and if he were rich he'd have a library stuffed with gritty, yellow-backed books and be a leading light in the historical society. he speaks with that nicety of pronunciation of the old new englander, never slurring his syllables, and he has a really fine face, the kind of face one doesn't often see nowadays. i kept looking at it, wondering what was the matter with it, and at last i realized what it lacked--will, desire, ambition,--it was what a second-rate sculptor might have made of bradford, for instance. but there is a remnant of fire in him. once, when he spoke of the strike, of the foreigners, he grew quite indignant." "he didn't tell you why his daughter had joined the strikers?" insall asked. "he was just as much at sea about that as you and i are. of course i didn't ask him--he asked me if i knew. it's only another proof of her amazing reticence. and i can imagine an utter absence of sympathy between them. he accounts for her, of course; he's probably the unconscious transmitter of qualities the puritans possessed and tried to smother. certainly the fires are alight in her, and yet it's almost incredible that he should have conveyed them. of course i haven't seen the mother." "it's curious he didn't mention her having been ditmar's stenographer," insall put in. "was that reticence?" "i hardly think so," augusta maturin replied. "it may have been, but the impression i got was of an incapacity to feel the present. all his emotions are in the past, most of his conversation was about bumpuses who are dead and buried, and his pride in janet--for he has a pride--seems to exist because she is their representative. it's extraordinary, but he sees her present situation, her future, with extraordinary optimism; he apparently regards her coming to silliston, even in the condition in which we found her, as a piece of deserved fortune for which she has to thank some virtue inherited from her ancestors! well, perhaps he's right. if she were not unique, i shouldn't want to keep her here. it's pure selfishness. i told mr. bumpus i expected to find work for her." mrs. maturin returned insall's smile. "i suppose you're too polite to say that i'm carried away by my enthusiasms. but you will at least do me the justice to admit that they are rare and--discriminating, as a connoisseur's should be. i think even you will approve of her." "oh, i have approved of her--that's the trouble." mrs. maturin regarded him for a moment in silence. "i wish you could have seen her when i began to read those verses of stevenson's. it was an inspirations your thinking of them." "did i think of them?" "you know you did. you can't escape your responsibility. well, i felt like--like a gambler, as though i were staking everything on a throw. and, after i began, as if i were playing on some rare instrument. she lay there, listening, without uttering a word, but somehow she seemed to be interpreting them for me, giving them a meaning and a beauty i hadn't imagined. another time i told her about silliston, and how this little community for over a century and a half had tried to keep its standard flying, to carry on the work begun by old andrew, and i thought of those lines, "other little children shall bring my boats ashore." that particular application just suddenly, occurred to me, but she inspired it." "you're a born schoolma'am," insall laughed. "i'm much too radical for a schoolmam," she declared. "no board of trustees would put up with me--not even silliston's! we've kept the faith, but we do move slowly, brooks. even tradition grows, and sometimes our blindness here to changes, to modern, scientific facts, fairly maddens me. i read her that poem of moody's--you know it:-- 'here, where the moors stretch free in the high blue afternoon, are the marching sun and the talking sea.' and those last lines:-- 'but thou, vast outbound ship of souls, what harbour town for thee? what shapes, when thy arriving tolls, shall crowd the banks to see? shall all the happy shipmates then stand singing brotherly? or shall a haggard, ruthless few warp her over and bring her to, while the many broken souls of me fester down in the slaver's pen, and nothing to say or do?'" "i was sorry afterwards, i could see that she was tremendously excited. and she made me feel as if i, too, had been battened down in that hold and bruised and almost strangled. i often wonder whether she has got out of it into the light--whether we can rescue her." mrs. maturin paused. "what do you mean?" insall asked. "well, it's difficult to describe, what i feel--she's such a perplexing mixture of old new england and modernity, of a fatalism, and an aliveness that fairly vibrates. at first, when she began to recover, i was conscious only of the vitality--but lately i feel the other quality. it isn't exactly the old puritan fatalism, or even the greek, it's oddly modern, too, almost agnostic, i should say,--a calm acceptance of the hazards of life, of nature, of sun and rain and storm alike--very different from the cheap optimism one finds everywhere now. she isn't exactly resigned--i don't say that--i know she can be rebellious. and she's grateful for the sun, yet she seems to have a conviction that the clouds will gather again.... the doctor says she may leave the hospital on monday, and i'm going to bring her over here for awhile. then," she added insinuatingly, "we can collaborate." "i think i'll go back to maine," insall exclaimed. "if you desert me, i shall never speak to you again," said mrs. maturin. "janet," said mrs. maturin the next day, as she laid down the book from which she was reading, "do you remember that i spoke to you once in hampton of coming here to silliston? well, now we've got you here, we don't want to lose you. i've been making inquiries; quite a number of the professors have typewriting to be done, and they will be glad to give their manuscripts to you instead of sending them to boston. and there's brooks insall too--if he ever takes it into his head to write another book. you wouldn't have any trouble reading his manuscript, it's like script. of course it has to be copied. you can board with mrs. case --i've arranged that, too. but on monday i'm going to take you to my house, and keep you until you're strong enough to walk." janet's eyes were suddenly bright with tears. "you'll stay?" "i can't," answered janet. "i couldn't." "but why not? have you any other plans?" "no, i haven't any plans, but--i haven't the right to stay here." presently she raised her face to her friend. "oh mrs. maturin, i'm so sorry! i didn't want to bring any sadness here--it's all so bright and beautiful! and now i've made you sad!" it was a moment before augusta maturin could answer her. "what are friends for, janet," she asked, "if not to share sorrow with? and do you suppose there's any place, however bright, where sorrow has not come? do you think i've not known it, too? and janet, i haven't sat here all these days with you without guessing that something worries you. i've been waiting, all this time, for you to tell me, in order that i might help you." "i wanted to," said janet, "every day i wanted to, but i couldn't. i couldn't bear to trouble you with it, i didn't mean ever to tell you. and then--it's so terrible, i don't know what you'll think." "i think i know you, janet," answered mrs. maturin. "nothing human, nothing natural is terrible, in the sense you mean. at least i'm one of those who believe so." presently janet said, "i'm going to have a child." mrs. maturin sat very still. something closed in her throat, preventing her immediate reply. "i, too, had a child, my dear," she answered. "i lost her." she felt the girl's clasp tighten on her fingers. "but you--you had a right to it--you were married. children are sacred things," said augusta maturin. "sacred! could it be that a woman like mrs. maturity thought that this child which was coming to her was sacred, too? "however they come?" asked janet. "oh, i tried to believe that, too! at first--at first i didn't want it, and when i knew it was coming i was driven almost crazy. and then, all at once, when i was walking in the rain, i knew i wanted it to have--to keep all to myself. you understand?" augusta maturity inclined her head. "but the father?" she managed to ask, after a moment. "i don't wish to pry, my dear, but does he--does he realize? can't he help you?" "it was mr. ditmar." "perhaps it will help you to tell me about it, janet." "i'd--i'd like to. i've been so unhappy since you told me he was dead --and i felt like a cheat. you see, he promised to marry me, and i know now that he loved me, that he really wanted to marry me, but something happened to make me believe he wasn't going to, i saw--another girl who'd got into trouble, and then i thought he'd only been playing with me, and i couldn't stand it. i joined the strikers--i just had to do something." augusta maturity nodded, and waited. "i was only a stenographer, and we were very poor, and he was rich and lived in a big house, the most important man in hampton. it seemed too good to be true--i suppose i never really thought it could happen. please don't think i'm putting all the blame on him, mrs. maturity--it was my fault just as much as his. i ought to have gone away from hampton, but i didn't have the strength. and i shouldn't have--" janet stopped. "but--you loved him?" "yes, i did. for a long time, after i left him, i thought i didn't, i thought i hated him, and when i found out what had happened to me--that night i came to you--i got my father's pistol and went to the mill to shoot him. i was going to shoot myself, too." "oh!" mrs. maturity gasped. she gave a quick glance of sheer amazement at janet, who did not seem to notice it; who was speaking objectively, apparently with no sense of the drama in her announcement. "but i couldn't," she went on. "at the time i didn't know why i couldn't, but when i went out i understood it was because i wanted the child, because it was his child. and though he was almost out of his head, he seemed so glad because i'd come back to him, and said he'd marry me right away." "and you refused!" exclaimed mrs. maturity. "well, you see, i was out of my head, too, i still thought i hated him --but i'd loved him all the time. it was funny! he had lots of faults, and he didn't seem to understand or care much about how poor people feel, though he was kind to them in the mills. he might have come to understand--i don't know--it wasn't because he didn't want to, but because he was so separated from them, i guess, and he was so interested in what he was doing. he had ambition, he thought everything of that mill, he'd made it. i don't know why i loved him, it wasn't because he was fine, like mr. insall, but he was strong and brave, and he needed me and just took me." "one never knows!" augusta maturity murmured. "i went back that night to tell him i'd marry him--and he'd gone. then i came to you, to the soup kitchen. i didn't mean to bother you, i've never quite understood how i got there. i don't care so much what happens to me, now that i've told you," janet added. "it was mean, not to tell you, but i'd never had anything like this--what you were giving me--and i wanted all i could get." "i'm thankful you did come to us!" augusta maturin managed to reply. "you mean--?" janet exclaimed. "i mean, that we who have been more--fortunate don't look at these things quite as we used to, that the world is less censorious, is growing to understand situations it formerly condemned. and--i don't know what kind of a monster you supposed me to be, janet." "oh, mrs. maturin!" "i mean that i'm a woman, too, my dear, although my life has been sheltered. otherwise, what has happened to you might have happened to me. and besides, i am what is called unconventional, i have little theories of my own about life, and now that you have told me everything i understand you and love you even more than i did before." save that her breath came fast, janet lay still against the cushions of the armchair. she was striving to grasp the momentous and unlooked-for fact of her friend's unchanged attitude. then she asked:--"mrs. maturin, do you believe in god?" augusta maturin was startled by the question. "i like to think of him as light, janet, and that we are plants seeking to grow toward him--no matter from what dark crevice we may spring. even in our mistakes and sins we are seeking him, for these are ignorances, and as the world learns more, we shall know him better and better. it is natural to long for happiness, and happiness is self-realization, and self-realization is knowledge and light." "that is beautiful," said janet at length. "it is all we can know about god," said mrs. maturin, "but it is enough." she had been thinking rapidly. "and now," she went on, "we shall have to consider what is to be done. i don't pretend that the future will be easy, but it will not be nearly as hard for you as it might have been, since i am your friend, and i do not intend to desert you. i'm sure you will not let it crush you. in the first place, you will have something to go on with--mental resources, i mean, for which you have a natural craving, books and art and nature, the best thoughts and the best interpretations. we can give you these. and you will have your child, and work to do, for i'm sure you're industrious. and of course i'll keep your secret, my dear." "but--how?" janet exclaimed. "i've arranged it all. you'll stay here this spring, you'll come to my house on monday, just as we planned, and later on you may go to mrs. case's, if it will make you feel more independent, and do typewriting until the spring term is over. i've told you about my little camp away up in canada, in the heart of the wilderness, where i go in summer. we'll stay there until the autumn, until your baby comes, and, after that, i know it won't be difficult to get you a position in the west, where you can gain your living and have your child. i have a good friend in california who i'm sure will help you. and even if your secret should eventually be discovered--which is not probable--you will have earned respect, and society is not as stern as it used to be. and you will always have me for a friend. there, that's the bright side of it. of course it isn't a bed of roses, but i've lived long enough to observe that the people who lie on roses don't always have the happiest lives. whenever you want help and advice, i shall always be here, and from time to time i'll be seeing you. isn't that sensible?" "oh, mrs. maturin--if you really want me--still?" "i do want you, janet, even more than i did--before, because you need me more," mrs. maturin replied, with a sincerity that could not fail to bring conviction.... chapter xxi as the spring progressed, janet grew stronger, became well again, and through the kindness of dr. ledyard, the principal, was presently installed with a typewriter in a little room in an old building belonging to the academy in what was called bramble street, and not far from the common. here, during the day, she industriously copied manuscripts' or, from her notebook, letters dictated by various members of the faculty. and she was pleased when they exclaimed delightedly at the flawless copies and failed to suspect her of frequent pilgrimages to the dictionary in the library in order to familiarize herself with the meaning and manner of spelling various academic words. at first it was almost bewildering to find herself in some degree thus sharing the silliston community life; and an unpremeditated attitude toward these learned ones, high priests of the muses she had so long ignorantly worshipped, accounted perhaps for a great deal in their attitude toward her. her fervour, repressed yet palpable, was like a flame burning before their altars--a flattery to which the learned, being human, are quick to respond. besides, something of her history was known, and she was of a type to incite a certain amount of interest amongst these discerning ones. often, after she had taken their dictation, or brought their manuscripts home, they detained her in conversation. in short, silliston gave its approval to this particular experiment of augusta maturin. as for mrs. maturin herself, her feeling was one of controlled pride not unmixed with concern, always conscious as she was of the hidden element of tragedy in the play she had so lovingly staged. not that she had any compunction in keeping janet's secret, even from insall; but sometimes as she contemplated it the strings of her heart grew tight. silliston was so obviously where janet belonged, she could not bear the thought of the girl going out again from this sheltered spot into a chaotic world of smoke and struggle. janet's own feelings were a medley. it was not, of course, contentment she knew continually, nor even peace, although there were moments when these stole over her. there were moments, despite her incredible good fortune, of apprehension when she shrank from the future, when fear assailed her; moments of intense sadness at the thought of leaving her friends, of leaving this enchanted place now that miraculously she had found it; moments of stimulation, of exaltation, when she forgot. her prevailing sense, as she found herself again, was of thankfulness and gratitude, of determination to take advantage of, to drink in all of this wonderful experience, lest any precious memory be lost. like a jewel gleaming with many facets, each sunny day was stored and treasured. as she went from mrs. case's boarding-house forth to her work, the sweet, sharp air of these spring mornings was filled with delicious smells of new things, of new flowers and new grass and tender, new leaves of myriad shades, bronze and crimson, fuzzy white, primrose, and emerald green. and sometimes it seemed as though the pink and white clouds of the little orchards were wafted into swooning scents. she loved best the moment when the common came in view, when through the rows of elms the lineaments of those old houses rose before her, lineaments seemingly long familiar, as of old and trusted friends, and yet ever stirring new harmonies and new visions. here, in their midst, she belonged, and here, had the world been otherwise ordained, she might have lived on in one continuous, shining spring. at the corner of the common, foursquare, ample, painted a straw colour trimmed with white, with its high chimneys and fan-shaped stairway window, its balustraded terrace porch open to the sky, was the eighteenth century mansion occupied by dr. ledyard. what was the secret of its flavour? and how account for the sense of harmony inspired by another dwelling, built during the term of the second adams, set in a frame of maples and shining white in the morning sun? its curved portico was capped by a wrought-iron railing, its long windows were touched with purple, and its low garret--set like a deckhouse on the wide roof--suggested hidden secrets of the past. here a motley or a longfellow might have dwelt, a bryant penned his "thanatopsis." farther on, chequered by shade, stood the quaint brick row of professors' houses, with sloping eaves and recessed entrances of granite--a subject for an old english print.... along the border of the common were interspersed among the ancient dormitories and halls the new and dignified buildings of plum-coloured brick that still preserved the soul of silliston. and to it the soul of janet responded. in the late afternoon, when her tasks were finished, janet would cross the common to mrs. maturin's--a dwelling typical of the new england of the past, with the dimensions of a cottage and something of the dignity of a mansion. fluted white pilasters adorned the corners, the windows were protected by tiny eaves, the roof was guarded by a rail; the classically porched entrance was approached by a path between high clipped hedges of hemlock; and through the library, on the right, you reached the flagged terrace beside a garden, rioting in the carnival colours of spring. by september it would have changed. for there is one glory of the hyacinth, of the tulip and narcissus and the jonquil, and another of the michaelmas daisy and the aster. insall was often there, and on saturdays and sundays he took mrs. maturin and janet on long walks into the country. there were afternoons when the world was flooded with silver light, when the fields were lucent in the sun; and afternoons stained with blue,--the landscape like a tapestry woven in delicate grins on a ground of indigo. the arbutus, all aglow and fragrant beneath its leaves, the purple fringed polygala were past, but they found the pale gold lily of the bellwort, the rust-red bloom of the ginger. in the open spaces under the sky were clouds of bluets, wild violets, and white strawberry flowers clustering beside the star moss all a-shimmer with new green. the canada mayflower spread a carpet under the pines; and in the hollows where the mists settled, where the brooks flowed, where the air was heavy with the damp, ineffable odour of growing things, they gathered drooping adder's-tongues, white-starred bloodroots and foam-flowers. from insall's quick eye nothing seemed to escape. he would point out to them the humming-bird that hovered, a bright blur, above the columbine, the woodpecker glued to the trunk of a maple high above their heads, the red gleam of a tanager flashing through sunlit foliage, the oriole and vireo where they hid. and his was the ear that first caught the exquisite, distant note of the hermit. once he stopped them, startled, to listen to the cock partridge drumming to its mate.... sometimes, of an evening, when janet was helping mrs. maturin in her planting or weeding, insall would join them, rolling up the sleeves of his flannel shirt and kneeling beside them in the garden paths. mrs. maturin was forever asking his advice, though she did not always follow it. "now, brooks," she would say, "you've just got to suggest something to put in that border to replace the hyacinths." "i had larkspur last year--you remember--and it looked like a chromo in a railroad folder." "let me see--did i advise larkspur?" he would ask. "oh, i'm sure you must have--i always do what you tell me. it seems to me i've thought of every possible flower in the catalogue. you know, too, only you're so afraid of committing yourself." insall's comic spirit, betrayed by his expressions, by the quizzical intonations of his voice, never failed to fill janet with joy, while it was somehow suggestive, too, of the vast fund of his resource. mrs. maturin was right, he could have solved many of her questions offhand if he had so wished, but he had his own method of dealing with appeals. his head tilted on one side, apparently in deep thought over the problem, he never answered outright, but by some process of suggestion unfathomable to janet, and by eliminating, not too deprecatingly, mrs. maturin's impatient proposals, brought her to a point where she blurted out the solution herself. "oriental poppies! how stupid of me not to think of them!" "how stupid of me!" insall echoed--and janet, bending over her weeding, made sure they had been in his mind all the while. augusta maturin's chief extravagance was books; she could not bear to await her turn at the library, and if she liked a book she wished to own it. subscribing to several reviews, three english and one american, she scanned them eagerly every week and sent in orders to her boston bookseller. as a consequence the carved walnut racks on her library table were constantly being strained. a good book, she declared, ought to be read aloud, and discussed even during its perusal. and thus janet, after an elementary and decidedly unique introduction to worth-while literature in the hospital, was suddenly plunged into the vortex of modern thought. the dictum insall quoted, that modern culture depended largely upon what one had not read, was applied to her; a child of the new environment fallen into skilful hands, she was spared the boredom of wading through the so-called classics which, though useful as milestones, as landmarks for future reference, are largely mere reminders of an absolute universe now vanished. the arrival of a novel, play, or treatise by one of that small but growing nucleus of twentieth century seers was an event, and often a volume begun in the afternoon was taken up again after supper. while mrs. maturin sat sewing on the other side of the lamp, janet had her turn at reading. from the first she had been quick to note mrs. maturin's inflections, and the relics of a high-school manner were rapidly eliminated. the essence of latter-day realism and pragmatism, its courageous determination to tear away a veil of which she had always been dimly aware, to look the facts of human nature in the face, refreshed her: an increasing portion of it she understood; and she was constantly under the spell of the excitement that partially grasps, that hovers on the verge of inspiring discoveries. this excitement, whenever insall chanced to be present, was intensified, as she sat a silent but often quivering listener to his amusing and pungent comments on these new ideas. his method of discussion never failed to illuminate and delight her, and often, when she sat at her typewriter the next day, she would recall one of his quaint remarks that suddenly threw a bright light on some matter hitherto obscure.... occasionally a novel or a play was the subject of their talk, and then they took a delight in drawing her out, in appealing to a spontaneous judgment unhampered by pedagogically implanted preconceptions. janet would grow hot from shyness. "say what you think, my dear," mrs. maturin would urge her. "and remember that your own opinion is worth more than shakespeare's or napoleon's!" insall would escort her home to mrs. case's boarding house.... one afternoon early in june janet sat in her little room working at her letters when brooks insall came in. "i don't mean to intrude in business hours, but i wanted to ask if you would do a little copying for me," he said, and he laid on her desk a parcel bound with characteristic neatness. "something you've written?" she exclaimed, blushing with pleasure and surprise. he was actually confiding to her one of his manuscripts! "well--yes," he replied comically, eyeing her. "i'll be very careful with it. i'll do it right away." "there's no particular hurry," he assured her. "the editor's waited six months for it--another month or so won't matter." "another month or so!" she ejaculated,--but he was gone. of course she couldn't have expected him to remain and talk about it; but this unexpected exhibition of shyness concerning his work--so admired by the world's choicer spirits--thrilled yet amused her, and made her glow with a new understanding. with eager fingers she undid the string and sat staring at the regular script without taking in, at first, the meaning of a single sentence. it was a comparatively short sketch entitled "the exile," in which shining, winged truths and elusive beauties flitted continually against a dark-background of puritan oppression; the story of one basil grelott, a dreamer of milton's day, oxford nurtured, who, casting off the shackles of dogma and man-made decrees, sailed with his books to the new england wilderness across the sea. there he lived, among the savages, in peace and freedom until the arrival of winthrop and his devotees, to encounter persecution from those who themselves had fled from it. the lord's brethren, he averred, were worse than the lord's bishops--blackstone's phrase. janet, of course, had never heard of blackstone, some of whose experiences insall had evidently used. and the puritans dealt with grelott even as they would have served the author of "paradise lost" himself, especially if he had voiced among them the opinions set forth in his pamphlet on divorce. a portrait of a stern divine with his infallible book gave janet a vivid conception of the character of her ancestors; and early boston, with yellow candlelight gleaming from the lantern-like windows of the wooden, elizabethan houses, was unforgettably etched. there was an inquisition in a freezing barn of a church, and basil grelott banished to perish amid the forest in his renewed quest for freedom.... after reading the manuscript, janet sat typewriting into the night, taking it home with her and placing it besides her bed, lest it be lost to posterity. by five the next evening she had finished the copy. a gentle rain had fallen during the day, but had ceased as she made her way toward insall's house. the place was familiar now: she had been there to supper with mrs. maturin, a supper cooked and served by martha vesey, an elderly, efficient and appallingly neat widow, whom insall had discovered somewhere in his travels and installed as his housekeeper. janet paused with her hand on the gate latch to gaze around her, at the picket fence on which he had been working when she had walked hither the year before. it was primly painted now, its posts crowned with the carved pineapples; behind the fence old-fashioned flowers were in bloom, lupins and false indigo; and the retaining wall of blue-grey slaty stone, which he had laid that spring, was finished. a wind stirred the maple, releasing a shower of heavy drops, and she opened the gate and went up the path and knocked at the door. there was no response--even martha must be absent, in the village! janet was disappointed, she had looked forward to seeing him, to telling him how great had been her pleasure in the story he had written, at the same time doubting her courage to do so. she had never been able to speak to him about his work and what did her opinion matter to him? as she turned away the stillness was broken by a humming sound gradually rising to a crescendo, so she ventured slowly around the house and into the orchard of gnarled apple trees on the slope until she came insight of a little white building beside the brook. the weathervane perched on the gable, and veering in the wet breeze, seemed like a live fish swimming in its own element; and through the open window she saw insall bending over a lathe, from which the chips were flying. she hesitated. then he looked up, and seeing her, reached above his head to pull the lever that shut off the power. "come in," he called out, and met her at the doorway. he was dressed in a white duck shirt, open at the neck, and a pair of faded corduroy trousers. "i wasn't looking for this honour," he told her, with a gesture of self-deprecation, "or i'd have put on a dinner coat." and, despite her eagerness and excitement, she laughed. "i didn't dare to leave this in the house," she explained. mrs. vesey wasn't home. and i thought you might be here." "you haven't made the copy already!" "oh, i loved doing it!" she replied, and paused, flushing. she might have known that it would be simply impossible to talk to him about it! so she laid it down on the workbench, and, overcome by a sudden shyness, retreated toward the door. "you're not going!" he exclaimed. "i must--and you're busy." "not at all," he declared, "not at all, i was just killing time until supper. sit down!" and he waved her to a magisterial-looking chair of jacobean design, with turned legs, sandpapered and immaculate, that stood in the middle of the shop. "oh, not in that!" janet protested. "and besides, i'd spoil it--i'm sure my skirt is wet." but he insisted, thrusting it under her. "you've come along just in time, i wanted a woman to test it--men are no judges of chairs. there's a vacuum behind the small of your back, isn't there? augusta will have to put a cushion in it." "did you make it for mrs. maturin? she will be pleased!" exclaimed janet, as she sat down. "i don't think it's uncomfortable." "i copied it from an old one in the boston art museum. augusta saw it there, and said she wouldn't be happy until she had one like it. but don't tell her." "not for anything!" janet got to her feet again. "i really must be going." "going where?" "i told mrs. maturin i'd read that new book to her. i couldn't go yesterday--i didn't want to go," she added, fearing he might think his work had kept her. "well, i'll walk over with you. she asked me to make a little design for a fountain, you know, and i'll have to get some measurements." as they emerged from the shop and climbed the slope janet tried to fight off the sadness that began to invade her. soon she would have to be leaving all this! her glance lingered wistfully on the old farmhouse with its great centre chimney from which the smoke was curling, with its diamond-paned casements insall had put into the tiny frames. "what queer windows!" she said. "but they seem to go with the house, beautifully." "you think so?" his tone surprised her; it had a touch more of earnestness than she had ever before detected. "they belong to that type of house the old settlers brought the leaded glass with them. some people think they're cold, but i've arranged to make them fairly tight. you see, i've tried to restore it as it must have been when it was built." "and these?" she asked, pointing to the millstones of different diameters that made the steps leading down to the garden. "oh, that's an old custom, but they are nice," he agreed. "i'll just put this precious manuscript inside and get my foot rule," he added, opening the door, and she stood awaiting him on the threshold, confronted by the steep little staircase that disappeared into the wall half way up. at her left was the room where he worked, and which once had been the farmhouse kitchen. she took a few steps into it, and while he was searching in the table drawer she halted before the great chimney over which, against the panel, an old bell-mouthed musket hung. insall came over beside her. "those were trees!" he said. "that panel's over four feet across, i measured it once. i dare say the pine it was cut from grew right where we are standing, before the land was cleared to build the house." "but the gun?" she questioned. "you didn't have it the night we came to supper." "no, i ran across it at a sale in boston. the old settler must have owned one like that. i like to think of him, away off here in the wilderness in those early days." she thought of how insall had made those early days live for her, in his story of basil grelott. but to save her soul, when with such an opening, she could not speak of it. "he had to work pretty hard, of course," insall continued, "but i dare say he had a fairly happy life, no movies, no sunday supplements, no automobiles or gypsy moths. his only excitement was to trudge ten miles to dorset and listen to a three hour sermon on everlasting fire and brimstone by a man who was supposed to know. no wonder he slept soundly and lived to be over ninety!" insall was standing with his head thrown back, his eyes stilt seemingly fixed on the musket that had suggested his remark--a pose eloquent, she thought, of the mental and physical balance of the man. she wondered what belief gave him the free mastery of soul and body he possessed. some firm conviction, she was sure, must energise him yet she respected him the more for concealing it. "it's hard to understand such a terrible religion!" she cried. "i don't see how those old settlers could believe in it, when there are such beautiful things in the world, if we only open our eyes and look for them. oh mr. insall, i wish i could tell you how i felt when i read your story, and when mrs. maturin read me those other books of yours." she stopped breathlessly, aghast at her boldness--and then, suddenly, a barrier between them seemed to break down, and for the first time since she had known him she felt near to him. he could not doubt the sincerity of her tribute. "you like them as much as that, janet?" he said, looking at her. "i can't tell you how much, i can't express myself. and i want to tell you something else, mr. insall, while i have the chance--how just being with you and mrs. maturin has changed me. i can face life now, you have shown me so much in it i never saw before." "while you have the chance?" he repeated. "yes." she strove to go on cheerfully, "now i've said it, i feel better, i promise not to mention it again. i knew--you didn't think me ungrateful. it's funny," she added, "the more people have done for you-when they've given you everything, life and hope,--the harder it is to thank them." she turned her face away, lest he might see that her eyes were wet. "mrs. maturin will be expecting us." "not yet," she heard him say, and felt his hand on her arm. "you haven't thought of what you're doing for me." "what i'm doing for you!" she echoed. "what hurts me most, when i think about it, is that i'll never be able to do anything." "why do you say that?" he asked. "if i only could believe that some day i might be able to help you--just a little--i should be happier. all i have, all i am i owe to you and mrs. maturin." "no, janet," he answered. "what you are is you, and it's more real than anything we could have put into you. what you have to give is --yourself." his fingers trembled on her arm, but she saw him smile a little before he spoke again. "augusta maturin was right when she said that you were the woman i needed. i didn't realize it then perhaps she didn't--but now i'm sure of it. will you come to me?" she stood staring at him, as in terror, suddenly penetrated by a dismay that sapped her strength, and she leaned heavily against the fireplace, clutching the mantel-shelf. "don't!" she pleaded. "please don't--i can't." "you can't!... perhaps, after a while, you may come to feel differently --i didn't mean to startle you," she heard him reply gently. this humility, in him, was unbearable. "oh, it isn't that--it isn't that! if i could, i'd be willing to serve you all my life--i wouldn't ask for anything more. i never thought that this would happen. i oughtn't to have stayed in silliston." "you didn't suspect that i loved you?" "how could i? oh, i might have loved you, if i'd been fortunate--if i'd deserved it. but i never thought, i always looked up to you--you are so far above me!" she lifted her face to him in agony. "i'm sorry--i'm sorry for you--i'll never forgive myself!" "it's--some one else?" he asked. "i was--going to be married to--to mr. ditmar," she said slowly, despairingly. "but even then--" insall began. "you don't understand!" she cried. "what will you think of me?--mrs. maturin was to have told you, after i'd gone. it's--it's the same as if i were married to him--only worse." "worse!" insall repeated uncomprehendingly.... and then she was aware that he had left her side. he was standing by the window. a thrush began to sing in the maple. she stole silently toward the door, and paused to look back at him, once to meet his glance. he had turned. "i can't--i can't let you go like this!" she heard him say, but she fled from him, out of the gate and toward the common.... when janet appeared, augusta maturin was in her garden. with an instant perception that something was wrong, she went to the girl and led her to the sofa in the library. there the confession was made. "i never guessed it," janet sobbed. "oh, mrs. maturin, you'll believe me--won't you?" "of course i believe you, janet," augusta maturity replied, trying to hide her pity, her own profound concern and perplexity. "i didn't suspect it either. if i had--" "you wouldn't have brought me here, you wouldn't have asked me to stay with you. but i was to blame, i oughtn't to have stayed, i knew all along that something would happen--something terrible that i hadn't any right to stay." "who could have foreseen it!" her friend exclaimed helplessly. "brooks isn't like any other man i've ever known--one can never tell what he has in mind. not that i'm surprised as i look back upon it all!" "i've hurt him!" augusta maturity was silent awhile. "remember, my dear," she begged, "you haven't only yourself to think about, from now on." but comfort was out of the question, the task of calming the girl impossible. finally the doctor was sent for, and she was put to bed.... augusta maturity spent an agonized, sleepless night, a prey of many emotions; of self-reproach, seeing now that she had been wrong in not telling brooks insall of the girl's secret; of sorrow and sympathy for him; of tenderness toward the girl, despite the suffering she had brought; of unwonted rebellion against a world that cheated her of this cherished human tie for which she had longed the first that had come into her life since her husband and child had gone. and there was her own responsibility for insall's unhappiness--when she recalled with a pang her innocent sayings that janet was the kind of woman he, an artist, should marry! and it was true--if he must marry. he himself had seen it. did janet love him? or did she still remember ditmar? again and again, during the summer that followed, this query was on her lips, but remained unspoken.... the next day insall disappeared. no one knew where he had gone, but his friends in silliston believed he had been seized by one of his sudden, capricious fancies for wandering. for many months his name was not mentioned between augusta maturity and janet. by the middle of june they had gone to canada.... in order to reach the camp on lac du sablier from the tiny railroad station at saint hubert, a trip of some eight miles up the decharge was necessary. the day had been when augusta maturity had done her share of paddling and poling, with an habitant guide in the bow. she had foreseen all the needs of this occasion, warm clothes for janet, who was wrapped in blankets and placed on cushions in the middle of a canoe, while she herself followed in a second, from time to time exclaiming, in a reassuring voice, that one had nothing to fear in the hands of delphin and herve, whom she had known intimately for more than twenty years. it was indeed a wonderful, exciting, and at moments seemingly perilous journey up the forested aisle of the river: at sight of the first roaring reach of rapids janet held her breath--so incredible did it appear that any human power could impel and guide a boat up the white stairway between the boulders! was it not courting destruction? yet she felt a strange, wild delight in the sense of danger, of amazement at the woodsman's eye that found and followed the crystal paths through the waste of foam.... there were long, quiet stretches, hemmed in by alders, where the canoes, dodging the fallen trees, glided through the still water... no such silent, exhilarating motion janet had ever known. even the dipping paddles made no noise, though sometimes there was a gurgle, as though a fish had broken the water behind them; sometimes, in the shining pools ahead, she saw the trout leap out. at every startling flop delphin would exclaim: "un gros!" from an upper branch of a spruce a kingfisher darted like an arrow into the water, making a splash like a falling stone. once, after they had passed through the breach of a beaver dam, herve nodded his head toward a mound of twigs by the bank and muttered something. augusta maturin laughed. "cabane de castor, he says--a beaver cabin. and the beavers made the dam we just passed. did you notice, janet, how beautifully clean those logs had been cut by their sharp teeth?" at moments she conversed rapidly with delphin in the same patois janet had heard on the streets of hampton. how long ago that seemed! on two occasions, when the falls were sheer, they had to disembark and walk along little portages through the green raspberry bushes. the prints of great hooves in the black silt betrayed where wild animals had paused to drink. they stopped for lunch on a warm rock beside a singing waterfall, and at last they turned an elbow in the stream and with suddenly widened vision beheld the lake's sapphire expanse and the distant circle of hills. "les montagnes," herve called them as he flung out his pipe, and this janet could translate for herself. eastward they lay lucent in the afternoon light; westward, behind the generous log camp standing on a natural terrace above the landing, they were in shadow. here indeed seemed peace, if remoteness, if nature herself might bestow it. janet little suspected that special preparations had been made for her comfort. early in april, while the wilderness was still in the grip of winter, delphin had been summoned from a far-away lumber camp to saint hubert, where several packing-cases and two rolls of lead pipe from montreal lay in a shed beside the railroad siding. he had superintended the transportation of these, on dog sledges, up the frozen decharge, accompanied on his last trip by a plumber of sorts from beaupre, thirty miles down the line; and between them they had improvised a bathroom, and attached a boiler to the range! only a week before the arrival of madame the spring on the hillside above the camp had been tapped, and the pipe laid securely underground. besides this unheard-of luxury for the lac du sablier there were iron beds and mattresses and little wood stoves to go in the four bedrooms, which were more securely chinked with moss. the traditions of that camp had been hospitable. in professor wishart's day many guests had come and gone, or pitched their tents nearby; and augusta maturin, until this summer, had rarely been here alone, although she had no fears of the wilderness, and delphin brought his daughter delphine to do the housework and cooking. the land for miles round about was owned by a toronto capitalist who had been a friend of her father, and who could afford as a hobby the sparing of the forest. by his permission a few sportsmen came to fish or shoot, and occasionally their campfires could be seen across the water, starlike glows in the darkness of the night, at morning and evening little blue threads of smoke that rose against the forest; "bocane," delphin called it, and janet found a sweet, strange magic in these words of the pioneer. the lake was a large one, shaped like an hourglass, as its name implied, and augusta maturin sometimes paddled janet through the wide, shallow channel to the northern end, even as she had once paddled gifford. her genius was for the helpless. one day, when the waters were high, and the portages could be dispensed with, they made an excursion through the riviere des peres to the lake of that name, the next in the chain above. for luncheon they ate the trout augusta caught; and in the afternoon, when they returned to the mouth of the outlet, herve, softly checking the canoe with his paddle, whispered the word "arignal!" thigh deep in the lush grasses of the swamp was an animal with a huge grey head, like a donkey's, staring foolishly in their direction--a cow moose. with a tremendous commotion that awoke echoes in the forest she tore herself from the mud and disappeared, followed by her panic-stricken offspring, a caricature of herself.... by september the purple fireweed that springs up beside old camps, and in the bois brute, had bloomed and scattered its myriad, impalpable thistledowns over crystal floors. autumn came to the laurentians. in the morning the lake lay like a quicksilver pool under the rising mists, through which the sun struck blinding flashes of light. a little later, when the veil had lifted, it became a mirror for the hills and crags, the blue reaches of the sky. the stinging air was spiced with balsam. revealed was the incredible brilliance of another day,--the arsenic-green of the spruce, the red and gold of the maples, the yellow of the alders bathing in the shallows, of the birches, whose white limbs could be seen gleaming in the twilight of the thickets. early, too early, the sun fell down behind the serrated forest-edge of the western hill, a ball of orange fire.... one evening delphin and herve, followed by two other canoes, paddled up to the landing. new visitors had arrived, dr. mcleod, who had long been an intimate of the wishart family, and with him a buxom, fresh-complexioned canadian woman, a trained nurse whom he had brought from toronto. there, in nature's wilderness, janet knew the supreme experience of women, the agony, the renewal and joy symbolic of nature herself. when the child was bathed and dressed in the clothes augusta maturin herself had made for it, she brought it into the room to the mother. "it's a daughter," she announced. janet regarded the child wistfully. "i hoped it would be a boy," she said. "he would have had--a better chance." but she raised her arms, and the child was laid in the bed beside her. "we'll see that she has a chance, my dear," augusta maturin replied, as she kissed her. ten days went by, dr. mcleod lingered at lac du sablier, and janet was still in bed. even in this life-giving air she did not seem to grow stronger. sometimes, when the child was sleeping in its basket on the sunny porch, mrs. maturin read to her; but often when she was supposed to rest, she lay gazing out of the open window into silver space listening to the mocking laughter of the loons, watching the ducks flying across the sky; or, as evening drew on, marking in the waters a steely angle that grew and grew--the wake of a beaver swimming homeward in the twilight. in the cold nights the timbers cracked to the frost, she heard the owls calling to one another from the fastnesses of the forest, and thought of life's inscrutable mystery. then the child would be brought to her. it was a strange, unimagined happiness she knew when she felt it clutching at her breasts, at her heart, a happiness not unmixed with yearning, with sadness as she pressed it to her. why could it not remain there always, to comfort her, to be nearer her than any living thing? reluctantly she gave it back to the nurse, wistfully her eyes followed it.... twice a week, now, delphin and herve made the journey to saint hubert, and one evening, after janet had watched them paddling across the little bay that separated the camp from the outlet's mouth, mrs. maturin appeared, with an envelope in her hand. "i've got a letter from brooks insall, janet," she said, with a well-disguised effort to speak naturally. "it's not the first one he's sent me, but i haven't mentioned the others. he's in silliston--and i wrote him about the daughter." "yes," said janet. "well--he wants to come up here, to see you, before we go away. he asks me to telegraph your permission." "oh no, he mustn't, mrs. maturin!" "you don't care to see him?" "it isn't that. i'd like to see him if things had been different. but now that i've disappointed him--hurt him, i couldn't stand it. i know it's only his kindness." after a moment augusta maturin handed janet a sealed envelope she held in her hand. "he asked me to give you this," she said, and left the room. janet read it, and let it fall on the bedspread, where it was still lying when her friend returned and began tidying the room. from the direction of the guide's cabin, on the point, came the sounds of talk and laughter, broken by snatches of habitant songs. augusta maturin smiled. she pretended not to notice the tears in janet's eyes, and strove to keep back her own. "delphin and herve saw a moose in the decharge," she explained. "of course it was a big one, it always is! they're telling the doctor about it." "mrs. maturin," said janet, "i'd like to talk to you. i think i ought to tell you what mr. insall says." "yes, my dear," her friend replied, a little faintly, sitting down on the bed. "he asks me to believe what--i've done makes no difference to him. of course he doesn't put it in so many words, but he says he doesn't care anything about conventions," janet continued slowly. "what i told him when he asked me to marry him in silliston was a shock to him, it was so --so unexpected. he went away, to maine, but as soon as he began to think it all over he wanted to come and tell me that he loved me in spite of it, but he felt he couldn't, under the circumstances, that he had to wait until--now. although i didn't give him any explanation, he wants me to know that he trusts me, he understands--it's because, he says, i am what i am. he still wishes to marry me, to take care of me and the child. we could live in california, at first--he's always been anxious to go there, he says." "well, my dear?" augusta maturin forced herself to say at last. "it's so generous--so like him!" janet exclaimed. "but of course i couldn't accept such a sacrifice, even if--" she paused. "oh, it's made me so sad all summer to think that he's unhappy because of me!" "i know, janet, but you should realize, as i told you in silliston, that it isn't by any deliberate act of your own, it's just one of those things that occur in this world and that can't be foreseen or avoided." augusta maturin spoke with an effort. in spite of janet's apparent calm, she had never been more acutely aware of the girl's inner suffering. "i know," said janet. "but it's terrible to think that those things we unintentionally do, perhaps because of faults we have previously committed, should have the same effect as acts that are intentional." "the world is very stupid. all suffering, i think, is brought about by stupidity. if we only could learn to look at ourselves as we are! it's a stupid, unenlightened society that metes out most of our punishments and usually demands a senseless expiation." augusta maturin waited, and presently janet spoke again. "i've been thinking all summer, mrs. maturin. there was so much i wanted to talk about with you, but i wanted to be sure of myself first. and now, since the baby came, and i know i'm not going to get well, i seem to see things much more clearly." "why do you say you're not going to get well, janet? in this air, and with the child to live for!" "i know it. dr. mcleod knows it, or he wouldn't be staying here, and you've both been too kind to tell me. you've been so kind, mrs. maturin --i can't talk about it. but i'm sure i'm going to die, i've really known it ever since we left silliston. something's gone out of me, the thing that drove me, that made me want to live--i can't express what i mean any other way. perhaps it's this child, the new life--perhaps i've just been broken, i don't know. you did your best to mend me, and that's one thing that makes me sad. and the thought of mr. insall's another. in some ways it would have been worse to live--i couldn't have ruined his life. and even if things had been different, i hadn't come to love him, in that way--it's queer, because he's such a wonderful person. i'd like to live for the child, if only i had the strength, the will left in me--but that's gone. and maybe i could save her from--what i've been through." augusta maturin took janet's hand in hers. "janet," she said, "i've been a lonely woman, as you know, with nothing to look forward to. i've always wanted a child since my little edith went. i wanted you, my dear, i want your child, your daughter--as i want nothing else in the world. i will take her, i will try to bring her up in the light, and brooks insall will help me...." and revised by joseph e. loewenstein, m.d. editorial note: _mary barton_, elizabeth cleghorn gaskell's first novel, was published (anonymously) in by chapman and hall. mary barton a tale of manchester life by elizabeth gaskell "'how knowest thou,' may the distressed novel-wright exclaim, 'that i, here where i sit, am the foolishest of existing mortals; that this my long-ear of a fictitious biography shall not find one and the other, into whose still longer ears it may be the means, under providence, of instilling somewhat?' we answer, 'none knows, none can certainly know: therefore, write on, worthy brother, even as thou canst, even as it is given thee.'" carlyle. contents preface. i. a mysterious disappearance. ii. a manchester tea-party. iii. john barton's great trouble. iv. old alice's history. v. the mill on fire--jem wilson to the rescue. vi. poverty and death. vii. jem wilson's repulse. viii. margaret's debut as a public singer. ix. barton's london experiences. x. return of the prodigal. xi. mr. carson's intentions revealed. xii. old alice's bairn. xiii. a traveller's tales. xiv. jem's interview with poor esther. xv. a violent meeting between the rivals. xvi. meeting between masters and workmen. xvii. barton's night-errand. xviii. murder. xix. jem wilson arrested on suspicion. xx. mary's dream--and the awakening. xxi. esther's motive in seeking mary. xxii. mary's efforts to prove an alibi. xxiii. the sub-poena. xxiv. with the dying. xxv. mrs. wilson's determination. xxvi. the journey to liverpool. xxvii. in the liverpool docks. xxviii. "john cropper, ahoy!" xxix. a true bill against jem. xxx. job legh's deception. xxxi. how mary passed the night. xxxii. the trial and verdict--"not guilty." xxxiii. requiescat in pace. xxxiv. the return home. xxxv. "forgive us our trespasses." xxxvi. jem's interview with mr. duncombe. xxxvii. details connected with the murder. xxxviii. conclusion. preface. three years ago i became anxious (from circumstances that need not be more fully alluded to) to employ myself in writing a work of fiction. living in manchester, but with a deep relish and fond admiration for the country, my first thought was to find a frame-work for my story in some rural scene; and i had already made a little progress in a tale, the period of which was more than a century ago, and the place on the borders of yorkshire, when i bethought me how deep might be the romance in the lives of some of those who elbowed me daily in the busy streets of the town in which i resided. i had always felt a deep sympathy with the care-worn men, who looked as if doomed to struggle through their lives in strange alternations between work and want; tossed to and fro by circumstances, apparently in even a greater degree than other men. a little manifestation of this sympathy, and a little attention to the expression of feelings on the part of some of the work-people with whom i was acquainted, had laid open to me the hearts of one or two of the more thoughtful among them; i saw that they were sore and irritable against the rich, the even tenor of whose seemingly happy lives appeared to increase the anguish caused by the lottery-like nature of their own. whether the bitter complaints made by them, of the neglect which they experienced from the prosperous--especially from the masters whose fortunes they had helped to build up--were well-founded or no, it is not for me to judge. it is enough to say, that this belief of the injustice and unkindness which they endure from their fellow-creatures, taints what might be resignation to god's will, and turns it to revenge in too many of the poor uneducated factory-workers of manchester. the more i reflected on this unhappy state of things between those so bound to each other by common interests, as the employers and the employed must ever be, the more anxious i became to give some utterance to the agony which, from time to time, convulses this dumb people; the agony of suffering without the sympathy of the happy, or of erroneously believing that such is the case. if it be an error, that the woes, which come with ever-returning tide-like flood to overwhelm the workmen in our manufacturing towns, pass unregarded by all but the sufferers, it is at any rate an error so bitter in its consequences to all parties, that whatever public effort can do in the way of legislation, or private effort in the way of merciful deeds, or helpless love in the way of "widow's mites," should be done, and that speedily, to disabuse the work-people of so miserable a misapprehension. at present they seem to me to be left in a state, wherein lamentations and tears are thrown aside as useless, but in which the lips are compressed for curses, and the hands clenched and ready to smite. i know nothing of political economy, or the theories of trade. i have tried to write truthfully; and if my accounts agree or clash with any system, the agreement or disagreement is unintentional. to myself the idea which i have formed of the state of feeling among too many of the factory-people in manchester, and which i endeavoured to represent in this tale (completed above a year ago), has received some confirmation from the events which have so recently occurred among a similar class on the continent. october, . chapter i. a mysterious disappearance. oh! 'tis hard, 'tis hard to be working the whole of the live-long day, when all the neighbours about one are off to their jaunts and play. there's richard he carries his baby, and mary takes little jane, and lovingly they'll be wandering through field and briery lane. manchester song. there are some fields near manchester, well known to the inhabitants as "green heys fields," through which runs a public footpath to a little village about two miles distant. in spite of these fields being flat and low, nay, in spite of the want of wood (the great and usual recommendation of level tracts of land), there is a charm about them which strikes even the inhabitant of a mountainous district, who sees and feels the effect of contrast in these common-place but thoroughly rural fields, with the busy, bustling manufacturing town he left but half-an-hour ago. here and there an old black and white farm-house, with its rambling outbuildings, speaks of other times and other occupations than those which now absorb the population of the neighbourhood. here in their seasons may be seen the country business of hay-making, ploughing, &c., which are such pleasant mysteries for townspeople to watch; and here the artisan, deafened with noise of tongues and engines, may come to listen awhile to the delicious sounds of rural life: the lowing of cattle, the milk-maids' call, the clatter and cackle of poultry in the old farm-yards. you cannot wonder, then, that these fields are popular places of resort at every holiday time; and you would not wonder, if you could see, or i properly describe, the charm of one particular stile, that it should be, on such occasions, a crowded halting-place. close by it is a deep, clear pond, reflecting in its dark green depths the shadowy trees that bend over it to exclude the sun. the only place where its banks are shelving is on the side next to a rambling farm-yard, belonging to one of those old-world, gabled, black and white houses i named above, overlooking the field through which the public footpath leads. the porch of this farm-house is covered by a rose-tree; and the little garden surrounding it is crowded with a medley of old-fashioned herbs and flowers, planted long ago, when the garden was the only druggist's shop within reach, and allowed to grow in scrambling and wild luxuriance--roses, lavender, sage, balm (for tea), rosemary, pinks and wallflowers, onions and jessamine, in most republican and indiscriminate order. this farm-house and garden are within a hundred yards of the stile of which i spoke, leading from the large pasture field into a smaller one, divided by a hedge of hawthorn and black-thorn; and near this stile, on the further side, there runs a tale that primroses may often be found, and occasionally the blue sweet violet on the grassy hedge bank. i do not know whether it was on a holiday granted by the masters, or a holiday seized in right of nature and her beautiful spring time by the workmen, but one afternoon (now ten or a dozen years ago) these fields were much thronged. it was an early may evening--the april of the poets; for heavy showers had fallen all the morning, and the round, soft, white clouds which were blown by a west wind over the dark blue sky, were sometimes varied by one blacker and more threatening. the softness of the day tempted forth the young green leaves, which almost visibly fluttered into life; and the willows, which that morning had had only a brown reflection in the water below, were now of that tender gray-green which blends so delicately with the spring harmony of colours. groups of merry and somewhat loud-talking girls, whose ages might range from twelve to twenty, came by with a buoyant step. they were most of them factory girls, and wore the usual out-of-doors dress of that particular class of maidens; namely, a shawl, which at mid-day or in fine weather was allowed to be merely a shawl, but towards evening, or if the day were chilly, became a sort of spanish mantilla or scotch plaid, and was brought over the head and hung loosely down, or was pinned under the chin in no unpicturesque fashion. their faces were not remarkable for beauty; indeed, they were below the average, with one or two exceptions; they had dark hair, neatly and classically arranged, dark eyes, but sallow complexions and irregular features. the only thing to strike a passer-by was an acuteness and intelligence of countenance, which has often been noticed in a manufacturing population. there were also numbers of boys, or rather young men, rambling among these fields, ready to bandy jokes with any one, and particularly ready to enter into conversation with the girls, who, however, held themselves aloof, not in a shy, but rather in an independent way, assuming an indifferent manner to the noisy wit or obstreperous compliments of the lads. here and there came a sober quiet couple, either whispering lovers, or husband and wife, as the case might be; and if the latter, they were seldom unencumbered by an infant, carried for the most part by the father, while occasionally even three or four little toddlers had been carried or dragged thus far, in order that the whole family might enjoy the delicious may afternoon together. sometime in the course of that afternoon, two working men met with friendly greeting at the stile so often named. one was a thorough specimen of a manchester man; born of factory workers, and himself bred up in youth, and living in manhood, among the mills. he was below the middle size and slightly made; there was almost a stunted look about him; and his wan, colourless face gave you the idea, that in his childhood he had suffered from the scanty living consequent upon bad times and improvident habits. his features were strongly marked, though not irregular, and their expression was extreme earnestness; resolute either for good or evil; a sort of latent, stern enthusiasm. at the time of which i write, the good predominated over the bad in the countenance, and he was one from whom a stranger would have asked a favour with tolerable faith that it would be granted. he was accompanied by his wife, who might, without exaggeration, have been called a lovely woman, although now her face was swollen with crying, and often hidden behind her apron. she had the fresh beauty of the agricultural districts; and somewhat of the deficiency of sense in her countenance, which is likewise characteristic of the rural inhabitants in comparison with the natives of the manufacturing towns. she was far advanced in pregnancy, which perhaps occasioned the overpowering and hysterical nature of her grief. the friend whom they met was more handsome and less sensible-looking than the man i have just described; he seemed hearty and hopeful, and although his age was greater, yet there was far more of youth's buoyancy in his appearance. he was tenderly carrying a baby in arms, while his wife, a delicate, fragile-looking woman, limping in her gait, bore another of the same age; little, feeble twins, inheriting the frail appearance of their mother. the last-mentioned man was the first to speak, while a sudden look of sympathy dimmed his gladsome face. "well, john, how goes it with you?" and, in a lower voice, he added, "any news of esther, yet?" meanwhile the wives greeted each other like old friends, the soft and plaintive voice of the mother of the twins seeming to call forth only fresh sobs from mrs. barton. "come, women," said john barton, "you've both walked far enough. my mary expects to have her bed in three weeks; and as for you, mrs. wilson, you know you're but a cranky sort of a body at the best of times." this was said so kindly, that no offence could be taken. "sit you down here; the grass is well nigh dry by this time; and you're neither of you nesh [ ] folk about taking cold. stay," he added, with some tenderness, "here's my pocket-handkerchief to spread under you, to save the gowns women always think so much of; and now, mrs. wilson, give me the baby, i may as well carry him, while you talk and comfort my wife; poor thing, she takes on sadly about esther." [footnote : "nesh;" anglo-saxon, nesc, tender.] these arrangements were soon completed: the two women sat down on the blue cotton handkerchiefs of their husbands, and the latter, each carrying a baby, set off for a further walk; but as soon as barton had turned his back upon his wife, his countenance fell back into an expression of gloom. "then you've heard nothing of esther, poor lass?" asked wilson. "no, nor shan't, as i take it. my mind is, she's gone off with somebody. my wife frets, and thinks she's drowned herself, but i tell her, folks don't care to put on their best clothes to drown themselves; and mrs. bradshaw (where she lodged, you know) says the last time she set eyes on her was last tuesday, when she came down stairs, dressed in her sunday gown, and with a new ribbon in her bonnet, and gloves on her hands, like the lady she was so fond of thinking herself." "she was as pretty a creature as ever the sun shone on." "ay, she was a farrantly [ ] lass; more's the pity now," added barton, with a sigh. "you see them buckinghamshire people as comes to work in manchester, has quite a different look with them to us manchester folk. you'll not see among the manchester wenches such fresh rosy cheeks, or such black lashes to gray eyes (making them look like black), as my wife and esther had. i never seed two such pretty women for sisters; never. not but what beauty is a sad snare. here was esther so puffed up, that there was no holding her in. her spirit was always up, if i spoke ever so little in the way of advice to her; my wife spoiled her, it is true, for you see she was so much older than esther she was more like a mother to her, doing every thing for her." [footnote : "farrantly," comely, pleasant-looking.] "i wonder she ever left you," observed his friend. "that's the worst of factory work, for girls. they can earn so much when work is plenty, that they can maintain themselves any how. my mary shall never work in a factory, that i'm determined on. you see esther spent her money in dress, thinking to set off her pretty face; and got to come home so late at night, that at last i told her my mind: my missis thinks i spoke crossly, but i meant right, for i loved esther, if it was only for mary's sake. says i, 'esther, i see what you'll end at with your artificials, and your fly-away veils, and stopping out when honest women are in their beds; you'll be a street-walker, esther, and then, don't you go to think i'll have you darken my door, though my wife is your sister.' so says she, 'don't trouble yourself, john. i'll pack up and be off now, for i'll never stay to hear myself called as you call me.' she flushed up like a turkey-cock, and i thought fire would come out of her eyes; but when she saw mary cry (for mary can't abide words in a house), she went and kissed her, and said she was not so bad as i thought her. so we talked more friendly, for, as i said, i liked the lass well enough, and her pretty looks, and her cheery ways. but she said (and at the time i thought there was sense in what she said) we should be much better friends if she went into lodgings, and only came to see us now and then." "then you still were friendly. folks said you'd cast her off, and said you'd never speak to her again." "folks always make one a deal worse than one is," said john barton, testily. "she came many a time to our house after she left off living with us. last sunday se'nnight--no! it was this very last sunday, she came to drink a cup of tea with mary; and that was the last time we set eyes on her." "was she any ways different in her manner?" asked wilson. "well, i don't know. i have thought several times since, that she was a bit quieter, and more womanly-like; more gentle, and more blushing, and not so riotous and noisy. she comes in, toward four o'clock, when afternoon church was loosing, and she goes and hangs her bonnet up on the old nail we used to call hers, while she lived with us. i remember thinking what a pretty lass she was, as she sat on a low stool by mary, who was rocking herself, and in rather a poor way. she laughed and cried by turns, but all so softly and gently, like a child, that i couldn't find in my heart to scold her, especially as mary was fretting already. one thing i do remember i did say, and pretty sharply too. she took our little mary by the waist, and--" "thou must leave off calling her 'little' mary, she's growing up into as fine a lass as one can see on a summer's day; more of her mother's stock than thine," interrupted wilson. "well, well, i call her 'little,' because her mother's name is mary. but, as i was saying, she takes mary in a coaxing sort of way, and, 'mary,' says she, 'what should you think if i sent for you some day and made a lady of you?' so i could not stand such talk as that to my girl, and i said, 'thou'd best not put that nonsense i' the girl's head i can tell thee; i'd rather see her earning her bread by the sweat of her brow, as the bible tells her she should do, ay, though she never got butter to her bread, than be like a do-nothing lady, worrying shopmen all morning, and screeching at her pianny all afternoon, and going to bed without having done a good turn to any one of god's creatures but herself.'" "thou never could abide the gentlefolk," said wilson, half amused at his friend's vehemence. "and what good have they ever done me that i should like them?" asked barton, the latent fire lighting up his eye: and bursting forth, he continued, "if i am sick, do they come and nurse me? if my child lies dying (as poor tom lay, with his white wan lips quivering, for want of better food than i could give him), does the rich man bring the wine or broth that might save his life? if i am out of work for weeks in the bad times, and winter comes, with black frost, and keen east wind, and there is no coal for the grate, and no clothes for the bed, and the thin bones are seen through the ragged clothes, does the rich man share his plenty with me, as he ought to do, if his religion wasn't a humbug? when i lie on my death-bed, and mary (bless her) stands fretting, as i know she will fret," and here his voice faltered a little, "will a rich lady come and take her to her own home if need be, till she can look round, and see what best to do? no, i tell you, it's the poor, and the poor only, as does such things for the poor. don't think to come over me with th' old tale, that the rich know nothing of the trials of the poor. i say, if they don't know, they ought to know. we're their slaves as long as we can work; we pile up their fortunes with the sweat of our brows; and yet we are to live as separate as if we were in two worlds; ay, as separate as dives and lazarus, with a great gulf betwixt us: but i know who was best off then," and he wound up his speech with a low chuckle that had no mirth in it. "well, neighbour," said wilson, "all that may be very true, but what i want to know now is about esther--when did you last hear of her?" "why, she took leave of us that sunday night in a very loving way, kissing both wife mary, and daughter mary (if i must not call her little), and shaking hands with me; but all in a cheerful sort of manner, so we thought nothing about her kisses and shakes. but on wednesday night comes mrs. bradshaw's son with esther's box, and presently mrs. bradshaw follows with the key; and when we began to talk, we found esther told her she was coming back to live with us, and would pay her week's money for not giving notice; and on tuesday night she carried off a little bundle (her best clothes were on her back, as i said before), and told mrs. bradshaw not to hurry herself about the big box, but bring it when she had time. so of course she thought she should find esther with us; and when she told her story, my missis set up such a screech, and fell down in a dead swoon. mary ran up with water for her mother, and i thought so much about my wife, i did not seem to care at all for esther. but the next day i asked all the neighbours (both our own and bradshaw's), and they'd none of 'em heard or seen nothing of her. i even went to a policeman, a good enough sort of man, but a fellow i'd never spoke to before because of his livery, and i asks him if his 'cuteness could find any thing out for us. so i believe he asks other policemen; and one on 'em had seen a wench, like our esther, walking very quickly, with a bundle under her arm, on tuesday night, toward eight o'clock, and get into a hackney coach, near hulme church, and we don't know th' number, and can't trace it no further. i'm sorry enough for the girl, for bad's come over her, one way or another, but i'm sorrier for my wife. she loved her next to me and mary, and she's never been the same body since poor tom's death. however, let's go back to them; your old woman may have done her good." as they walked homewards with a brisker pace, wilson expressed a wish that they still were the near neighbours they once had been. "still our alice lives in the cellar under no. , in barber street, and if you'd only speak the word she'd be with you in five minutes, to keep your wife company when she's lonesome. though i'm alice's brother, and perhaps ought not to say it, i will say there's none more ready to help with heart or hand than she is. though she may have done a hard day's wash, there's not a child ill within the street but alice goes to offer to sit up, and does sit up too, though may be she's to be at her work by six next morning." "she's a poor woman, and can feel for the poor, wilson," was barton's reply; and then he added, "thank you kindly for your offer, and mayhap i may trouble her to be a bit with my wife, for while i'm at work, and mary's at school, i know she frets above a bit. see, there's mary!" and the father's eye brightened, as in the distance, among a group of girls, he spied his only daughter, a bonny lassie of thirteen or so, who came bounding along to meet and to greet her father, in a manner which showed that the stern-looking man had a tender nature within. the two men had crossed the last stile while mary loitered behind to gather some buds of the coming hawthorn, when an over-grown lad came past her, and snatched a kiss, exclaiming, "for old acquaintance sake, mary." "take that for old acquaintance sake, then," said the girl, blushing rosy red, more with anger than shame, as she slapped his face. the tones of her voice called back her father and his friend, and the aggressor proved to be the eldest son of the latter, the senior by eighteen years of his little brothers. "here, children, instead o' kissing and quarrelling, do ye each take a baby, for if wilson's arms be like mine they are heartily tired." mary sprang forward to take her father's charge, with a girl's fondness for infants, and with some little foresight of the event soon to happen at home; while young wilson seemed to lose his rough, cubbish nature as he crowed and cooed to his little brother. "twins is a great trial to a poor man, bless 'em," said the half-proud, half-weary father, as he bestowed a smacking kiss on the babe ere he parted with it. chapter ii. a manchester tea-party. polly, put the kettle on, and let's have tea! polly, put the kettle on, and we'll all have tea. "here we are, wife; didst thou think thou'd lost us?" quoth hearty-voiced wilson, as the two women rose and shook themselves in preparation for their homeward walk. mrs. barton was evidently soothed, if not cheered, by the unburdening of her fears and thoughts to her friend; and her approving look went far to second her husband's invitation that the whole party should adjourn from green heys fields to tea, at the bartons' house. the only faint opposition was raised by mrs. wilson, on account of the lateness of the hour at which they would probably return, which she feared on her babies' account. "now, hold your tongue, missis, will you," said her husband, good-temperedly. "don't you know them brats never goes to sleep till long past ten? and haven't you a shawl, under which you can tuck one lad's head, as safe as a bird's under its wing? and as for t'other one, i'll put it in my pocket rather than not stay, now we are this far away from ancoats." "or i can lend you another shawl," suggested mrs. barton. "ay, any thing rather than not stay." the matter being decided, the party proceeded home, through many half-finished streets, all so like one another that you might have easily been bewildered and lost your way. not a step, however, did our friends lose; down this entry, cutting off that corner, until they turned out of one of these innumerable streets into a little paved court, having the backs of houses at the end opposite to the opening, and a gutter running through the middle to carry off household slops, washing suds, &c. the women who lived in the court were busy taking in strings of caps, frocks, and various articles of linen, which hung from side to side, dangling so low, that if our friends had been a few minutes sooner, they would have had to stoop very much, or else the half-wet clothes would have flapped in their faces; but although the evening seemed yet early when they were in the open fields--among the pent-up houses, night, with its mists, and its darkness, had already begun to fall. many greetings were given and exchanged between the wilsons and these women, for not long ago they had also dwelt in this court. two rude lads, standing at a disorderly looking house-door, exclaimed, as mary barton (the daughter) passed, "eh, look! polly barton's gotten a sweetheart." of course this referred to young wilson, who stole a look to see how mary took the idea. he saw her assume the air of a young fury, and to his next speech she answered not a word. mrs. barton produced the key of the door from her pocket; and on entering the house-place it seemed as if they were in total darkness, except one bright spot, which might be a cat's eye, or might be, what it was, a red-hot fire, smouldering under a large piece of coal, which john barton immediately applied himself to break up, and the effect instantly produced was warm and glowing light in every corner of the room. to add to this (although the coarse yellow glare seemed lost in the ruddy glow from the fire), mrs. barton lighted a dip by sticking it in the fire, and having placed it satisfactorily in a tin candlestick, began to look further about her, on hospitable thoughts intent. the room was tolerably large, and possessed many conveniences. on the right of the door, as you entered, was a longish window, with a broad ledge. on each side of this, hung blue-and-white check curtains, which were now drawn, to shut in the friends met to enjoy themselves. two geraniums, unpruned and leafy, which stood on the sill, formed a further defence from out-door pryers. in the corner between the window and the fire-side was a cupboard, apparently full of plates and dishes, cups and saucers, and some more nondescript articles, for which one would have fancied their possessors could find no use--such as triangular pieces of glass to save carving knives and forks from dirtying table-cloths. however, it was evident mrs. barton was proud of her crockery and glass, for she left her cupboard door open, with a glance round of satisfaction and pleasure. on the opposite side to the door and window was the staircase, and two doors; one of which (the nearest to the fire) led into a sort of little back kitchen, where dirty work, such as washing up dishes, might be done, and whose shelves served as larder, and pantry, and storeroom, and all. the other door, which was considerably lower, opened into the coal-hole--the slanting closet under the stairs; from which, to the fire-place, there was a gay-coloured piece of oil-cloth laid. the place seemed almost crammed with furniture (sure sign of good times among the mills). beneath the window was a dresser with three deep drawers. opposite the fire-place was a table, which i should call a pembroke, only that it was made of deal, and i cannot tell how far such a name may be applied to such humble material. on it, resting against the wall, was a bright green japanned tea-tray, having a couple of scarlet lovers embracing in the middle. the fire-light danced merrily on this, and really (setting all taste but that of a child's aside) it gave a richness of colouring to that side of the room. it was in some measure propped up by a crimson tea-caddy, also of japan ware. a round table on one branching leg really for use, stood in the corresponding corner to the cupboard; and, if you can picture all this with a washy, but clean stencilled pattern on the walls, you can form some idea of john barton's home. the tray was soon hoisted down, and before the merry chatter of cups and saucers began, the women disburdened themselves of their out-of-door things, and sent mary up stairs with them. then came a long whispering, and chinking of money, to which mr. and mrs. wilson were too polite to attend; knowing, as they did full well, that it all related to the preparations for hospitality; hospitality that, in their turn, they should have such pleasure in offering. so they tried to be busily occupied with the children, and not to hear mrs. barton's directions to mary. "run, mary dear, just round the corner, and get some fresh eggs at tipping's (you may get one a-piece, that will be five-pence), and see if he has any nice ham cut, that he would let us have a pound of." "say two pounds, missis, and don't be stingy," chimed in the husband. "well, a pound and a half, mary. and get it cumberland ham, for wilson comes from there-away, and it will have a sort of relish of home with it he'll like,--and mary" (seeing the lassie fain to be off), "you must get a pennyworth of milk and a loaf of bread--mind you get it fresh and new--and, and--that's all, mary." "no, it's not all," said her husband. "thou must get sixpennyworth of rum, to warm the tea; thou'll get it at the 'grapes.' and thou just go to alice wilson; he says she lives just right round the corner, under , barber street" (this was addressed to his wife), "and tell her to come and take her tea with us; she'll like to see her brother, i'll be bound, let alone jane and the twins." "if she comes she must bring a tea-cup and saucer, for we have but half-a-dozen, and here's six of us," said mrs. barton. "pooh! pooh! jem and mary can drink out of one, surely." but mary secretly determined to take care that alice brought her tea-cup and saucer, if the alternative was to be her sharing any thing with jem. alice wilson had but just come in. she had been out all day in the fields, gathering wild herbs for drinks and medicine, for in addition to her invaluable qualities as a sick nurse and her worldly occupation as a washerwoman, she added a considerable knowledge of hedge and field simples; and on fine days, when no more profitable occupation offered itself, she used to ramble off into the lanes and meadows as far as her legs could carry her. this evening she had returned loaded with nettles, and her first object was to light a candle and see to hang them up in bunches in every available place in her cellar room. it was the perfection of cleanliness: in one corner stood the modest-looking bed, with a check curtain at the head, the whitewashed wall filling up the place where the corresponding one should have been. the floor was bricked, and scrupulously clean, although so damp that it seemed as if the last washing would never dry up. as the cellar window looked into an area in the street, down which boys might throw stones, it was protected by an outside shelter, and was oddly festooned with all manner of hedge-row, ditch, and field plants, which we are accustomed to call valueless, but which have a powerful effect either for good or for evil, and are consequently much used among the poor. the room was strewed, hung, and darkened with these bunches, which emitted no very fragrant odour in their process of drying. in one corner was a sort of broad hanging shelf, made of old planks, where some old hoards of alice's were kept. her little bit of crockery ware was ranged on the mantelpiece, where also stood her candlestick and box of matches. a small cupboard contained at the bottom coals, and at the top her bread and basin of oatmeal, her frying pan, tea-pot, and a small tin saucepan, which served as a kettle, as well as for cooking the delicate little messes of broth which alice sometimes was able to manufacture for a sick neighbour. after her walk she felt chilly and weary, and was busy trying to light her fire with the damp coals, and half green sticks, when mary knocked. "come in," said alice, remembering, however, that she had barred the door for the night, and hastening to make it possible for any one to come in. "is that you, mary barton?" exclaimed she, as the light from her candle streamed on the girl's face. "how you are grown since i used to see you at my brother's! come in, lass, come in." "please," said mary, almost breathless, "mother says you're to come to tea, and bring your cup and saucer, for george and jane wilson is with us, and the twins, and jem. and you're to make haste, please." "i'm sure it's very neighbourly and kind in your mother, and i'll come, with many thanks. stay, mary, has your mother got any nettles for spring drink? if she hasn't i'll take her some." "no, i don't think she has." mary ran off like a hare to fulfil what, to a girl of thirteen, fond of power, was the more interesting part of her errand--the money-spending part. and well and ably did she perform her business, returning home with a little bottle of rum, and the eggs in one hand, while her other was filled with some excellent red-and-white smoke-flavoured cumberland ham, wrapped up in paper. she was at home, and frying ham, before alice had chosen her nettles, put out her candle, locked her door, and walked in a very foot-sore manner as far as john barton's. what an aspect of comfort did his houseplace present, after her humble cellar. she did not think of comparing; but for all that she felt the delicious glow of the fire, the bright light that revelled in every corner of the room, the savoury smells, the comfortable sounds of a boiling kettle, and the hissing, frizzling ham. with a little old-fashioned curtsey she shut the door, and replied with a loving heart to the boisterous and surprised greeting of her brother. and now all preparations being made, the party sat down; mrs. wilson in the post of honour, the rocking chair on the right hand side of the fire, nursing her baby, while its father, in an opposite arm-chair, tried vainly to quieten the other with bread soaked in milk. mrs. barton knew manners too well to do any thing but sit at the tea-table and make tea, though in her heart she longed to be able to superintend the frying of the ham, and cast many an anxious look at mary as she broke the eggs and turned the ham, with a very comfortable portion of confidence in her own culinary powers. jem stood awkwardly leaning against the dresser, replying rather gruffly to his aunt's speeches, which gave him, he thought, the air of being a little boy; whereas he considered himself as a young man, and not so very young neither, as in two months he would be eighteen. barton vibrated between the fire and the tea-table, his only drawback being a fancy that every now and then his wife's face flushed and contracted as if in pain. at length the business actually began. knives and forks, cups and saucers made a noise, but human voices were still, for human beings were hungry, and had no time to speak. alice first broke silence; holding her tea-cup with the manner of one proposing a toast, she said, "here's to absent friends. friends may meet, but mountains never." it was an unlucky toast or sentiment, as she instantly felt. every one thought of esther, the absent esther; and mrs. barton put down her food, and could not hide the fast dropping tears. alice could have bitten her tongue out. it was a wet blanket to the evening; for though all had been said and suggested in the fields that could be said or suggested, every one had a wish to say something in the way of comfort to poor mrs. barton, and a dislike to talk about any thing else while her tears fell fast and scalding. so george wilson, his wife and children, set off early home, not before (in spite of _mal-à-propos_ speeches) they had expressed a wish that such meetings might often take place, and not before john barton had given his hearty consent; and declared that as soon as ever his wife was well again they would have just such another evening. "i will take care not to come and spoil it," thought poor alice; and going up to mrs. barton she took her hand almost humbly, and said, "you don't know how sorry i am i said it." to her surprise, a surprise that brought tears of joy into her eyes, mary barton put her arms round her neck, and kissed the self-reproaching alice. "you didn't mean any harm, and it was me as was so foolish; only this work about esther, and not knowing where she is, lies so heavy on my heart. good night, and never think no more about it. god bless you, alice." many and many a time, as alice reviewed that evening in her after life, did she bless mary barton for these kind and thoughtful words. but just then all she could say was, "good night, mary, and may god bless _you_." chapter iii. john barton's great trouble. but when the morn came dim and sad, and chill with early showers, her quiet eyelids closed--she had another morn than ours! hood. in the middle of that same night a neighbour of the bartons was roused from her sound, well-earned sleep, by a knocking, which had at first made part of her dream; but starting up, as soon as she became convinced of its reality, she opened the window, and asked who was there? "me, john barton," answered he, in a voice tremulous with agitation. "my missis is in labour, and, for the love of god, step in while i run for th' doctor, for she's fearful bad." while the woman hastily dressed herself, leaving the window still open, she heard cries of agony, which resounded in the little court in the stillness of the night. in less than five minutes she was standing by mrs. barton's bed-side, relieving the terrified mary, who went about, where she was told, like an automaton; her eyes tearless, her face calm, though deadly pale, and uttering no sound, except when her teeth chattered for very nervousness. the cries grew worse. the doctor was very long in hearing the repeated rings at his night-bell, and still longer in understanding who it was that made this sudden call upon his services; and then he begged barton just to wait while he dressed himself, in order that no time might be lost in finding the court and house. barton absolutely stamped with impatience, outside the doctor's door, before he came down; and walked so fast homewards, that the medical man several times asked him to go slower. "is she so very bad?" asked he. "worse, much worser than ever i saw her before," replied john. no! she was not--she was at peace. the cries were still for ever. john had no time for listening. he opened the latched door, stayed not to light a candle for the mere ceremony of showing his companion up the stairs, so well known to himself; but, in two minutes was in the room, where lay the dead wife, whom he had loved with all the power of his strong heart. the doctor stumbled up stairs by the fire-light, and met the awe-struck look of the neighbour, which at once told him the state of things. the room was still, as he, with habitual tip-toe step, approached the poor frail body, whom nothing now could more disturb. her daughter knelt by the bed-side, her face buried in the clothes, which were almost crammed into her mouth, to keep down the choking sobs. the husband stood like one stupified. the doctor questioned the neighbour in whispers, and then approaching barton, said, "you must go down stairs. this is a great shock, but bear it like a man. go down." he went mechanically and sat down on the first chair. he had no hope. the look of death was too clear upon her face. still, when he heard one or two unusual noises, the thought burst on him that it might only be a trance, a fit, a--he did not well know what,--but not death! oh, not death! and he was starting up to go up stairs again, when the doctor's heavy cautious creaking footstep was heard on the stairs. then he knew what it really was in the chamber above. "nothing could have saved her--there has been some shock to the system--" and so he went on; but, to unheeding ears, which yet retained his words to ponder on; words not for immediate use in conveying sense, but to be laid by, in the store-house of memory, for a more convenient season. the doctor seeing the state of the case, grieved for the man; and, very sleepy, thought it best to go, and accordingly wished him good-night--but there was no answer, so he let himself out; and barton sat on, like a stock or a stone, so rigid, so still. he heard the sounds above too, and knew what they meant. he heard the stiff, unseasoned drawer, in which his wife kept her clothes, pulled open. he saw the neighbour come down, and blunder about in search of soap and water. he knew well what she wanted, and _why_ she wanted them, but he did not speak, nor offer to help. at last she went, with some kindly-meant words (a text of comfort, which fell upon a deafened ear), and something about "mary," but which mary, in his bewildered state, he could not tell. he tried to realise it, to think it possible. and then his mind wandered off to other days, to far different times. he thought of their courtship; of his first seeing her, an awkward, beautiful rustic, far too shiftless for the delicate factory work to which she was apprenticed; of his first gift to her, a bead necklace, which had long ago been put by, in one of the deep drawers of the dresser, to be kept for mary. he wondered if it was there yet, and with a strange curiosity he got up to feel for it; for the fire by this time was well-nigh out, and candle he had none. his groping hand fell on the piled-up tea things, which at his desire she had left unwashed till morning--they were all so tired. he was reminded of one of the daily little actions, which acquire such power when they have been performed for the last time, by one we love. he began to think over his wife's daily round of duties; and something in the remembrance that these would never more be done by her, touched the source of tears, and he cried aloud. poor mary, meanwhile, had mechanically helped the neighbour in all the last attentions to the dead; and when she was kissed, and spoken to soothingly, tears stole quietly down her cheeks: but she reserved the luxury of a full burst of grief till she should be alone. she shut the chamber-door softly, after the neighbour had gone, and then shook the bed by which she knelt, with her agony of sorrow. she repeated, over and over again, the same words; the same vain, unanswered address to her who was no more. "oh, mother! mother, are you really dead! oh, mother, mother!" at last she stopped, because it flashed across her mind that her violence of grief might disturb her father. all was still below. she looked on the face so changed, and yet so strangely like. she bent down to kiss it. the cold, unyielding flesh struck a shudder to her heart, and, hastily obeying her impulse, she grasped the candle, and opened the door. then she heard the sobs of her father's grief; and quickly, quietly, stealing down the steps, she knelt by him, and kissed his hand. he took no notice at first, for his burst of grief would not be controlled. but when her shriller sobs, her terrified cries (which she could not repress), rose upon his ear, he checked himself. "child, we must be all to one another, now _she_ is gone," whispered he. "oh, father, what can i do for you? do tell me! i'll do any thing." "i know thou wilt. thou must not fret thyself ill, that's the first thing i ask. thou must leave me, and go to bed now, like a good girl as thou art." "leave you, father! oh, don't say so." "ay, but thou must! thou must go to bed, and try and sleep; thou'lt have enough to do and to bear, poor wench, to-morrow." mary got up, kissed her father, and sadly went up stairs to the little closet, where she slept. she thought it was of no use undressing, for that she could never, never sleep, so threw herself on her bed in her clothes, and before ten minutes had passed away, the passionate grief of youth had subsided into sleep. barton had been roused by his daughter's entrance, both from his stupor and from his uncontrollable sorrow. he could think on what was to be done, could plan for the funeral, could calculate the necessity of soon returning to his work, as the extravagance of the past night would leave them short of money, if he long remained away from the mill. he was in a club, so that money was provided for the burial. these things settled in his own mind, he recalled the doctor's words, and bitterly thought of the shock his poor wife had so recently had, in the mysterious disappearance of her cherished sister. his feelings towards esther almost amounted to curses. it was she who had brought on all this sorrow. her giddiness, her lightness of conduct, had wrought this woe. his previous thoughts about her had been tinged with wonder and pity, but now he hardened his heart against her for ever. one of the good influences over john barton's life had departed that night. one of the ties which bound him down to the gentle humanities of earth was loosened, and henceforward the neighbours all remarked he was a changed man. his gloom and his sternness became habitual instead of occasional. he was more obstinate. but never to mary. between the father and the daughter there existed in full force that mysterious bond which unites those who have been loved by one who is now dead and gone. while he was harsh and silent to others, he humoured mary with tender love; she had more of her own way than is common in any rank with girls of her age. part of this was the necessity of the case; for, of course, all the money went through her hands, and the household arrangements were guided by her will and pleasure. but part was her father's indulgence, for he left her, with full trust in her unusual sense and spirit, to choose her own associates, and her own times for seeing them. with all this, mary had not her father's confidence in the matters which now began to occupy him, heart and soul; she was aware that he had joined clubs, and become an active member of a trades' union, but it was hardly likely that a girl of mary's age (even when two or three years had elapsed since her mother's death) should care much for the differences between the employers and the employed,--an eternal subject for agitation in the manufacturing districts, which, however it may be lulled for a time, is sure to break forth again with fresh violence at any depression of trade, showing that in its apparent quiet, the ashes had still smouldered in the breasts of a few. among these few was john barton. at all times it is a bewildering thing to the poor weaver to see his employer removing from house to house, each one grander than the last, till he ends in building one more magnificent than all, or withdraws his money from the concern, or sells his mill to buy an estate in the country, while all the time the weaver, who thinks he and his fellows are the real makers of this wealth, is struggling on for bread for their children, through the vicissitudes of lowered wages, short hours, fewer hands employed, &c. and when he knows trade is bad, and could understand (at least partially) that there are not buyers enough in the market to purchase the goods already made, and consequently that there is no demand for more; when he would bear and endure much without complaining, could he also see that his employers were bearing their share; he is, i say, bewildered and (to use his own word) "aggravated" to see that all goes on just as usual with the mill-owners. large houses are still occupied, while spinners' and weavers' cottages stand empty, because the families that once occupied them are obliged to live in rooms or cellars. carriages still roll along the streets, concerts are still crowded by subscribers, the shops for expensive luxuries still find daily customers, while the workman loiters away his unemployed time in watching these things, and thinking of the pale, uncomplaining wife at home, and the wailing children asking in vain for enough of food, of the sinking health, of the dying life of those near and dear to him. the contrast is too great. why should he alone suffer from bad times? i know that this is not really the case; and i know what is the truth in such matters: but what i wish to impress is what the workman feels and thinks. true, that with child-like improvidence, good times will often dissipate his grumbling, and make him forget all prudence and foresight. but there are earnest men among these people, men who have endured wrongs without complaining, but without ever forgetting or forgiving those whom (they believe) have caused all this woe. among these was john barton. his parents had suffered, his mother had died from absolute want of the necessaries of life. he himself was a good, steady workman, and, as such, pretty certain of steady employment. but he spent all he got with the confidence (you may also call it improvidence) of one who was willing, and believed himself able, to supply all his wants by his own exertions. and when his master suddenly failed, and all hands in that mill were turned back, one tuesday morning, with the news that mr. hunter had stopped, barton had only a few shillings to rely on; but he had good heart of being employed at some other mill, and accordingly, before returning home, he spent some hours in going from factory to factory, asking for work. but at every mill was some sign of depression of trade; some were working short hours, some were turning off hands, and for weeks barton was out of work, living on credit. it was during this time his little son, the apple of his eye, the cynosure of all his strong power of love, fell ill of the scarlet fever. they dragged him through the crisis, but his life hung on a gossamer thread. every thing, the doctor said, depended on good nourishment, on generous living, to keep up the little fellow's strength, in the prostration in which the fever had left him. mocking words! when the commonest food in the house would not furnish one little meal. barton tried credit; but it was worn out at the little provision shops, which were now suffering in their turn. he thought it would be no sin to steal, and would have stolen; but he could not get the opportunity in the few days the child lingered. hungry himself, almost to an animal pitch of ravenousness, but with the bodily pain swallowed up in anxiety for his little sinking lad, he stood at one of the shop windows where all edible luxuries are displayed; haunches of venison, stilton cheeses, moulds of jelly--all appetising sights to the common passer by. and out of this shop came mrs. hunter! she crossed to her carriage, followed by the shopman loaded with purchases for a party. the door was quickly slammed to, and she drove away; and barton returned home with a bitter spirit of wrath in his heart, to see his only boy a corpse! you can fancy, now, the hoards of vengeance in his heart against the employers. for there are never wanting those who, either in speech or in print, find it their interest to cherish such feelings in the working classes; who know how and when to rouse the dangerous power at their command; and who use their knowledge with unrelenting purpose to either party. so while mary took her own way, growing more spirited every day, and growing in her beauty too, her father was chairman at many a trades' union meeting; a friend of delegates, and ambitious of being a delegate himself; a chartist, and ready to do any thing for his order. but now times were good; and all these feelings were theoretical, not practical. his most practical thought was getting mary apprenticed to a dressmaker; for he had never left off disliking a factory life for a girl, on more accounts than one. mary must do something. the factories being, as i said, out of the question, there were two things open--going out to service, and the dressmaking business; and against the first of these, mary set herself with all the force of her strong will. what that will might have been able to achieve had her father been against her, i cannot tell; but he disliked the idea of parting with her, who was the light of his hearth, the voice of his otherwise silent home. besides, with his ideas and feelings towards the higher classes, he considered domestic servitude as a species of slavery; a pampering of artificial wants on the one side, a giving-up of every right of leisure by day and quiet rest by night on the other. how far his strong exaggerated feelings had any foundation in truth, it is for you to judge. i am afraid that mary's determination not to go to service arose from far less sensible thoughts on the subject than her father's. three years of independence of action (since her mother's death such a time had now elapsed) had little inclined her to submit to rules as to hours and associates, to regulate her dress by a mistress's ideas of propriety, to lose the dear feminine privileges of gossiping with a merry neighbour, and working night and day to help one who was sorrowful. besides all this, the sayings of her absent, her mysterious aunt, esther, had an unacknowledged influence over mary. she knew she was very pretty; the factory people as they poured from the mills, and in their freedom told the truth (whatever it might be) to every passer-by, had early let mary into the secret of her beauty. if their remarks had fallen on an unheeding ear, there were always young men enough, in a different rank from her own, who were willing to compliment the pretty weaver's daughter as they met her in the streets. besides, trust a girl of sixteen for knowing well if she is pretty; concerning her plainness she may be ignorant. so with this consciousness she had early determined that her beauty should make her a lady; the rank she coveted the more for her father's abuse; the rank to which she firmly believed her lost aunt esther had arrived. now, while a servant must often drudge and be dirty, must be known as a servant by all who visited at her master's house, a dressmaker's apprentice must (or so mary thought) be always dressed with a certain regard to appearance; must never soil her hands, and need never redden or dirty her face with hard labour. before my telling you so truly what folly mary felt or thought, injures her without redemption in your opinion, think what are the silly fancies of sixteen years of age in every class, and under all circumstances. the end of all the thoughts of father and daughter was, as i said before, mary was to be a dressmaker; and her ambition prompted her unwilling father to apply at all the first establishments, to know on what terms of painstaking and zeal his daughter might be admitted into ever so humble a workwoman's situation. but high premiums were asked at all; poor man! he might have known that without giving up a day's work to ascertain the fact. he would have been indignant, indeed, had he known that if mary had accompanied him, the case might have been rather different, as her beauty would have made her desirable as a show-woman. then he tried second-rate places; at all the payment of a sum of money was necessary, and money he had none. disheartened and angry he went home at night, declaring it was time lost; that dressmaking was at all events a toilsome business, and not worth learning. mary saw that the grapes were sour, and the next day set out herself, as her father could not afford to lose another day's work; and before night (as yesterday's experience had considerably lowered her ideas) she had engaged herself as apprentice (so called, though there were no deeds or indentures to the bond) to a certain miss simmonds, milliner and dressmaker, in a respectable little street leading off ardwick green, where her business was duly announced in gold letters on a black ground, enclosed in a bird's-eye maple frame, and stuck in the front parlour window; where the workwomen were called "her young ladies;" and where mary was to work for two years without any remuneration, on consideration of being taught the business; and where afterwards she was to dine and have tea, with a small quarterly salary (paid quarterly, because so much more genteel than by the week), a _very_ small one, divisible into a minute weekly pittance. in summer she was to be there by six, bringing her day's meals during the first two years; in winter she was not to come till after breakfast. her time for returning home at night must always depend upon the quantity of work miss simmonds had to do. and mary was satisfied; and seeing this, her father was contented too, although his words were grumbling and morose; but mary knew his ways, and coaxed and planned for the future so cheerily, that both went to bed with easy if not happy hearts. chapter iv. old alice's history. to envy nought beneath the ample sky; to mourn no evil deed, no hour mis-spent; and, like a living violet, silently return in sweets to heaven what goodness lent, then bend beneath the chastening shower content. elliott. another year passed on. the waves of time seemed long since to have swept away all trace of poor mary barton. but her husband still thought of her, although with a calm and quiet grief, in the silent watches of the night: and mary would start from her hard-earned sleep, and think in her half-dreamy, half-awakened state, she saw her mother stand by her bed-side, as she used to do "in the days of long-ago;" with a shaded candle and an expression of ineffable tenderness, while she looked on her sleeping child. but mary rubbed her eyes and sank back on her pillow, awake, and knowing it was a dream; and still, in all her troubles and perplexities, her heart called on her mother for aid, and she thought, "if mother had but lived, she would have helped me." forgetting that the woman's sorrows are far more difficult to mitigate than a child's, even by the mighty power of a mother's love; and unconscious of the fact, that she was far superior in sense and spirit to the mother she mourned. aunt esther was still mysteriously absent, and people had grown weary of wondering and began to forget. barton still attended his club, and was an active member of a trades' union; indeed, more frequently than ever, since the time of mary's return in the evening was so uncertain; and, as she occasionally, in very busy times, remained all night. his chiefest friend was still george wilson, although he had no great sympathy on the questions that agitated barton's mind. still their hearts were bound by old ties to one another, and the remembrance of former times gave an unspoken charm to their meetings. our old friend, the cub-like lad, jem wilson, had shot up into the powerful, well-made young man, with a sensible face enough; nay, a face that might have been handsome, had it not been here and there marked by the small-pox. he worked with one of the great firms of engineers, who send from out their towns of workshops engines and machinery to the dominions of the czar and the sultan. his father and mother were never weary of praising jem, at all which commendation pretty mary barton would toss her head, seeing clearly enough that they wished her to understand what a good husband he would make, and to favour his love, about which he never dared to speak, whatever eyes and looks revealed. one day, in the early winter time, when people were provided with warm substantial gowns, not likely soon to wear out, and when, accordingly, business was rather slack at miss simmonds', mary met alice wilson, coming home from her half-day's work at some tradesman's house. mary and alice had always liked each other; indeed, alice looked with particular interest on the motherless girl, the daughter of her whose forgiving kiss had so comforted her in many sleepless hours. so there was a warm greeting between the tidy old woman and the blooming young work-girl; and then alice ventured to ask if she would come in and take her tea with her that very evening. "you'll think it dull enough to come just to sit with an old woman like me, but there's a tidy young lass as lives in the floor above, who does plain work, and now and then a bit in your own line, mary; she's grand-daughter to old job legh, a spinner, and a good girl she is. do come, mary! i've a terrible wish to make you known to each other. she's a genteel-looking lass, too." at the beginning of this speech mary had feared the intended visitor was to be no other than alice's nephew; but alice was too delicate-minded to plan a meeting, even for her dear jem, when one would have been an unwilling party; and mary, relieved from her apprehension by the conclusion, gladly agreed to come. how busy alice felt! it was not often she had any one to tea; and now her sense of the duties of a hostess were almost too much for her. she made haste home, and lighted the unwilling fire, borrowing a pair of bellows to make it burn the faster. for herself she was always patient; she let the coals take their time. then she put on her pattens, and went to fill her kettle at the pump in the next court, and on the way she borrowed a cup; of odd saucers she had plenty, serving as plates when occasion required. half an ounce of tea and a quarter of a pound of butter went far to absorb her morning's wages; but this was an unusual occasion. in general, she used herb-tea for herself, when at home, unless some thoughtful mistress made her a present of tea-leaves from her more abundant household. the two chairs drawn out for visitors, and duly swept and dusted; an old board arranged with some skill upon two old candle-boxes set on end (rather ricketty to be sure, but she knew the seat of old, and when to sit lightly; indeed the whole affair was more for apparent dignity of position than for any real ease); a little, very little round table put just before the fire, which by this time was blazing merrily; her unlackered, ancient, third-hand tea-tray arranged with a black tea-pot, two cups with a red and white pattern, and one with the old friendly willow pattern, and saucers, not to match (on one of the extra supply, the lump of butter flourished away); all these preparations complete, alice began to look about her with satisfaction, and a sort of wonder what more could be done to add to the comfort of the evening. she took one of the chairs away from its appropriate place by the table, and putting it close to the broad large hanging shelf i told you about when i first described her cellar-dwelling, and mounting on it, she pulled towards her an old deal box, and took thence a quantity of the oat bread of the north, the clap-bread of cumberland and westmoreland, and descending carefully with the thin cakes threatening to break to pieces in her hand, she placed them on the bare table, with the belief that her visitors would have an unusual treat in eating the bread of her childhood. she brought out a good piece of a four-pound loaf of common household bread as well, and then sat down to rest, really to rest, and not to pretend, on one of the rush-bottomed chairs. the candle was ready to be lighted, the kettle boiled, the tea was awaiting its doom in its paper parcel; all was ready. a knock at the door! it was margaret, the young workwoman who lived in the rooms above, who having heard the bustle, and the subsequent quiet, began to think it was time to pay her visit below. she was a sallow, unhealthy, sweet-looking young woman, with a careworn look; her dress was humble and very simple, consisting of some kind of dark stuff gown, her neck being covered by a drab shawl or large handkerchief, pinned down behind and at the sides in front. the old woman gave her a hearty greeting, and made her sit down on the chair she had just left, while she balanced herself on the board seat, in order that margaret might think it was quite her free and independent choice to sit there. "i cannot think what keeps mary barton. she's quite grand with her late hours," said alice, as mary still delayed. the truth was, mary was dressing herself; yes, to come to poor old alice's--she thought it worth while to consider what gown she should put on. it was not for alice, however, you may be pretty sure; no, they knew each other too well. but mary liked making an impression, and in this it must be owned she was pretty often gratified--and there was this strange girl to consider just now. so she put on her pretty new blue merino, made tight to her throat, her little linen collar and linen cuffs, and sallied forth to impress poor gentle margaret. she certainly succeeded. alice, who never thought much about beauty, had never told margaret how pretty mary was; and, as she came in half-blushing at her own self-consciousness, margaret could hardly take her eyes off her, and mary put down her long black lashes with a sort of dislike of the very observation she had taken such pains to secure. can you fancy the bustle of alice to make the tea, to pour it out, and sweeten it to their liking, to help and help again to clap-bread and bread-and-butter? can you fancy the delight with which she watched her piled-up clap-bread disappear before the hungry girls, and listened to the praises of her home-remembered dainty? "my mother used to send me some clap-bread by any north-country person--bless her! she knew how good such things taste when far away from home. not but what every one likes it. when i was in service my fellow-servants were always glad to share with me. eh, it's a long time ago, yon." "do tell us about it, alice," said margaret. "why, lass, there's nothing to tell. there was more mouths at home than could be fed. tom, that's will's father (you don't know will, but he's a sailor to foreign parts), had come to manchester, and sent word what terrible lots of work was to be had, both for lads and lasses. so father sent george first (you know george, well enough, mary), and then work was scarce out toward burton, where we lived, and father said i maun try and get a place. and george wrote as how wages were far higher in manchester than milnthorpe or lancaster; and, lasses, i was young and thoughtless, and thought it was a fine thing to go so far from home. so, one day, th' butcher he brings us a letter fra george, to say he'd heard on a place--and i was all agog to go, and father was pleased, like; but mother said little, and that little was very quiet. i've often thought she was a bit hurt to see me so ready to go--god forgive me! but she packed up my clothes, and some o' the better end of her own as would fit me, in yon little paper box up there--it's good for nought now, but i would liefer live without fire than break it up to be burnt; and yet it's going on for eighty years old, for she had it when she was a girl, and brought all her clothes in it to father's, when they were married. but, as i was saying, she did not cry, though the tears was often in her eyes; and i seen her looking after me down the lane as long as i were in sight, with her hand shading her eyes--and that were the last look i ever had on her." alice knew that before long she should go to that mother; and, besides, the griefs and bitter woes of youth have worn themselves out before we grow old; but she looked so sorrowful that the girls caught her sadness, and mourned for the poor woman who had been dead and gone so many years ago. "did you never see her again, alice? did you never go home while she was alive?" asked mary. "no, nor since. many a time and oft have i planned to go. i plan it yet, and hope to go home again before it please god to take me. i used to try and save money enough to go for a week when i was in service; but first one thing came, and then another. first, missis's children fell ill of the measles, just when th' week i'd ask'd for came, and i couldn't leave them, for one and all cried for me to nurse them. then missis herself fell sick, and i could go less than ever. for, you see, they kept a little shop, and he drank, and missis and me was all there was to mind children, and shop, and all, and cook and wash besides." mary was glad she had not gone into service, and said so. "eh, lass! thou little knows the pleasure o' helping others; i was as happy there as could be; almost as happy as i was at home. well, but next year i thought i could go at a leisure time, and missis telled me i should have a fortnight then, and i used to sit up all that winter working hard at patchwork, to have a quilt of my own making to take to my mother. but master died, and missis went away fra manchester, and i'd to look out for a place again." "well, but," interrupted mary, "i should have thought that was the best time to go home." "no, i thought not. you see it was a different thing going home for a week on a visit, may be with money in my pocket to give father a lift, to going home to be a burden to him. besides, how could i hear o' a place there? anyways i thought it best to stay, though perhaps it might have been better to ha' gone, for then i should ha' seen mother again;" and the poor old woman looked puzzled. "i'm sure you did what you thought right," said margaret, gently. "ay, lass, that's it," said alice, raising her head and speaking more cheerfully. "that's the thing, and then let the lord send what he sees fit; not but that i grieved sore, oh, sore and sad, when toward spring next year, when my quilt were all done to th' lining, george came in one evening to tell me mother was dead. i cried many a night at after; [ ] i'd no time for crying by day, for that missis was terrible strict; she would not hearken to my going to th' funeral; and indeed i would have been too late, for george set off that very night by th' coach, and th' letter had been kept or summut (posts were not like th' posts now-a-days), and he found the burial all over, and father talking o' flitting; for he couldn't abide the cottage after mother was gone." [footnote : a common lancashire phrase. "come to me, tyrrel, soon, _at after_ supper." shakspeare, richard iii.] "was it a pretty place?" asked mary. "pretty, lass! i never seed such a bonny bit anywhere. you see there are hills there as seem to go up into th' skies, not near may be, but that makes them all the bonnier. i used to think they were the golden hills of heaven, about which my mother sang when i was a child, 'yon are the golden hills o' heaven, where ye sall never win.' something about a ship and a lover that should hae been na lover, the ballad was. well, and near our cottage were rocks. eh, lasses! ye don't know what rocks are in manchester! gray pieces o' stone as large as a house, all covered over wi' moss of different colours, some yellow, some brown; and the ground beneath them knee-deep in purple heather, smelling sae sweet and fragrant, and the low music of the humming-bee for ever sounding among it. mother used to send sally and me out to gather ling and heather for besoms, and it was such pleasant work! we used to come home of an evening loaded so as you could not see us, for all that it was so light to carry. and then mother would make us sit down under the old hawthorn tree (where we used to make our house among the great roots as stood above th' ground), to pick and tie up the heather. it seems all like yesterday, and yet it's a long long time agone. poor sister sally has been in her grave this forty year and more. but i often wonder if the hawthorn is standing yet, and if the lasses still go to gather heather, as we did many and many a year past and gone. i sicken at heart to see the old spot once again. may be next summer i may set off, if god spares me to see next summer." "why have you never been in all these many years?" asked mary. "why, lass! first one wanted me and then another; and i couldn't go without money either, and i got very poor at times. tom was a scapegrace, poor fellow, and always wanted help of one kind or another; and his wife (for i think scapegraces are always married long before steady folk) was but a helpless kind of body. she were always ailing, and he were always in trouble; so i had enough to do with my hands and my money too, for that matter. they died within twelvemonth of each other, leaving one lad (they had had seven, but the lord had taken six to himself), will, as i was telling you on; and i took him myself, and left service to make a bit on a home-place for him, and a fine lad he was, the very spit of his father as to looks, only steadier. for he was steady, although nought would serve him but going to sea. i tried all i could to set him again a sailor's life. says i, 'folks is as sick as dogs all the time they're at sea. your own mother telled me (for she came from foreign parts, being a manx woman) that she'd ha thanked any one for throwing her into the water.' nay, i sent him a' the way to runcorn by th' duke's canal, that he might know what th' sea were; and i looked to see him come back as white as a sheet wi' vomiting. but the lad went on to liverpool and saw real ships, and came back more set than ever on being a sailor, and he said as how he had never been sick at all, and thought he could stand the sea pretty well. so i telled him he mun do as he liked; and he thanked me and kissed me, for all i was very frabbit [ ] with him; and now he's gone to south america, at t'other side of the sun, they tell me." [footnote : "frabbit," peevish.] mary stole a glance at margaret to see what she thought of alice's geography; but margaret looked so quiet and demure, that mary was in doubt if she were not really ignorant. not that mary's knowledge was very profound, but she had seen a terrestrial globe, and knew where to find france and the continents on a map. after this long talking alice seemed lost for a time in reverie; and the girls, respecting her thoughts, which they suspected had wandered to the home and scenes of her childhood, were silent. all at once she recalled her duties as hostess, and by an effort brought back her mind to the present time. "margaret, thou must let mary hear thee sing. i don't know about fine music myself, but folks say margaret is a rare singer, and i know she can make me cry at any time by singing 'th' owdham weaver.' do sing that, margaret, there's a good lass." with a faint smile, as if amused at alice's choice of a song, margaret began. do you know "the oldham weaver?" not unless you are lancashire born and bred, for it is a complete lancashire ditty. i will copy it for you. the oldham weaver. i. oi'm a poor cotton-weyver, as mony a one knoowas, oi've nowt for t' yeat, an' oi've woorn eawt my clooas, yo'ad hardly gi' tuppence for aw as oi've on, my clogs are boath brosten, an' stuckins oi've none, yo'd think it wur hard, to be browt into th' warld, to be--clemmed, [ ] an' do th' best as yo con. ii. owd dicky o' billy's kept telling me lung, wee s'd ha' better toimes if i'd but howd my tung, oi've howden my tung, till oi've near stopped my breath, oi think i' my heeart oi'se soon clem to deeath, owd dicky's weel crammed, he never wur clemmed, an' he ne'er picked ower i' his loife. [ ] iii. we tow'rt on six week--thinking aitch day wur th' last, we shifted, an' shifted, till neaw we're quoite fast; we lived upo' nettles, whoile nettles wur good, an' waterloo porridge the best o' eawr food, oi'm tellin' yo' true, oi can find folk enow, as wur livin' na better nor me. iv. owd billy o' dans sent th' baileys one day, fur a shop deebt oi eawd him, as oi could na pay, but he wur too lat, fur owd billy o' th' bent, had sowd th' tit an' cart, an' ta'en goods fur th' rent, we'd neawt left bo' th' owd stoo', that wur seeats fur two, an' on it ceawred marget an' me. v. then t' baileys leuked reawnd as sloy as a meawse, when they seed as aw t' goods were ta'en eawt o' t' heawse, says one chap to th' tother, "aws gone, theaw may see;" says oi, "ne'er freet, mon, yeaur welcome ta' me." they made no moor ado but whopped up th' eawd stoo', an' we booath leet, whack--upo' t' flags! vi. then oi said to eawr marget, as we lay upo' t' floor, "we's never be lower i' this warld, oi'm sure, if ever things awtern, oi'm sure they mun mend, for oi think i' my heart we're booath at t' far eend; for meeat we ha' none; nor looms t' weyve on,-- edad! they're as good lost as fund." vii. eawr marget declares had hoo cloo'as to put on, hoo'd goo up to lunnon an' talk to th' greet mon; an' if things were na awtered when there hoo had been, hoo's fully resolved t' sew up meawth an' eend; hoo's neawt to say again t' king, but hoo loikes a fair thing, an' hoo says hoo can tell when hoo's hurt. [footnote : "clem," to starve with hunger. "hard is the choice, when the valiant must eat their arms or _clem_."--_ben jonson._] [footnote : to "pick ower," means to throw the shuttle in hand-loom weaving.] the air to which this is sung is a kind of droning recitative, depending much on expression and feeling. to read it, it may, perhaps, seem humorous; but it is that humour which is near akin to pathos, and to those who have seen the distress it describes, it is a powerfully pathetic song. margaret had both witnessed the destitution, and had the heart to feel it; and withal, her voice was of that rich and rare order, which does not require any great compass of notes to make itself appreciated. alice had her quiet enjoyment of tears. but margaret, with fixed eye, and earnest, dreamy look, seemed to become more and more absorbed in realising to herself the woe she had been describing, and which she felt might at that very moment be suffering and hopeless within a short distance of their comparative comfort. suddenly she burst forth with all the power of her magnificent voice, as if a prayer from her very heart for all who were in distress, in the grand supplication, "lord, remember david." mary held her breath, unwilling to lose a note, it was so clear, so perfect, so imploring. a far more correct musician than mary might have paused with equal admiration of the really scientific knowledge, with which the poor depressed-looking young needle-woman used her superb and flexile voice. deborah travers herself (once an oldham factory girl, and afterwards the darling of fashionable crowds as mrs. knyvett) might have owned a sister in her art. she stopped; and with tears of holy sympathy in her eyes, alice thanked the songstress, who resumed her calm, demure manner, much to mary's wonder, for she looked at her unweariedly, as if surprised that the hidden power should not be perceived in the outward appearance. when alice's little speech of thanks was over, there was quiet enough to hear a fine, though rather quavering, male voice, going over again one or two strains of margaret's song. "that's grandfather!" exclaimed she. "i must be going, for he said he should not be at home till past nine." "well, i'll not say nay, for i've to be up by four for a very heavy wash at mrs. simpson's; but i shall be terrible glad to see you again at any time, lasses; and i hope you'll take to one another." as the girls ran up the cellar steps together, margaret said: "just step in and see grandfather. i should like him to see you." and mary consented. chapter v. the mill on fire--jem wilson to the rescue. learned he was; nor bird, nor insect flew, but he its leafy home and history knew; nor wild-flower decked the rock, nor moss the well, but he its name and qualities could tell. elliott. there is a class of men in manchester, unknown even to many of the inhabitants, and whose existence will probably be doubted by many, who yet may claim kindred with all the noble names that science recognises. i said "in manchester," but they are scattered all over the manufacturing districts of lancashire. in the neighbourhood of oldham there are weavers, common hand-loom weavers, who throw the shuttle with unceasing sound, though newton's "principia" lie open on the loom, to be snatched at in work hours, but revelled over in meal times, or at night. mathematical problems are received with interest, and studied with absorbing attention by many a broad-spoken, common-looking, factory-hand. it is perhaps less astonishing that the more popularly interesting branches of natural history have their warm and devoted followers among this class. there are botanists among them, equally familiar with either the linnæan or the natural system, who know the name and habitat of every plant within a day's walk from their dwellings; who steal the holiday of a day or two when any particular plant should be in flower, and tying up their simple food in their pocket-handkerchiefs, set off with single purpose to fetch home the humble-looking weed. there are entomologists, who may be seen with a rude-looking net, ready to catch any winged insect, or a kind of dredge, with which they rake the green and slimy pools; practical, shrewd, hard-working men, who pore over every new specimen with real scientific delight. nor is it the common and more obvious divisions of entomology and botany that alone attract these earnest seekers after knowledge. perhaps it may be owing to the great annual town-holiday of whitsun-week so often falling in may or june that the two great, beautiful families of ephemeridæ and phryganidæ have been so much and so closely studied by manchester workmen, while they have in a great measure escaped general observation. if you will refer to the preface to sir j. e. smith's life (i have it not by me, or i would copy you the exact passage), you will find that he names a little circumstance corroborative of what i have said. sir j. e. smith, being on a visit to roscoe, of liverpool, made some inquiries from him as to the habitat of a very rare plant, said to be found in certain places in lancashire. mr. roscoe knew nothing of the plant; but stated, that if any one could give him the desired information, it would be a hand-loom weaver in manchester, whom he named. sir j. e. smith proceeded by coach to manchester, and on arriving at that town, he inquired of the porter who was carrying his luggage if he could direct him to so and so. "oh, yes," replied the man. "he does a bit in my way;" and, on further investigation, it turned out, that both the porter, and his friend the weaver, were skilful botanists, and able to give sir j. e. smith the very information which he wanted. such are the tastes and pursuits of some of the thoughtful, little understood, working men of manchester. and margaret's grandfather was one of these. he was a little wiry-looking old man, who moved with a jerking motion, as if his limbs were worked by a string like a child's toy, with dun coloured hair lying thin and soft at the back and sides of his head; his forehead was so large it seemed to overbalance the rest of his face, which had indeed lost its natural contour by the absence of all the teeth. the eyes absolutely gleamed with intelligence; so keen, so observant, you felt as if they were almost wizard-like. indeed, the whole room looked not unlike a wizard's dwelling. instead of pictures were hung rude wooden frames of impaled insects; the little table was covered with cabalistic books; and a case of mysterious instruments lay beside, one of which job legh was using when his grand-daughter entered. on her appearance he pushed his spectacles up so as to rest midway on his forehead, and gave mary a short, kind welcome. but margaret he caressed as a mother caresses her first-born; stroking her with tenderness, and almost altering his voice as he spoke to her. mary looked round on the odd, strange things she had never seen at home, and which seemed to her to have a very uncanny look. "is your grandfather a fortune-teller?" whispered she to her new friend. "no," replied margaret, in the same voice; "but you're not the first as has taken him for such. he is only fond of such things as most folks know nothing about." "and do you know aught about them, too?" "i know a bit about some of the things grandfather is fond on; just because he's fond on 'em i tried to learn about them." "what things are these?" said mary, struck with the weird looking creatures that sprawled around the room in their roughly-made glass cases. but she was not prepared for the technical names which job legh pattered down on her ear, on which they fell like hail on a skylight; and the strange language only bewildered her more than ever. margaret saw the state of the case, and came to the rescue. "look, mary, at this horrid scorpion. he gave me such a fright: i'm all of a twitter yet when i think of it. grandfather went to liverpool one whitsun-week to go strolling about the docks and pick up what he could from the sailors, who often bring some queer thing or another from the hot countries they go to; and so he sees a chap with a bottle in his hand, like a druggist's physic-bottle; and says grandfather, 'what have ye gotten there?' so the sailor holds it up, and grandfather knew it was a rare kind o' scorpion, not common even in the east indies where the man came from; and says he, 'how did ye catch this fine fellow, for he wouldn't be taken for nothing i'm thinking?' and the man said as how when they were unloading the ship he'd found him lying behind a bag of rice, and he thought the cold had killed him, for he was not squashed nor injured a bit. he did not like to part with any of the spirit out of his grog to put the scorpion in, but slipped him into the bottle, knowing there were folks enow who would give him something for him. so grandfather gives him a shilling." "two shilling," interrupted job legh, "and a good bargain it was." "well! grandfather came home as proud as punch, and pulled the bottle out of his pocket. but you see th' scorpion were doubled up, and grandfather thought i couldn't fairly see how big he was. so he shakes him out right before the fire; and a good warm one it was, for i was ironing, i remember. i left off ironing, and stooped down over him, to look at him better, and grandfather got a book, and began to read how this very kind were the most poisonous and vicious species, how their bite were often fatal, and then went on to read how people who were bitten got swelled, and screamed with pain. i was listening hard, but as it fell out, i never took my eyes off the creature, though i could not ha' told i was watching it. suddenly it seemed to give a jerk, and before i could speak, it gave another, and in a minute it was as wild as could be, running at me just like a mad dog." "what did you do?" asked mary. "me! why, i jumped first on a chair, and then on all the things i'd been ironing on the dresser, and i screamed for grandfather to come up by me, but he did not hearken to me." "why, if i'd come up by thee, who'd ha' caught the creature, i should like to know?" "well, i begged grandfather to crush it, and i had the iron right over it once, ready to drop, but grandfather begged me not to hurt it in that way. so i couldn't think what he'd have, for he hopped round the room as if he were sore afraid, for all he begged me not to injure it. at last he goes to th' kettle, and lifts up the lid, and peeps in. what on earth is he doing that for, thinks i; he'll never drink his tea with a scorpion running free and easy about the room. then he takes the tongs, and he settles his spectacles on his nose, and in a minute he had lifted the creature up by th' leg, and dropped him into the boiling water." "and did that kill him?" said mary. "ay, sure enough; he boiled for longer time than grandfather liked though. but i was so afeard of his coming round again. i ran to the public-house for some gin, and grandfather filled the bottle, and then we poured off the water, and picked him out of the kettle, and dropped him into the bottle, and he were there above a twelvemonth." "what brought him to life at first?" asked mary. "why, you see, he were never really dead, only torpid--that is, dead asleep with the cold, and our good fire brought him round." "i'm glad father does not care for such things," said mary. "are you! well, i'm often downright glad grandfather is so fond of his books, and his creatures, and his plants. it does my heart good to see him so happy, sorting them all at home, and so ready to go in search of more, whenever he's a spare day. look at him now! he's gone back to his books, and he'll be as happy as a king, working away till i make him go to bed. it keeps him silent, to be sure; but so long as i see him earnest, and pleased, and eager, what does that matter? then, when he has his talking bouts, you can't think how much he has to say. dear grandfather! you don't know how happy we are!" mary wondered if the dear grandfather heard all this, for margaret did not speak in an under tone; but no! he was far too deep and eager in solving a problem. he did not even notice mary's leave-taking, and she went home with the feeling that she had that night made the acquaintance of two of the strangest people she ever saw in her life. margaret, so quiet, so common place, until her singing powers were called forth; so silent from home, so cheerful and agreeable at home; and her grandfather so very different to any one mary had ever seen. margaret had said he was not a fortune-teller, but she did not know whether to believe her. to resolve her doubts, she told the history of the evening to her father, who was interested by her account, and curious to see and judge for himself. opportunities are not often wanting where inclination goes before, and ere the end of that winter mary looked upon margaret almost as an old friend. the latter would bring her work when mary was likely to be at home in the evenings and sit with her; and job legh would put a book and his pipe in his pocket and just step round the corner to fetch his grand-child, ready for a talk if he found barton in; ready to pull out pipe and book if the girls wanted him to wait, and john was still at his club. in short, ready to do whatever would give pleasure to his darling margaret. i do not know what points of resemblance (or dissimilitude, for the one joins people as often as the other) attracted the two girls to each other. margaret had the great charm of possessing good strong common sense, and do you not perceive how involuntarily this is valued? it is so pleasant to have a friend who possesses the power of setting a difficult question in a clear light; whose judgment can tell what is best to be done; and who is so convinced of what is "wisest, best," that in consideration of the end, all difficulties in the way diminish. people admire talent, and talk about their admiration. but they value common sense without talking about it, and often without knowing it. so mary and margaret grew in love one toward the other; and mary told many of her feelings in a way she had never done before to any one. most of her foibles also were made known to margaret, but not all. there was one cherished weakness still concealed from every one. it concerned a lover, not beloved, but favoured by fancy. a gallant, handsome young man; but--not beloved. yet mary hoped to meet him every day in her walks, blushed when she heard his name, and tried to think of him as her future husband, and above all, tried to think of herself as his future wife. alas! poor mary! bitter woe did thy weakness work thee. she had other lovers. one or two would gladly have kept her company, but she held herself too high, they said. jem wilson said nothing, but loved on and on, ever more fondly; he hoped against hope; he would not give up, for it seemed like giving up life to give up thought of mary. he did not dare to look to any end of all this; the present, so that he saw her, touched the hem of her garment, was enough. surely, in time, such deep love would beget love. he would not relinquish hope, and yet her coldness of manner was enough to daunt any man; and it made jem more despairing than he would acknowledge for a long time even to himself. but one evening he came round by barton's house, a willing messenger for his father, and opening the door saw margaret sitting asleep before the fire. she had come in to speak to mary; and worn out by a long working, watching night, she fell asleep in the genial warmth. an old-fashioned saying about a pair of gloves came into jem's mind, and stepping gently up he kissed margaret with a friendly kiss. she awoke, and perfectly understanding the thing, she said, "for shame of yourself, jem! what would mary say?" lightly said, lightly answered. "she'd nobbut say, practice makes perfect." and they both laughed. but the words margaret had said rankled in jem's mind. would mary care? would she care in the very least? they seemed to call for an answer by night, and by day; and jem felt that his heart told him mary was quite indifferent to any action of his. still he loved on, and on, ever more fondly. mary's father was well aware of the nature of jem wilson's feelings for his daughter, but he took no notice of them to any one, thinking mary full young yet for the cares of married life, and unwilling, too, to entertain the idea of parting with her at any time, however distant. but he welcomed jem at his house, as he would have done his father's son, whatever were his motives for coming; and now and then admitted the thought, that mary might do worse when her time came, than marry jem wilson, a steady workman at a good trade, a good son to his parents, and a fine manly spirited chap--at least when mary was not by: for when she was present he watched her too closely, and too anxiously, to have much of what john barton called "spunk" in him. it was towards the end of february, in that year, and a bitter black frost had lasted for many weeks. the keen east wind had long since swept the streets clean, though on a gusty day the dust would rise like pounded ice, and make people's faces quite smart with the cold force with which it blew against them. houses, sky, people, and every thing looked as if a gigantic brush had washed them all over with a dark shade of indian ink. there was some reason for this grimy appearance on human beings, whatever there might be for the dun looks of the landscape; for soft water had become an article not even to be purchased; and the poor washerwomen might be seen vainly trying to procure a little by breaking the thick gray ice that coated the ditches and ponds in the neighbourhood. people prophesied a long continuance to this already lengthened frost; said the spring would be very late; no spring fashions required; no summer clothing purchased for a short uncertain summer. indeed there was no end to the evil prophesied during the continuance of that bleak east wind. mary hurried home one evening, just as daylight was fading, from miss simmonds', with her shawl held up to her mouth, and her head bent as if in deprecation of the meeting wind. so she did not perceive margaret till, she was close upon her at the very turning into the court. "bless me, margaret! is that you? where are you bound to?" "to nowhere but your own house (that is, if you'll take me in). i've a job of work to finish to-night; mourning, as must be in time for the funeral to-morrow; and grandfather has been out moss-hunting, and will not be home till late." "oh, how charming it will be. i'll help you if you're backward. have you much to do?" "yes, i only got the order yesterday at noon; and there's three girls beside the mother; and what with trying on and matching the stuff (for there was not enough in the piece they chose first), i'm above a bit behindhand. i've the skirts all to make. i kept that work till candlelight; and the sleeves, to say nothing of little bits to the bodies; for the missis is very particular, and i could scarce keep from smiling while they were crying so, really taking on sadly i'm sure, to hear first one and then t'other clear up to notice the sit of her gown. they weren't to be misfits i promise you, though they were in such trouble." "well, margaret, you're right welcome as you know, and i'll sit down and help you with pleasure, though i was tired enough of sewing to-night at miss simmonds'." by this time mary had broken up the raking coal, and lighted her candle; and margaret settled herself to her work on one side of the table, while her friend hurried over her tea at the other. the things were then lifted _en masse_ to the dresser; and dusting her side of the table with the apron she always wore at home, mary took up some breadths and began to run them together. "who's it all for, for if you told me i've forgotten?" "why for mrs. ogden as keeps the greengrocer's shop in oxford road. her husband drank himself to death, and though she cried over him and his ways all the time he was alive, she's fretted sadly for him now he's dead." "has he left her much to go upon?" asked mary, examining the texture of the dress. "this is beautifully fine soft bombazine." "no, i'm much afeared there's but little, and there's several young children, besides the three miss ogdens." "i should have thought girls like them would ha' made their own gowns," observed mary. "so i dare say they do, many a one, but now they seem all so busy getting ready for the funeral; for it's to be quite a grand affair, well-nigh twenty people to breakfast, as one of the little ones told me; the little thing seemed to like the fuss, and i do believe it comforted poor mrs. ogden to make all the piece o' work. such a smell of ham boiling and fowls roasting while i waited in the kitchen; it seemed more like a wedding nor [ ] a funeral. they said she'd spend a matter o' sixty pound on th' burial." [footnote : "nor," generally used in lancashire for "than." "they had lever sleep _nor_ be in laundery."--_dunbar_.] "i thought you said she was but badly off," said mary. "ay, i know she's asked for credit at several places, saying her husband laid hands on every farthing he could get for drink. but th' undertakers urge her on you see, and tell her this thing's usual, and that thing's only a common mark of respect, and that every body has t'other thing, till the poor woman has no will o' her own. i dare say, too, her heart strikes her (it always does when a person's gone) for many a word and many a slighting deed to him, who's stiff and cold; and she thinks to make up matters, as it were, by a grand funeral, though she and all her children, too, may have to pinch many a year to pay the expenses, if ever they pay them at all." "this mourning, too, will cost a pretty penny," said mary. "i often wonder why folks wear mourning; it's not pretty or becoming; and it costs a deal of money just when people can spare it least; and if what the bible tells us be true, we ought not to be sorry when a friend, who's been good, goes to his rest; and as for a bad man, one's glad enough to get shut [ ] on him. i cannot see what good comes out o' wearing mourning." [footnote : "shut," quit.] "i'll tell you what i think th' fancy was sent for (old alice calls every thing 'sent for,' and i believe she's right). it does do good, though not as much as it costs, that i do believe, in setting people (as is cast down by sorrow and feels themselves unable to settle to any thing but crying) something to do. why now i told you how they were grieving; for, perhaps, he was a kind husband and father, in his thoughtless way, when he wasn't in liquor. but they cheered up wonderful while i was there, and i asked 'em for more directions than usual, that they might have something to talk over and fix about; and i left 'em my fashion-book (though it were two months old) just a purpose." "i don't think every one would grieve a that way. old alice wouldn't." "old alice is one in a thousand. i doubt, too, if she would fret much, however sorry she might be. she would say it were sent, and fall to trying to find out what good it were to do. every sorrow in her mind is sent for good. did i ever tell you, mary, what she said one day when she found me taking on about something?" "no; do tell me. what were you fretting about, first place?" "i can't tell you just now; perhaps i may sometime." "when?" "perhaps this very evening, if it rises in my heart; perhaps never. it's a fear that sometimes i can't abide to think about, and sometimes i don't like to think on any thing else. well, i was fretting about this fear, and alice comes in for something, and finds me crying. i would not tell her no more than i would you, mary; so she says, 'well, dear, you must mind this, when you're going to fret and be low about any thing, "an anxious mind is never a holy mind."' oh, mary, i have so often checked my grumbling sin' [ ] she said that." [footnote : "sin'," since. "_sin_ that his lord was twenty yere of age." _prologue to canterbury tales._] the weary sound of stitching was the only sound heard for a little while, till mary inquired, "do you expect to get paid for this mourning?" "why i do not much think i shall. i've thought it over once or twice, and i mean to bring myself to think i shan't, and to like to do it as my bit towards comforting them. i don't think they can pay, and yet they're just the sort of folk to have their minds easier for wearing mourning. there's only one thing i dislike making black for, it does so hurt the eyes." margaret put down her work with a sigh, and shaded her eyes. then she assumed a cheerful tone, and said, "you'll not have to wait long, mary, for my secret's on the tip of my tongue. mary! do you know i sometimes think i'm growing a little blind, and then what would become of grandfather and me? oh, god help me, lord help me!" she fell into an agony of tears, while mary knelt by her, striving to soothe and to comfort her; but, like an inexperienced person, striving rather to deny the correctness of margaret's fear, than helping her to meet and overcome the evil. "no," said margaret, quietly fixing her tearful eyes on mary; "i know i'm not mistaken. i have felt one going some time, long before i ever thought what it would lead to; and last autumn i went to a doctor; and he did not mince the matter, but said unless i sat in a darkened room, with my hands before me, my sight would not last me many years longer. but how could i do that, mary? for one thing, grandfather would have known there was somewhat the matter; and, oh! it will grieve him sore whenever he's told, so the later the better; and besides, mary, we've sometimes little enough to go upon, and what i earn is a great help. for grandfather takes a day here, and a day there, for botanising or going after insects, and he'll think little enough of four or five shillings for a specimen; dear grandfather! and i'm so loath to think he should be stinted of what gives him such pleasure. so i went to another doctor to try and get him to say something different, and he said, 'oh, it was only weakness,' and gived me a bottle of lotion; but i've used three bottles (and each of 'em cost two shillings), and my eye is so much worse, not hurting so much, but i can't see a bit with it. there now, mary," continued she, shutting one eye, "now you only look like a great black shadow, with the edges dancing and sparkling." "and can you see pretty well with th' other?" "yes, pretty near as well as ever. th' only difference is, that if i sew a long time together, a bright spot like th' sun comes right where i'm looking; all the rest is quite clear but just where i want to see. i've been to both doctors again, and now they're both o' the same story; and i suppose i'm going dark as fast as may be. plain work pays so bad, and mourning has been so plentiful this winter, i were tempted to take in any black work i could; and now i'm suffering from it." "and yet, margaret, you're going on taking it in; that's what you'd call foolish in another." "it is, mary! and yet what can i do? folk mun live; and i think i should go blind any way, and i darn't tell grandfather, else i would leave it off, but he will so fret." margaret rocked herself backward and forward to still her emotion. "oh mary!" she said, "i try to get his face off by heart, and i stare at him so when he's not looking, and then shut my eyes to see if i can remember his dear face. there's one thing, mary, that serves a bit to comfort me. you'll have heard of old jacob butterworth, the singing weaver? well, i know'd him a bit, so i went to him, and said how i wished he'd teach me the right way o' singing; and he says i've a rare fine voice, and i go once a week, and take a lesson fra' him. he's been a grand singer in his day. he's led th' chorusses at the festivals, and got thanked many a time by london folk; and one foreign singer, madame catalani, turned round and shook him by th' hand before the oud church [ ] full o' people. he says i may gain ever so much money by singing; but i don't know. any rate it's sad work, being blind." [footnote : "old church;" now the cathedral of manchester.] she took up her sewing, saying her eyes were rested now, and for some time they sewed on in silence. suddenly there were steps heard in the little paved court; person after person ran past the curtained window. "something's up," said mary. she went to the door and stopping the first person she saw, inquired the cause of the commotion. "eh, wench! donna ye see the fire-light? carsons' mill is blazing away like fun;" and away her informant ran. "come, margaret, on wi' your bonnet, and let's go to see carsons' mill; it's afire, and they say a burning mill is such a grand sight. i never saw one." "well, i think it's a fearful sight. besides i've all this work to do." but mary coaxed in her sweet manner, and with her gentle caresses, promising to help with the gowns all night long if necessary, nay, saying she should quite enjoy it. the truth was, margaret's secret weighed heavily and painfully on her mind, and she felt her inability to comfort; besides, she wanted to change the current of margaret's thoughts; and in addition to these unselfish feelings, came the desire she had honestly expressed, of seeing a factory on fire. so in two minutes they were ready. at the threshold of the house they met john barton, to whom they told their errand. "carsons' mill! ay, there is a mill on fire somewhere, sure enough, by the light, and it will be a rare blaze, for there's not a drop o' water to be got. and much carsons will care, for they're well insured, and the machines are a' th' oud-fashioned kind. see if they don't think it a fine thing for themselves. they'll not thank them as tries to put it out." he gave way for the impatient girls to pass. guided by the ruddy light more than by any exact knowledge of the streets that led to the mill, they scampered along with bent heads, facing the terrible east wind as best they might. carsons' mill ran lengthways from east to west. along it went one of the oldest thoroughfares in manchester. indeed all that part of the town was comparatively old; it was there that the first cotton mills were built, and the crowded alleys and back streets of the neighbourhood made a fire there particularly to be dreaded. the staircase of the mill ascended from the entrance at the western end, which faced into a wide dingy-looking street, consisting principally of public-houses, pawn-brokers' shops, rag and bone warehouses, and dirty provision shops. the other, the east end of the factory, fronted into a very narrow back street, not twenty feet wide, and miserably lighted and paved. right against this end of the factory were the gable ends of the last house in the principal street--a house which from its size, its handsome stone facings, and the attempt at ornament in the front, had probably been once a gentleman's house; but now the light which streamed from its enlarged front windows made clear the interior of the splendidly fitted up room, with its painted walls, its pillared recesses, its gilded and gorgeous fittings up, its miserable, squalid inmates. it was a gin palace. mary almost wished herself away, so fearful (as margaret had said) was the sight when they joined the crowd assembled to witness the fire. there was a murmur of many voices whenever the roaring of the flames ceased for an instant. it was easy to perceive the mass were deeply interested. "what do they say?" asked margaret, of a neighbour in the crowd, as she caught a few words, clear and distinct, from the general murmur. "there never is anyone in the mill, surely!" exclaimed mary, as the sea of upward-turned faces moved with one accord to the eastern end, looking into dunham street, the narrow back lane already mentioned. the western end of the mill, whither the raging flames were driven by the wind, was crowned and turreted with triumphant fire. it sent forth its infernal tongues from every window hole, licking the black walls with amorous fierceness; it was swayed or fell before the mighty gale, only to rise higher and yet higher, to ravage and roar yet more wildly. this part of the roof fell in with an astounding crash, while the crowd struggled more and more to press into dunham street, for what were magnificent terrible flames, what were falling timbers or tottering walls, in comparison with human life? there, where the devouring flames had been repelled by the yet more powerful wind, but where yet black smoke gushed out from every aperture, there, at one of the windows on the fourth story, or rather a doorway where a crane was fixed to hoist up goods, might occasionally be seen, when the thick gusts of smoke cleared partially away for an instant, the imploring figures of two men. they had remained after the rest of the workmen for some reason or other, and, owing to the wind having driven the fire in the opposite direction, had perceived no sight or sound of alarm, till long after (if any thing could be called long in that throng of terrors which passed by in less time than half an hour) the fire had consumed the old wooden staircase at the other end of the building. i am not sure whether it was not the first sound of the rushing crowd below that made them fully aware of their awful position. "where are the engines?" asked margaret of her neighbour. "they're coming, no doubt; but, bless you, i think it's bare ten minutes since we first found out th' fire; it rages so wi' this wind, and all so dry-like." "is no one gone for a ladder?" gasped mary, as the men were perceptibly, though not audibly, praying the great multitude below for help. "ay, wilson's son and another man were off like a shot, well nigh five minute agone. but th' masons, and slaters, and such like, have left their work, and locked up the yards." wilson! then, was that man whose figure loomed out against the ever increasing dull hot light behind, whenever the smoke was clear,--was that george wilson? mary sickened with terror. she knew he worked for carsons; but at first she had had no idea any lives were in danger; and since she had become aware of this, the heated air, the roaring flames, the dizzy light, and the agitated and murmuring crowd, had bewildered her thoughts. "oh! let us go home, margaret; i cannot stay." "we cannot go! see how we are wedged in by folks. poor mary! ye won't hanker after a fire again. hark! listen!" for through the hushed crowd, pressing round the angle of the mill, and filling up dunham street, might be heard the rattle of the engine, the heavy, quick tread of loaded horses. "thank god!" said margaret's neighbour, "the engine's come." another pause; the plugs were stiff, and water could not be got. then there was a pressure through the crowd, the front rows bearing back on those behind, till the girls were sick with the close ramming confinement. then a relaxation, and a breathing freely once more. "'twas young wilson and a fireman wi' a ladder," said margaret's neighbour, a tall man who could overlook the crowd. "oh, tell us what you see?" begged mary. "they've gotten it fixed again the gin-shop wall. one o' the men i' th' factory has fell back; dazed wi' the smoke, i'll warrant. the floor's not given way there. god!" said he, bringing his eye lower down, "th' ladder's too short! it's a' over wi' them, poor chaps. th' fire's coming slow and sure to that end, and afore they've either gotten water, or another ladder, they'll be dead out and out. lord have mercy on them!" a sob, as if of excited women, was heard in the hush of the crowd. another pressure like the former! mary clung to margaret's arm with a pinching grasp, and longed to faint, and be insensible, to escape from the oppressing misery of her sensations. a minute or two. "they've taken th' ladder into th' temple of apollor. can't press back with it to the yard it came from." a mighty shout arose; a sound to wake the dead. up on high, quivering in the air, was seen the end of the ladder, protruding out of a garret window, in the gable end of the gin palace, nearly opposite to the doorway where the men had been seen. those in the crowd nearest the factory, and consequently best able to see up to the garret window, said that several men were holding one end, and guiding by their weight its passage to the door-way. the garret window-frame had been taken out before the crowd below were aware of the attempt. at length--for it seemed long, measured by beating hearts, though scarce two minutes had elapsed--the ladder was fixed, an aerial bridge at a dizzy height, across the narrow street. every eye was fixed in unwinking anxiety, and people's very breathing seemed stilled in suspense. the men were nowhere to be seen, but the wind appeared, for the moment, higher than ever, and drove back the invading flames to the other end. mary and margaret could see now; right above them danced the ladder in the wind. the crowd pressed back from under; firemen's helmets appeared at the window, holding the ladder firm, when a man, with quick, steady tread, and unmoving head, passed from one side to the other. the multitude did not even whisper while he crossed the perilous bridge, which quivered under him; but when he was across, safe comparatively in the factory, a cheer arose for an instant, checked, however, almost immediately, by the uncertainty of the result, and the desire not in any way to shake the nerves of the brave fellow who had cast his life on such a die. "there he is again!" sprung to the lips of many, as they saw him at the doorway, standing as if for an instant to breathe a mouthful of the fresher air, before he trusted himself to cross. on his shoulders he bore an insensible body. "it's jem wilson and his father," whispered margaret; but mary knew it before. the people were sick with anxious terror. he could no longer balance himself with his arms; every thing must depend on nerve and eye. they saw the latter was fixed, by the position of the head, which never wavered; the ladder shook under the double weight; but still he never moved his head--he dared not look below. it seemed an age before the crossing was accomplished. at last the window was gained; the bearer relieved from his burden; both had disappeared. then the multitude might shout; and above the roaring flames, louder than the blowing of the mighty wind, arose that tremendous burst of applause at the success of the daring enterprise. then a shrill cry was heard, asking "is the oud man alive, and likely to do?" "ay," answered one of the firemen to the hushed crowd below. "he's coming round finely, now he's had a dash of cowd water." he drew back his head; and the eager inquiries, the shouts, the sea-like murmurs of the moving rolling mass began again to be heard--but for an instant though. in far less time than even that in which i have endeavoured briefly to describe the pause of events, the same bold hero stepped again upon the ladder, with evident purpose to rescue the man yet remaining in the burning mill. he went across in the same quick steady manner as before, and the people below, made less acutely anxious by his previous success, were talking to each other, shouting out intelligence of the progress of the fire at the other end of the factory, telling of the endeavours of the firemen at that part to obtain water, while the closely packed body of men heaved and rolled from side to side. it was different from the former silent breathless hush. i do not know if it were from this cause, or from the recollection of peril past, or that he looked below, in the breathing moment before returning with the remaining person (a slight little man) slung across his shoulders, but jem wilson's step was less steady, his tread more uncertain; he seemed to feel with his foot for the next round of the ladder, to waver, and finally to stop half-way. by this time the crowd was still enough; in the awful instant that intervened no one durst speak, even to encourage. many turned sick with terror, and shut their eyes to avoid seeing the catastrophe they dreaded. it came. the brave man swayed from side to side, at first as slightly as if only balancing himself; but he was evidently losing nerve, and even sense: it was only wonderful how the animal instinct of self-preservation did not overcome every generous feeling, and impel him at once to drop the helpless, inanimate body he carried; perhaps the same instinct told him, that the sudden loss of so heavy a weight would of itself be a great and imminent danger. "help me! she's fainted," cried margaret. but no one heeded. all eyes were directed upwards. at this point of time a rope, with a running noose, was dexterously thrown by one of the firemen, after the manner of a lasso, over the head and round the bodies of the two men. true, it was with rude and slight adjustment: but, slight as it was, it served as a steadying guide; it encouraged the sinking heart, the dizzy head. once more jem stepped onwards. he was not hurried by any jerk or pull. slowly and gradually the rope was hauled in, slowly and gradually did he make the four or five paces between him and safety. the window was gained, and all were saved. the multitude in the street absolutely danced with triumph, and huzzaed and yelled till you would have fancied their very throats would crack; and then with all the fickleness of interest characteristic of a large body of people, pressed and stumbled, and cursed and swore in the hurry to get out of dunham street, and back to the immediate scene of the fire, the mighty diapason of whose roaring flames formed an awful accompaniment to the screams, and yells, and imprecations, of the struggling crowd. as they pressed away, margaret was left, pale and almost sinking under the weight of mary's body, which she had preserved in an upright position by keeping her arms tight round mary's waist, dreading, with reason, the trampling of unheeding feet. now, however, she gently let her down on the cold clean pavement; and the change of posture, and the difference in temperature, now that the people had withdrawn from their close neighbourhood, speedily restored her to consciousness. her first glance was bewildered and uncertain. she had forgotten where she was. her cold, hard bed felt strange; the murky glare in the sky affrighted her. she shut her eyes to think, to recollect. her next look was upwards. the fearful bridge had been withdrawn; the window was unoccupied. "they are safe," said margaret. "all? are all safe, margaret?" asked mary. "ask yon fireman, and he'll tell you more about it than i can. but i know they're all safe." the fireman hastily corroborated margaret's words. "why did you let jem wilson go twice?" asked margaret. "let!--why we could not hinder him. as soon as ever he'd heard his father speak (which he was na long a doing), jem were off like a shot; only saying he knowed better nor us where to find t'other man. we'd all ha' gone, if he had na been in such a hurry, for no one can say as manchester firemen is ever backward when there's danger." so saying, he ran off; and the two girls, without remark or discussion, turned homewards. they were overtaken by the elder wilson, pale, grimy, and blear-eyed, but apparently as strong and well as ever. he loitered a minute or two alongside of them, giving an account of his detention in the mill; he then hastily wished good-night, saying he must go home and tell his missis he was all safe and well: but after he had gone a few steps, he turned back, came on mary's side of the pavement, and in an earnest whisper, which margaret could not avoid hearing, he said, "mary, if my boy comes across you to-night, give him a kind word or two for my sake. do! bless you, there's a good wench." mary hung her head and answered not a word, and in an instant he was gone. when they arrived at home, they found john barton smoking his pipe, unwilling to question, yet very willing to hear all the details they could give him. margaret went over the whole story, and it was amusing to watch his gradually increasing interest and excitement. first, the regular puffing abated, then ceased. then the pipe was fairly taken out of his mouth, and held suspended. then he rose, and at every further point he came a step nearer to the narrator. when it was ended, he swore (an unusual thing for him) that if jem wilson wanted mary he should have her to-morrow, if he had not a penny to keep her. margaret laughed, but mary, who was now recovered from her agitation, pouted, and looked angry. the work which they had left was resumed: but with full hearts, fingers never go very quickly; and i am sorry to say, that owing to the fire, the two younger miss ogdens were in such grief for the loss of their excellent father, that they were unable to appear before the little circle of sympathising friends gathered together to comfort the widow, and see the funeral set off. chapter vi. poverty and death. "how little can the rich man know of what the poor man feels, when want, like some dark dæmon foe, nearer and nearer steals! _he_ never tramp'd the weary round, a stroke of work to gain, and sicken'd at the dreaded sound telling him 'twas in vain. foot-sore, heart-sore, _he_ never came back through the winter's wind, to a dark cellar, there no flame, no light, no food, to find. _he_ never saw his darlings lie shivering, the flags their bed; _he_ never heard that maddening cry, 'daddy, a bit of bread!'" manchester song. john barton was not far wrong in his idea that the messrs. carson would not be over much grieved for the consequences of the fire in their mill. they were well insured; the machinery lacked the improvements of late years, and worked but poorly in comparison with that which might now be procured. above all, trade was very slack; cottons could find no market, and goods lay packed and piled in many a warehouse. the mills were merely worked to keep the machinery, human and metal, in some kind of order and readiness for better times. so this was an excellent opportunity, messrs. carson thought, for refitting their factory with first-rate improvements, for which the insurance money would amply pay. they were in no hurry about the business, however. the weekly drain of wages given for labour, useless in the present state of the market, was stopped. the partners had more leisure than they had known for years; and promised wives and daughters all manner of pleasant excursions, as soon as the weather should become more genial. it was a pleasant thing to be able to lounge over breakfast with a review or newspaper in hand; to have time for becoming acquainted with agreeable and accomplished daughters, on whose education no money had been spared, but whose fathers, shut up during a long day with calicoes and accounts, had so seldom had leisure to enjoy their daughters' talents. there were happy family evenings, now that the men of business had time for domestic enjoyments. there is another side to the picture. there were homes over which carsons' fire threw a deep, terrible gloom; the homes of those who would fain work, and no man gave unto them--the homes of those to whom leisure was a curse. there, the family music was hungry wails, when week after week passed by, and there was no work to be had, and consequently no wages to pay for the bread the children cried aloud for in their young impatience of suffering. there was no breakfast to lounge over; their lounge was taken in bed, to try and keep warmth in them that bitter march weather, and, by being quiet, to deaden the gnawing wolf within. many a penny that would have gone little way enough in oatmeal or potatoes, bought opium to still the hungry little ones, and make them forget their uneasiness in heavy troubled sleep. it was mother's mercy. the evil and the good of our nature came out strongly then. there were desperate fathers; there were bitter-tongued mothers (o god! what wonder!); there were reckless children; the very closest bonds of nature were snapt in that time of trial and distress. there was faith such as the rich can never imagine on earth; there was "love strong as death;" and self-denial, among rude, coarse men, akin to that of sir philip sidney's most glorious deed. the vices of the poor sometimes astound us _here_; but when the secrets of all hearts shall be made known, their virtues will astound us in far greater degree. of this i am certain. as the cold bleak spring came on (spring, in name alone), and consequently as trade continued dead, other mills shortened hours, turned off hands, and finally stopped work altogether. barton worked short hours; wilson, of course, being a hand in carsons' factory, had no work at all. but his son, working at an engineer's, and a steady man, obtained wages enough to maintain all the family in a careful way. still it preyed on wilson's mind to be so long indebted to his son. he was out of spirits and depressed. barton was morose, and soured towards mankind as a body, and the rich in particular. one evening, when the clear light at six o'clock contrasted strangely with the christmas cold, and when the bitter wind piped down every entry, and through every cranny, barton sat brooding over his stinted fire, and listening for mary's step, in unacknowledged trust that her presence would cheer him. the door was opened, and wilson came breathless in. "you've not got a bit o' money by you, barton?" asked he. "not i; who has now, i'd like to know. whatten you want it for?" "i donnot [ ] want it for mysel, tho' we've none to spare. but don ye know ben davenport as worked at carsons'? he's down wi' the fever, and ne'er a stick o' fire, nor a cowd [ ] potato in the house." [footnote : "don" is constantly used in lancashire for "do;" as it was by our older writers. "and that may non hors _don_."--_sir j. mondeville._ "but for th' entent to _don_ this sinne."--_chaucer._] [footnote : "cowd," cold. teut., _kaud_. dutch, _koud_.] "i han got no money, i tell ye," said barton. wilson looked disappointed. barton tried not to be interested, but he could not help it in spite of his gruffness. he rose, and went to the cupboard (his wife's pride long ago). there lay the remains of his dinner, hastily put by ready for supper. bread, and a slice of cold fat boiled bacon. he wrapped them in his handkerchief, put them in the crown of his hat, and said--"come, let's be going." "going--art thou going to work this time o' day?" "no, stupid, to be sure not. going to see the fellow thou spoke on." so they put on their hats and set out. on the way wilson said davenport was a good fellow, though too much of the methodee; that his children were too young to work, but not too young to be cold and hungry; that they had sunk lower and lower, and pawned thing after thing, and that now they lived in a cellar in berry street, off store street. barton growled inarticulate words of no benevolent import to a large class of mankind, and so they went along till they arrived in berry street. it was unpaved; and down the middle a gutter forced its way, every now and then forming pools in the holes with which the street abounded. never was the old edinburgh cry of "gardez l'eau" more necessary than in this street. as they passed, women from their doors tossed household slops of _every_ description into the gutter; they ran into the next pool, which overflowed and stagnated. heaps of ashes were the stepping-stones, on which the passer-by, who cared in the least for cleanliness, took care not to put his foot. our friends were not dainty, but even they picked their way till they got to some steps leading down into a small area, where a person standing would have his head about one foot below the level of the street, and might at the same time, without the least motion of his body, touch the window of the cellar and the damp muddy wall right opposite. you went down one step even from the foul area into the cellar in which a family of human beings lived. it was very dark inside. the window-panes were, many of them, broken and stuffed with rags, which was reason enough for the dusky light that pervaded the place even at mid-day. after the account i have given of the state of the street, no one can be surprised that on going into the cellar inhabited by davenport, the smell was so foetid as almost to knock the two men down. quickly recovering themselves, as those inured to such things do, they began to penetrate the thick darkness of the place, and to see three or four little children rolling on the damp, nay wet, brick floor, through which the stagnant, filthy moisture of the street oozed up; the fire-place was empty and black; the wife sat on her husband's lair, and cried in the dank loneliness. "see, missis, i'm back again.--hold your noise, children, and don't mither [ ] your mammy for bread; here's a chap as has got some for you." [footnote : "mither," to trouble and perplex. "i'm welly mithered"--i'm well nigh crazed.] in that dim light, which was darkness to strangers, they clustered round barton, and tore from him the food he had brought with him. it was a large hunch of bread, but it vanished in an instant. "we mun do summut for 'em," said he to wilson. "yo stop here, and i'll be back in half-an-hour." so he strode, and ran, and hurried home. he emptied into the ever-useful pocket-handkerchief the little meal remaining in the mug. mary would have her tea at miss simmonds'; her food for the day was safe. then he went up-stairs for his better coat, and his one, gay, red-and-yellow silk pocket-handkerchief--his jewels, his plate, his valuables, these were. he went to the pawn-shop; he pawned them for five shillings; he stopped not, nor stayed, till he was once more in london road, within five minutes' walk of berry street--then he loitered in his gait, in order to discover the shops he wanted. he bought meat, and a loaf of bread, candles, chips, and from a little retail yard he purchased a couple of hundredweights of coals. some money yet remained--all destined for them, but he did not yet know how best to spend it. food, light, and warmth, he had instantly seen were necessary; for luxuries he would wait. wilson's eyes filled with tears when he saw barton enter with his purchases. he understood it all, and longed to be once more in work, that he might help in some of these material ways, without feeling that he was using his son's money. but though "silver and gold he had none," he gave heart-service and love works of far more value. nor was john barton behind in these. "the fever" was (as it usually is in manchester) of a low, putrid, typhoid kind; brought on by miserable living, filthy neighbourhood, and great depression of mind and body. it is virulent, malignant, and highly infectious. but the poor are fatalists with regard to infection; and well for them it is so, for in their crowded dwellings no invalid can be isolated. wilson asked barton if he thought he should catch it, and was laughed at for his idea. the two men, rough, tender nurses as they were, lighted the fire, which smoked and puffed into the room as if it did not know the way up the damp, unused chimney. the very smoke seemed purifying and healthy in the thick clammy air. the children clamoured again for bread; but this time barton took a piece first to the poor, helpless, hopeless woman, who still sat by the side of her husband, listening to his anxious miserable mutterings. she took the bread, when it was put into her hand, and broke a bit, but could not eat. she was past hunger. she fell down on the floor with a heavy unresisting bang. the men looked puzzled. "she's well-nigh clemmed," said barton. "folk do say one mustn't give clemmed people much to eat; but, bless us, she'll eat nought." "i'll tell yo what i'll do," said wilson. "i'll take these two big lads, as does nought but fight, home to my missis's for to-night, and i'll get a jug o' tea. them women always does best with tea and such-like slop." so barton was now left alone with a little child, crying (when it had done eating) for mammy; with a fainting, dead-like woman; and with the sick man, whose mutterings were rising up to screams and shrieks of agonised anxiety. he carried the woman to the fire, and chafed her hands. he looked around for something to raise her head. there was literally nothing but some loose bricks. however, those he got; and taking off his coat he covered them with it as well as he could. he pulled her feet to the fire, which now began to emit some faint heat. he looked round for water, but the poor woman had been too weak to drag herself out to the distant pump, and water there was none. he snatched the child, and ran up the area-steps to the room above, and borrowed their only saucepan with some water in it. then he began, with the useful skill of a working-man, to make some gruel; and when it was hastily made he seized a battered iron table-spoon (kept when many other little things had been sold in a lot), in order to feed baby, and with it he forced one or two drops between her clenched teeth. the mouth opened mechanically to receive more, and gradually she revived. she sat up and looked round; and recollecting all, fell down again in weak and passive despair. her little child crawled to her, and wiped with its fingers the thick-coming tears which she now had strength to weep. it was now high time to attend to the man. he lay on straw, so damp and mouldy no dog would have chosen it in preference to flags; over it was a piece of sacking, coming next to his worn skeleton of a body; above him was mustered every article of clothing that could be spared by mother or children this bitter weather; and in addition to his own, these might have given as much warmth as one blanket, could they have been kept on him; but as he restlessly tossed to and fro, they fell off and left him shivering in spite of the burning heat of his skin. every now and then he started up in his naked madness, looking like the prophet of woe in the fearful plague-picture; but he soon fell again in exhaustion, and barton found he must be closely watched, lest in these falls he should injure himself against the hard brick floor. he was thankful when wilson re-appeared, carrying in both hands a jug of steaming tea, intended for the poor wife; but when the delirious husband saw drink, he snatched at it with animal instinct, with a selfishness he had never shown in health. then the two men consulted together. it seemed decided, without a word being spoken on the subject, that both should spend the night with the forlorn couple; that was settled. but could no doctor be had? in all probability, no; the next day an infirmary order might be begged, but meanwhile the only medical advice they could have must be from a druggist's. so barton (being the moneyed man) set out to find a shop in london road. it is a pretty sight to walk through a street with lighted shops; the gas is so brilliant, the display of goods so much more vividly shown than by day, and of all shops a druggist's looks the most like the tales of our childhood, from aladdin's garden of enchanted fruits to the charming rosamond with her purple jar. no such associations had barton; yet he felt the contrast between the well-filled, well-lighted shops and the dim gloomy cellar, and it made him moody that such contrasts should exist. they are the mysterious problem of life to more than him. he wondered if any in all the hurrying crowd had come from such a house of mourning. he thought they all looked joyous, and he was angry with them. but he could not, you cannot, read the lot of those who daily pass you by in the street. how do you know the wild romances of their lives; the trials, the temptations they are even now enduring, resisting, sinking under? you may be elbowed one instant by the girl desperate in her abandonment, laughing in mad merriment with her outward gesture, while her soul is longing for the rest of the dead, and bringing itself to think of the cold-flowing river as the only mercy of god remaining to her here. you may pass the criminal, meditating crimes at which you will to-morrow shudder with horror as you read them. you may push against one, humble and unnoticed, the last upon earth, who in heaven will for ever be in the immediate light of god's countenance. errands of mercy--errands of sin--did you ever think where all the thousands of people you daily meet are bound? barton's was an errand of mercy; but the thoughts of his heart were touched by sin, by bitter hatred of the happy, whom he, for the time, confounded with the selfish. he reached a druggist's shop, and entered. the druggist (whose smooth manners seemed to have been salved over with his own spermaceti) listened attentively to barton's description of davenport's illness; concluded it was typhus fever, very prevalent in that neighbourhood; and proceeded to make up a bottle of medicine, sweet spirits of nitre, or some such innocent potion, very good for slight colds, but utterly powerless to stop, for an instant, the raging fever of the poor man it was intended to relieve. he recommended the same course they had previously determined to adopt, applying the next morning for an infirmary order; and barton left the shop with comfortable faith in the physic given him; for men of his class, if they believe in physic at all, believe that every description is equally efficacious. meanwhile, wilson had done what he could at davenport's home. he had soothed, and covered the man many a time; he had fed and hushed the little child, and spoken tenderly to the woman, who lay still in her weakness and her weariness. he had opened a door, but only for an instant; it led into a back cellar, with a grating instead of a window, down which dropped the moisture from pigsties, and worse abominations. it was not paved; the floor was one mass of bad smelling mud. it had never been used, for there was not an article of furniture in it; nor could a human being, much less a pig, have lived there many days. yet the "back apartment" made a difference in the rent. the davenports paid threepence more for having two rooms. when he turned round again, he saw the woman suckling the child from her dry, withered breast. "surely the lad is weaned!" exclaimed he, in surprise. "why, how old is he?" "going on two year," she faintly answered. "but, oh! it keeps him quiet when i've nought else to gi' him, and he'll get a bit of sleep lying there, if he's getten [ ] nought beside. we han done our best to gi' the childer [ ] food, howe'er we pinched ourselves." [footnote : "for he had _geten_ him yet no benefice."--_prologue to canterbury tales._] [footnote : wicklife uses "_childre_" in his apology, page .] "han [ ] ye had no money fra th' town?" [footnote : "what concord _han_ light and dark."--_spenser._] "no; my master is buckinghamshire born; and he's feared the town would send him back to his parish, if he went to th' board; so we've just borne on in hope o' better times. but i think they'll never come in my day;" and the poor woman began her weak high-pitched cry again. "here, sup [ ] this drop o' gruel, and then try and get a bit o' sleep. john and i'll watch by your master to-night." [footnote : "and thay _soupe_ the brothe thereof."--_sir j. mandeville._] "god's blessing be on you!" she finished the gruel, and fell into a deep sleep. wilson covered her with his coat as well as he could, and tried to move lightly for fear of disturbing her; but there need have been no such dread, for her sleep was profound and heavy with exhaustion. once only she roused to pull the coat round her little child. and now all wilson's care, and barton's to boot, was wanted to restrain the wild mad agony of the fevered man. he started up, he yelled, he seemed infuriated by overwhelming anxiety. he cursed and swore, which surprised wilson, who knew his piety in health, and who did not know the unbridled tongue of delirium. at length he seemed exhausted, and fell asleep; and barton and wilson drew near the fire, and talked together in whispers. they sat on the floor, for chairs there were none; the sole table was an old tub turned upside-down. they put out the candle and conversed by the flickering fire-light. "han yo known this chap long?" asked barton. "better nor three year. he's worked wi' carsons that long, and were alway a steady, civil-spoken fellow, though, as i said afore, somewhat of a methodee. i wish i'd gotten a letter he sent his missis, a week or two agone, when he were on tramp for work. it did my heart good to read it; for, yo see, i were a bit grumbling mysel; it seemed hard to be spunging on jem, and taking a' his flesh-meat money to buy bread for me and them as i ought to be keeping. but, yo know, though i can earn nought, i mun eat summut. well, as i telled ye, i were grumbling, when she (indicating the sleeping woman by a nod) brought me ben's letter, for she could na read hersel. it were as good as bible-words; ne'er a word o' repining; a' about god being our father, and that we mun bear patiently whate'er he sends." "don ye think he's th' masters' father, too? i'd be loath to have 'em for brothers." "eh, john! donna talk so; sure there's many and many a master as good or better nor us." "if you think so, tell me this. how comes it they're rich, and we're poor? i'd like to know that. han they done as they'd be done by for us?" but wilson was no arguer; no speechifier as he would have called it. so barton, seeing he was likely to have it his own way, went on. "you'll say (at least many a one does), they'n [ ] getten capital an' we'n getten none. i say, our labour's our capital and we ought to draw interest on that. they get interest on their capital somehow a' this time, while ourn is lying idle, else how could they all live as they do? besides, there's many on 'em as had nought to begin wi'; there's carsons, and duncombes, and mengies, and many another, as comed into manchester with clothes to their back, and that were all, and now they're worth their tens of thousands, a' getten out of our labour; why the very land as fetched but sixty pound twenty year agone is now worth six hundred, and that, too, is owing to our labour: but look at yo, and see me, and poor davenport yonder; whatten better are we? they'n screwed us down to th' lowest peg, in order to make their great big fortunes, and build their great big houses, and we, why we're just clemming, many and many of us. can you say there's nought wrong in this?" [footnote : "they'n," contraction of "they han," they have.] "well, barton, i'll not gainsay ye. but mr. carson spoke to me after th' fire, and says he, 'i shall ha' to retrench, and be very careful in my expenditure during these bad times, i assure ye;' so yo see th' masters suffer too." "han they ever seen a child o' their'n die for want o' food?" asked barton, in a low, deep voice. "i donnot mean," continued he, "to say as i'm so badly off. i'd scorn to speak for mysel; but when i see such men as davenport there dying away, for very clemming, i cannot stand it. i've but gotten mary, and she keeps hersel pretty much. i think we'll ha' to give up house-keeping; but that i donnot mind." and in this kind of talk the night, the long heavy night of watching, wore away. as far as they could judge, davenport continued in the same state, although the symptoms varied occasionally. the wife slept on, only roused by a cry of her child now and then, which seemed to have power over her, when far louder noises failed to disturb her. the watchers agreed, that as soon as it was likely mr. carson would be up and visible, wilson should go to his house, and beg for an infirmary order. at length the gray dawn penetrated even into the dark cellar. davenport slept, and barton was to remain there until wilson's return; so stepping out into the fresh air, brisk and reviving, even in that street of abominations, wilson took his way to mr. carson's. wilson had about two miles to walk before he reached mr. carson's house, which was almost in the country. the streets were not yet bustling and busy. the shopmen were lazily taking down the shutters, although it was near eight o'clock; for the day was long enough for the purchases people made in that quarter of the town, while trade was so flat. one or two miserable-looking women were setting off on their day's begging expedition. but there were few people abroad. mr. carson's was a good house, and furnished with disregard to expense. but in addition to lavish expenditure, there was much taste shown, and many articles chosen for their beauty and elegance adorned his rooms. as wilson passed a window which a housemaid had thrown open, he saw pictures and gilding, at which he was tempted to stop and look; but then he thought it would not be respectful. so he hastened on to the kitchen door. the servants seemed very busy with preparations for breakfast; but good-naturedly, though hastily, told him to step in, and they could soon let mr. carson know he was there. so he was ushered into a kitchen hung round with glittering tins, where a roaring fire burnt merrily, and where numbers of utensils hung round, at whose nature and use wilson amused himself by guessing. meanwhile, the servants bustled to and fro; an out-door man-servant came in for orders, and sat down near wilson; the cook broiled steaks, and the kitchen-maid toasted bread, and boiled eggs. the coffee steamed upon the fire, and altogether the odours were so mixed and appetising, that wilson began to yearn for food to break his fast, which had lasted since dinner the day before. if the servants had known this, they would have willingly given him meat and bread in abundance; but they were like the rest of us, and not feeling hunger themselves, forgot it was possible another might. so wilson's craving turned to sickness, while they chattered on, making the kitchen's free and keen remarks upon the parlour. "how late you were last night, thomas!" "yes, i was right weary of waiting; they told me to be at the rooms by twelve; and there i was. but it was two o'clock before they called me." "and did you wait all that time in the street?" asked the housemaid, who had done her work for the present, and come into the kitchen for a bit of gossip. "my eye as like! you don't think i'm such a fool as to catch my death of cold, and let the horses catch their death too, as we should ha' done if we'd stopped there. no! i put th' horses up in th' stables at th' spread eagle, and went mysel, and got a glass or two by th' fire. they're driving a good custom, them, wi' coachmen. there were five on us, and we'd many a quart o' ale, and gin wi' it, to keep out cold." "mercy on us, thomas; you'll get a drunkard at last!" "if i do, i know whose blame it will be. it will be missis's, and not mine. flesh and blood can't sit to be starved to death on a coach-box, waiting for folks as don't know their own mind." a servant, semi-upper-housemaid, semi-lady's-maid, now came down with orders from her mistress. "thomas, you must ride to the fishmonger's, and say missis can't give above half-a-crown a pound for salmon for tuesday; she's grumbling because trade's so bad. and she'll want the carriage at three to go to the lecture, thomas; at the royal execution, you know." "ay, ay, i know." "and you'd better all of you mind your p's and q's, for she's very black this morning. she's got a bad headache." "it's a pity miss jenkins is not here to match her. lord! how she and missis did quarrel which had got the worst headaches; it was that miss jenkins left for; she would not give up having bad headaches, and missis could not abide any one to have 'em but herself." "missis will have her breakfast up-stairs, cook, and the cold partridge as was left yesterday, and put plenty of cream in her coffee, and she thinks there's a roll left, and she would like it well buttered." so saying, the maid left the kitchen to be ready to attend to the young ladies' bell when they chose to ring, after their late assembly the night before. in the luxurious library, at the well-spread breakfast-table, sat the two mr. carsons, father and son. both were reading; the father a newspaper, the son a review, while they lazily enjoyed their nicely prepared food. the father was a prepossessing-looking old man; perhaps self-indulgent you might guess. the son was strikingly handsome, and knew it. his dress was neat and well appointed, and his manners far more gentlemanly than his father's. he was the only son, and his sisters were proud of him; his father and mother were proud of him: he could not set up his judgment against theirs; he was proud of himself. the door opened and in bounded amy, the sweet youngest daughter of the house, a lovely girl of sixteen, fresh and glowing, and bright as a rosebud. she was too young to go to assemblies, at which her father rejoiced, for he had little amy with her pretty jokes, and her bird-like songs, and her playful caresses all the evening to amuse him in his loneliness; and she was not too much tired, like sophy and helen, to give him her sweet company at breakfast the next morning. he submitted willingly while she blinded him with her hands, and kissed his rough red face all over. she took his newspaper away after a little pretended resistance, and would not allow her brother harry to go on with his review. "i'm the only lady this morning, papa, so you know you must make a great deal of me." "my darling, i think you have your own way always, whether you're the only lady or not." "yes, papa, you're pretty good and obedient, i must say that; but i'm sorry to say harry is very naughty, and does not do what i tell him; do you, harry?" "i'm sure i don't know what you mean to accuse me of, amy; i expected praise and not blame; for did not i get you that eau de portugal from town, that you could not meet with at hughes', you little ungrateful puss?" "did you! oh, sweet harry; you're as sweet as eau de portugal yourself; you're almost as good as papa; but still you know you did go and forget to ask bigland for that rose, that new rose they say he has got." "no, amy, i did not forget. i asked him, and he has got the rose, _sans reproche_; but do you know, little miss extravagance, a very small one is half-a-guinea?" "oh, i don't mind. papa will give it me, won't you, dear father? he knows his little daughter can't live without flowers and scents." mr. carson tried to refuse his darling, but she coaxed him into acquiescence, saying she must have it, it was one of her necessaries. life was not worth having without flowers. "then, amy," said her brother, "try and be content with peonies and dandelions." "oh, you wretch! i don't call them flowers. besides, you're every bit as extravagant. who gave half-a-crown for a bunch of lilies of the valley at yates', a month ago, and then would not let his poor little sister have them, though she went on her knees to beg them? answer me that, master hal." "not on compulsion," replied her brother, smiling with his mouth, while his eyes had an irritated expression, and he went first red, then pale, with vexed embarrassment. "if you please, sir," said a servant, entering the room, "here's one of the mill people wanting to see you; his name is wilson, he says." "i'll come to him directly; stay, tell him to come in here." amy danced off into the conservatory which opened out of the room, before the gaunt, pale, unwashed, unshaven weaver was ushered in. there he stood at the door, sleeking his hair with old country habit, and every now and then stealing a glance round at the splendour of the apartment. "well, wilson, and what do you want to-day, man?" "please, sir, davenport's ill of the fever, and i'm come to know if you've got an infirmary order for him?" "davenport--davenport; who is the fellow? i don't know the name." "he's worked in your factory better nor three year, sir." "very likely; i don't pretend to know the names of the men i employ; that i leave to the overlooker. so he's ill, eh?" "ay, sir, he's very bad; we want to get him in at the fever wards. "i doubt if i have an in-patient's order to spare; they're always wanted for accidents, you know. but i'll give you an out-patient's, and welcome." so saying, he rose up, unlocked a drawer, pondered a minute, and then gave wilson an out-patient's order to be presented the following monday. monday! how many days there were before monday! meanwhile, the younger mr. carson had ended his review, and began to listen to what was going on. he finished his breakfast, got up, and pulled five shillings out of his pocket, which he gave to wilson as he passed him, for the "poor fellow." he went past quickly, and calling for his horse, mounted gaily, and rode away. he was anxious to be in time to have a look and a smile from lovely mary barton, as she went to miss simmonds'. but to-day he was to be disappointed. wilson left the house, not knowing whether to be pleased or grieved. it was long to monday, but they had all spoken kindly to him, and who could tell if they might not remember this, and do something before monday. besides, the cook, who, when she had had time to think, after breakfast was sent in, had noticed his paleness, had had meat and bread ready to put in his hand when he came out of the parlour; and a full stomach makes every one of us more hopeful. when he reached berry street, he had persuaded himself he bore good news, and felt almost elated in his heart. but it fell when he opened the cellar-door, and saw barton and the wife both bending over the sick man's couch with awe-struck, saddened look. "come here," said barton. "there's a change comed over him sin' yo left, is there not?" wilson looked. the flesh was sunk, the features prominent, bony, and rigid. the fearful clay-colour of death was over all. but the eyes were open and sensible, though the films of the grave were settling upon them. "he wakened fra his sleep, as yo left him in, and began to mutter and moan; but he soon went off again, and we never knew he were awake till he called his wife, but now she's here he's gotten nought to say to her." most probably, as they all felt, he could not speak, for his strength was fast ebbing. they stood round him still and silent; even the wife checked her sobs, though her heart was like to break. she held her child to her breast, to try and keep him quiet. their eyes were all fixed on the yet living one, whose moments of life were passing so rapidly away. at length he brought (with jerking, convulsive effort) his two hands into the attitude of prayer. they saw his lips move, and bent to catch the words, which came in gasps, and not in tones. "oh lord god! i thank thee, that the hard struggle of living is over." "oh, ben! ben!" wailed forth his wife, "have you no thought for me? oh, ben! ben! do say one word to help me through life." he could not speak again. the trump of the archangel would set his tongue free; but not a word more would it utter till then. yet he heard, he understood, and though sight failed, he moved his hand gropingly over the covering. they knew what he meant, and guided it to her head, bowed and hidden in her hands, when she had sunk in her woe. it rested there, with a feeble pressure of endearment. the face grew beautiful, as the soul neared god. a peace beyond understanding came over it. the hand was a heavy, stiff weight on the wife's head. no more grief or sorrow for him. they reverently laid out the corpse--wilson fetching his only spare shirt to array it in. the wife still lay hidden in the clothes, in a stupor of agony. there was a knock at the door, and barton went to open it. it was mary, who had received a message from her father, through a neighbour, telling her where he was; and she had set out early to come and have a word with him before her day's work; but some errands she had to do for miss simmonds had detained her until now. "come in, wench!" said her father. "try if thou canst comfort yon poor, poor woman, kneeling down there. god help her." mary did not know what to say, or how to comfort; but she knelt down by her, and put her arm round her neck, and in a little while fell to crying herself so bitterly, that the source of tears was opened by sympathy in the widow, and her full heart was, for a time, relieved. and mary forgot all purposed meeting with her gay lover, harry carson; forgot miss simmonds' errands, and her anger, in the anxious desire to comfort the poor lone woman. never had her sweet face looked more angelic, never had her gentle voice seemed so musical as when she murmured her broken sentences of comfort. "oh, don't cry so, dear mrs. davenport, pray don't take on so. sure he's gone where he'll never know care again. yes, i know how lonesome you must feel; but think of your children. oh! we'll all help to earn food for 'em. think how sorry _he'd_ be, if he sees you fretting so. don't cry so, please don't." and she ended by crying herself, as passionately as the poor widow. it was agreed that the town must bury him; he had paid to a burial club as long as he could; but by a few weeks' omission, he had forfeited his claim to a sum of money now. would mrs. davenport and the little child go home with mary? the latter brightened up as she urged this plan; but no! where the poor, fondly loved remains were, there would the mourner be; and all that they could do was to make her as comfortable as their funds would allow, and to beg a neighbour to look in and say a word at times. so she was left alone with her dead, and they went to work that had work, and he who had none, took upon him the arrangements for the funeral. mary had many a scolding from miss simmonds that day for her absence of mind. to be sure miss simmonds was much put out by mary's non-appearance in the morning with certain bits of muslin, and shades of silk which were wanted to complete a dress to be worn that night; but it was true enough that mary did not mind what she was about; she was too busy planning how her old black gown (her best when her mother died) might be spunged, and turned, and lengthened into something like decent mourning for the widow. and when she went home at night (though it was very late, as a sort of retribution for her morning's negligence), she set to work at once, and was so busy, and so glad over her task, that she had, every now and then, to check herself in singing merry ditties, that she felt little accorded with the sewing on which she was engaged. so when the funeral day came, mrs. davenport was neatly arrayed in black, a satisfaction to her poor heart in the midst of her sorrow. barton and wilson both accompanied her, as she led her two elder boys, and followed the coffin. it was a simple walking funeral, with nothing to grate on the feelings of any; far more in accordance with its purpose, to my mind, than the gorgeous hearses, and nodding plumes, which form the grotesque funeral pomp of respectable people. there was no "rattling the bones over the stones," of the pauper's funeral. decently and quietly was he followed to the grave by one determined to endure her woe meekly for his sake. the only mark of pauperism attendant on the burial concerned the living and joyous, far more than the dead, or the sorrowful. when they arrived in the churchyard, they halted before a raised and handsome tombstone; in reality a wooden mockery of stone respectabilities which adorned the burial-ground. it was easily raised in a very few minutes, and below was the grave in which pauper bodies were piled until within a foot or two of the surface; when the soil was shovelled over, and stamped down, and the wooden cover went to do temporary duty over another hole. [ ] but little they recked of this who now gave up their dead. [footnote : the case, to my certain knowledge, in one churchyard in manchester. there may be more.] chapter vii. jem wilson's repulse. "how infinite the wealth of love and hope garnered in these same tiny treasure-houses! and oh! what bankrupts in the world we feel, when death, like some remorseless creditor, seizes on all we fondly thought our own!" "the twins." the ghoul-like fever was not to be braved with impunity, and baulked of its prey. the widow had reclaimed her children; her neighbours, in the good samaritan sense of the word, had paid her little arrears of rent, and made her a few shillings beforehand with the world. she determined to flit from that cellar to another less full of painful associations, less haunted by mournful memories. the board, not so formidable as she had imagined, had inquired into her case; and, instead of sending her to stoke claypole, her husband's buckinghamshire parish, as she had dreaded, had agreed to pay her rent. so food for four mouths was all she was now required to find; only for three she would have said; for herself and the unweaned child were but reckoned as one in her calculation. she had a strong heart, now her bodily strength had been recruited by a week or two of food, and she would not despair. so she took in some little children to nurse, who brought their daily food with them, which she cooked for them, without wronging their helplessness of a crumb; and when she had restored them to their mothers at night, she set to work at plain sewing, "seam, and gusset, and band," and sat thinking how she might best cheat the factory inspector, and persuade him that her strong, big, hungry ben was above thirteen. her plan of living was so far arranged, when she heard, with keen sorrow, that wilson's twin lads were ill of the fever. they had never been strong. they were like many a pair of twins, and seemed to have but one life divided between them. one life, one strength, and in this instance, i might almost say, one brain; for they were helpless, gentle, silly children, but not the less dear to their parents and to their strong, active, manly, elder brother. they were late on their feet, late in talking, late every way; had to be nursed and cared for when other lads of their age were tumbling about in the street, and losing themselves, and being taken to the police-office miles away from home. still want had never yet come in at the door to make love for these innocents fly out at the window. nor was this the case even now, when jem wilson's earnings, and his mother's occasional charrings were barely sufficient to give all the family their fill of food. but when the twins, after ailing many days, and caring little for their meat, fell sick on the same afternoon, with the same heavy stupor of suffering, the three hearts that loved them so, each felt, though none acknowledged to the other, that they had little chance for life. it was nearly a week before the tale of their illness spread as far as the court where the wilsons had once dwelt, and the bartons yet lived. alice had heard of the illness of her little nephews several days before, and had locked her cellar door, and gone off straight to her brother's house, in ancoats; but she was often absent for days, sent for, as her neighbours knew, to help in some sudden emergency of illness or distress, so that occasioned no surprise. margaret met jem wilson several days after his brothers were seriously ill, and heard from him the state of things at his home. she told mary of it as she entered the court late that evening; and mary listened with saddened heart to the strange contrast which such woeful tidings presented to the gay and loving words she had been hearing on her walk home. she blamed herself for being so much taken up with visions of the golden future, that she had lately gone but seldom on sunday afternoons, or other leisure time, to see mrs. wilson, her mother's friend; and with hasty purpose of amendment she only stayed to leave a message for her father with the next-door neighbour, and then went off at a brisk pace on her way to the house of mourning. she stopped with her hand on the latch of the wilsons' door, to still her beating heart, and listened to the hushed quiet within. she opened the door softly: there sat mrs. wilson in the old rocking-chair, with one sick, death-like boy lying on her knee, crying without let or pause, but softly, gently, as fearing to disturb the troubled, gasping child; while behind her, old alice let her fast-dropping tears fall down on the dead body of the other twin, which she was laying out on a board, placed on a sort of sofa-settee in a corner of the room. over the child, which yet breathed, the father bent, watching anxiously for some ground of hope, where hope there was none. mary stepped slowly and lightly across to alice. "ay, poor lad! god has taken him early, mary." mary could not speak; she did not know what to say; it was so much worse than she expected. at last she ventured to whisper, "is there any chance for the other one, think you?" alice shook her head, and told with a look that she believed there was none. she next endeavoured to lift the little body, and carry it to its old accustomed bed in its parents' room. but earnest as the father was in watching the yet-living, he had eyes and ears for all that concerned the dead, and sprang gently up, and took his dead son on his hard couch in his arms with tender strength, and carried him upstairs as if afraid of wakening him. the other child gasped longer, louder, with more of effort. "we mun get him away from his mother. he cannot die while she's wishing him." "wishing him?" said mary, in a tone of inquiry. "ay; donno ye know what wishing means? there's none can die in the arms of those who are wishing them sore to stay on earth. the soul o' them as holds them won't let the dying soul go free; so it has a hard struggle for the quiet of death. we mun get him away fra' his mother, or he'll have a hard death, poor lile [ ] fellow." [footnote : "lile," a north-country word for "little." "wit _leil_ labour to live."--_piers ploughman._] so without circumlocution she went and offered to take the sinking child. but the mother would not let him go, and looking in alice's face with brimming and imploring eyes, declared in earnest whispers, that she was not wishing him, that she would fain have him released from his suffering. alice and mary stood by with eyes fixed on the poor child, whose struggles seemed to increase, till at last his mother said with a choking voice, "may happen [ ] yo'd better take him, alice; i believe my heart's wishing him a' this while, for i cannot, no, i cannot bring mysel to let my two childer go in one day; i cannot help longing to keep him, and yet he sha'not suffer longer for me." [footnote : "may happen," perhaps.] she bent down, and fondly, oh! with what passionate fondness, kissed her child, and then gave him up to alice, who took him with tender care. nature's struggles were soon exhausted, and he breathed his little life away in peace. then the mother lifted up her voice and wept. her cries brought her husband down to try with his aching heart to comfort hers. again alice laid out the dead, mary helping with reverent fear. the father and mother carried him up-stairs to the bed, where his little brother lay in calm repose. mary and alice drew near the fire, and stood in quiet sorrow for some time. then alice broke the silence by saying, "it will be bad news for jem, poor fellow, when he comes home." "where is he?" asked mary. "working over-hours at th' shop. they'n getten a large order fra' forrin parts; and yo' know, jem mun work, though his heart's well-nigh breaking for these poor laddies." again they were silent in thought, and again alice spoke first. "i sometimes think the lord is against planning. whene'er i plan over-much, he is sure to send and mar all my plans, as if he would ha' me put the future into his hands. afore christmas-time i was as full as full could be, of going home for good and all; yo' han heard how i've wished it this terrible long time. and a young lass from behind burton came into place in manchester last martinmas; so after awhile, she had a sunday out, and she comes to me, and tells me some cousins o' mine bid her find me out, and say how glad they should be to ha' me to bide wi' 'em, and look after th' childer, for they'n getten a big farm, and she's a deal to do among th' cows. so many a winter's night did i lie awake and think, that please god, come summer, i'd bid george and his wife good bye, and go home at last. little did i think how god almighty would baulk me, for not leaving my days in his hands, who had led me through the wilderness hitherto. here's george out o' work, and more cast down than ever i seed him; wanting every chip o' comfort he can get, e'en afore this last heavy stroke; and now i'm thinking the lord's finger points very clear to my fit abiding place; and i'm sure if george and jane can say 'his will be done,' it's no more than what i'm beholden to do." so saying, she fell to tidying the room, removing as much as she could every vestige of sickness; making up the fire, and setting on the kettle for a cup of tea for her sister-in-law, whose low moans and sobs were occasionally heard in the room below. mary helped her in all these little offices. they were busy in this way when the door was softly opened, and jem came in, all grimed and dirty from his night-work, his soiled apron wrapped round his middle, in guise and apparel in which he would have been sorry at another time to have been seen by mary. but just now he hardly saw her; he went straight up to alice, and asked how the little chaps were. they had been a shade better at dinner-time, and he had been working away through the long afternoon, and far into the night, in the belief that they had taken the turn. he had stolen out during the half-hour allowed at the works for tea, to buy them an orange or two, which now puffed out his jacket-pocket. he would make his aunt speak; he would not understand her shakes of the head and fast coursing tears. "they're both gone," said she. "dead!" "ay! poor fellows. they took worse about two o'clock. joe went first, as easy as a lamb, and will died harder like." "both!" "ay, lad! both. the lord has ta'en them from some evil to come, or he would na ha' made choice o' them. ye may rest sure o' that." jem went to the cupboard, and quietly extricated from his pocket the oranges he had bought. but he stayed long there, and at last his sturdy frame shook with his strong agony. the two women were frightened, as women always are, on witnessing a man's overpowering grief. they cried afresh in company. mary's heart melted within her as she witnessed jem's sorrow, and she stepped gently up to the corner where he stood, with his back turned to them, and putting her hand softly on his arm, said, "oh, jem, don't give way so; i cannot bear to see you." jem felt a strange leap of joy in his heart, and knew the power she had of comforting him. he did not speak, as though fearing to destroy by sound or motion the happiness of that moment, when her soft hand's touch thrilled through his frame, and her silvery voice was whispering tenderness in his ear. yes! it might be very wrong; he could almost hate himself for it; with death and woe so surrounding him, it yet was happiness, was bliss, to be so spoken to by mary. "don't, jem, please don't," whispered she again, believing that his silence was only another form of grief. he could not contain himself. he took her hand in his firm yet trembling grasp, and said, in tones that instantly produced a revulsion in her mood, "mary, i almost loathe myself when i feel i would not give up this minute, when my brothers lie dead, and father and mother are in such trouble, for all my life that's past and gone. and, mary (as she tried to release her hand), you know what makes me feel so blessed." she did know--he was right there. but as he turned to catch a look at her sweet face, he saw that it expressed unfeigned distress, almost amounting to vexation; a dread of him, that he thought was almost repugnance. he let her hand go, and she quickly went away to alice's side. "fool that i was--nay, wretch that i was--to let myself take this time of trouble to tell her how i loved her; no wonder that she turns away from such a selfish beast." partly to relieve her from his presence, and partly from natural desire, and partly, perhaps, from a penitent wish to share to the utmost his parents' sorrow, he soon went up-stairs to the chamber of death. mary mechanically helped alice in all the duties she performed through the remainder of that long night, but she did not see jem again. he remained up-stairs until after the early dawn showed mary that she need have no fear of going home through the deserted and quiet streets, to try and get a little sleep before work hour. so leaving kind messages to george and jane wilson, and hesitating whether she might dare to send a few kind words to jem, and deciding that she had better not, she stepped out into the bright morning light, so fresh a contrast to the darkened room where death had been. "they had another morn than ours." mary lay down on her bed in her clothes; and whether it was this, or the broad daylight that poured in through the sky-window, or whether it was over-excitement, it was long before she could catch a wink of sleep. her thoughts ran on jem's manner and words; not but what she had known the tale they told for many a day; but still she wished he had not put it so plainly. "oh dear," said she to herself, "i wish he would not mistake me so; i never dare to speak a common word o' kindness, but his eye brightens and his cheek flushes. it's very hard on me; for father and george wilson are old friends; and jem and i ha' known each other since we were quite children. i cannot think what possesses me, that i must always be wanting to comfort him when he's downcast, and that i must go meddling wi' him to-night, when sure enough it was his aunt's place to speak to him. i don't care for him, and yet, unless i'm always watching myself, i'm speaking to him in a loving voice. i think i cannot go right, for i either check myself till i'm downright cross to him, or else i speak just natural, and that's too kind and tender by half. and i'm as good as engaged to be married to another; and another far handsomer than jem; only i think i like jem's face best for all that; liking's liking, and there's no help for it. well, when i'm mrs. harry carson, may happen i can put some good fortune in jem's way. but will he thank me for it? he's rather savage at times, that i can see, and perhaps kindness from me, when i'm another's, will only go against the grain. i'll not plague myself wi' thinking any more about him, that i won't." so she turned on her pillow, and fell asleep, and dreamt of what was often in her waking thoughts; of the day when she should ride from church in her carriage, with wedding-bells ringing, and take up her astonished father, and drive away from the old dim work-a-day court for ever, to live in a grand house, where her father should have newspapers, and pamphlets, and pipes, and meat dinners every day,--and all day long if he liked. such thoughts mingled in her predilection for the handsome young mr. carson, who, unfettered by work-hours, let scarcely a day pass without contriving a meeting with the beautiful little milliner he had first seen while lounging in a shop where his sisters were making some purchases, and afterwards never rested till he had freely, though respectfully, made her acquaintance in her daily walks. he was, to use his own expression to himself, quite infatuated by her, and was restless each day till the time came when he had a chance, and, of late, more than a chance of meeting her. there was something of keen practical shrewdness about her, which contrasted very bewitchingly with the simple, foolish, unworldly ideas she had picked up from the romances which miss simmonds' young ladies were in the habit of recommending to each other. yes! mary was ambitious, and did not favour mr. carson the less because he was rich and a gentleman. the old leaven, infused years ago by her aunt esther, fermented in her little bosom, and perhaps all the more, for her father's aversion to the rich and the gentle. such is the contrariness of the human heart, from eve downwards, that we all, in our old-adam state, fancy things forbidden sweetest. so mary dwelt upon and enjoyed the idea of some day becoming a lady, and doing all the elegant nothings appertaining to ladyhood. it was a comfort to her, when scolded by miss simmonds, to think of the day when she would drive up to the door in her own carriage, to order her gowns from the hasty tempered yet kind dressmaker. it was a pleasure to her to hear the general admiration of the two elder miss carsons, acknowledged beauties in ball-room and street, on horseback and on foot, and to think of the time when she should ride and walk with them in loving sisterhood. but the best of her plans, the holiest, that which in some measure redeemed the vanity of the rest, were those relating to her father; her dear father, now oppressed with care, and always a disheartened, gloomy person. how she would surround him with every comfort she could devise (of course, he was to live with them), till he should acknowledge riches to be very pleasant things, and bless his lady-daughter! every one who had shown her kindness in her low estate should then be repaid a hundred-fold. such were the castles in air, the alnaschar-visions in which mary indulged, and which she was doomed in after days to expiate with many tears. meanwhile, her words--or, even more, her tones--would maintain their hold on jem wilson's memory. a thrill would yet come over him when he remembered how her hand had rested on his arm. the thought of her mingled with all his grief, and it was profound, for the loss of his brothers. chapter viii. margaret's debut as a public singer. "deal gently with them, they have much endured. scoff not at their fond hopes and earnest plans, though they may seem to thee wild dreams and fancies. perchance, in the rough school of stern experience, they've something learned which theory does not teach; or if they greatly err, deal gently still, and let their error but the stronger plead 'give us the light and guidance that we need!'" love thoughts. one sunday afternoon, about three weeks after that mournful night, jem wilson set out with the ostensible purpose of calling on john barton. he was dressed in his best, his sunday suit of course; while his face glittered with the scrubbing he had bestowed on it. his dark black hair had been arranged and re-arranged before the household looking-glass, and in his button-hole he stuck a narcissus (a sweet nancy is its pretty lancashire name), hoping it would attract mary's notice, so that he might have the delight of giving it her. it was a bad beginning of his visit of happiness that mary saw him some minutes before he came into her father's house. she was sitting at the end of the dresser, with the little window-blind drawn on one side, in order that she might see the passers-by, in the intervals of reading her bible, which lay open before her. so she watched all the greeting a friend gave jem; she saw the face of condolence, the sympathetic shake of the hand, and had time to arrange her own face and manner before jem came in, which he did, as if he had eyes for no one but her father, who sat smoking his pipe by the fire, while he read an old "northern star," borrowed from a neighbouring public-house. then he turned to mary, who, he felt by the sure instinct of love, by which almost his body thought, was present. her hands were busy adjusting her dress; a forced and unnecessary movement jem could not help thinking. her accost was quiet and friendly, if grave; she felt that she reddened like a rose, and wished she could prevent it, while jem wondered if her blushes arose from fear, or anger, or love. she was very cunning, i am afraid. she pretended to read diligently, and not to listen to a word that was said, while, in fact, she heard all sounds, even to jem's long, deep sighs, which wrung her heart. at last she took up her bible, and as if their conversation disturbed her, went up-stairs to her little room. and she had scarcely spoken a word to jem; scarcely looked at him; never noticed his beautiful sweet nancy, which only awaited her least word of praise to be hers! he did not know--that pang was spared--that in her little dingy bed-room, stood a white jug, filled with a luxuriant bunch of early spring roses, making the whole room fragrant and bright. they were the gift of her richer lover. so jem had to go on sitting with john barton, fairly caught in his own trap, and had to listen to his talk, and answer him as best he might. "there's the right stuff in this here 'star,' and no mistake. such a right-down piece for short hours." "at the same rate of wages as now?" asked jem. "ay, ay! else where's the use? it's only taking out o' the masters' pocket what they can well afford. did i ever tell yo what th' infirmary chap let me into, many a year agone?" "no," said jem, listlessly. "well! yo must know i were in th' infirmary for a fever, and times were rare and bad; and there be good chaps there to a man, while he's wick, [ ] whate'er they may be about cutting him up at after. [ ] so when i were better o' th' fever, but weak as water, they says to me, says they, 'if yo can write, yo may stay in a week longer, and help our surgeon wi' sorting his papers; and we'll take care yo've your belly full o' meat and drink. yo'll be twice as strong in a week.' so there wanted but one word to that bargain. so i were set to writing and copying; th' writing i could do well enough, but they'd such queer ways o' spelling that i'd ne'er been used to, that i'd to look first at th' copy and then at my letters, for all the world like a cock picking up grains o' corn. but one thing startled me e'en then, and i thought i'd make bold to ask the surgeon the meaning o't. i've gotten no head for numbers, but this i know, that by _far th' greater part o' th' accidents as comed in, happened in th' last two hours o' work_, when folk getten tired and careless. th' surgeon said it were all true, and that he were going to bring that fact to light." [footnote : "wick," alive. anglo-saxon, cwic. "the _quick_ and the dead."--_book of common prayer._] [footnote : "at after." "_at after souper goth this noble king._" _chaucer; the squire's tale._] jem was pondering mary's conduct; but the pause made him aware he ought to utter some civil listening noise; so he said "very true." "ay, it's true enough, my lad, that we're sadly over-borne, and worse will come of it afore long. block-printers is going to strike; they'n getten a bang-up union, as won't let 'em be put upon. but there's many a thing will happen afore long, as folk don't expect. yo may take my word for that, jem." jem was very willing to take it, but did not express the curiosity he should have done. so john barton thought he'd try another hint or two. "working folk won't be ground to the dust much longer. we'n a' had as much to bear as human nature can bear. so, if th' masters can't do us no good, and they say they can't, we mun try higher folk." still jem was not curious. he gave up hope of seeing mary again by her own good free will; and the next best thing would be, to be alone to think of her. so, muttering something which he meant to serve as an excuse for his sudden departure, he hastily wished john good afternoon, and left him to resume his pipe and his politics. for three years past, trade had been getting worse and worse, and the price of provisions higher and higher. this disparity between the amount of the earnings of the working classes and the price of their food, occasioned, in more cases than could well be imagined, disease and death. whole families went through a gradual starvation. they only wanted a dante to record their sufferings. and yet even his words would fall short of the awful truth; they could only present an outline of the tremendous facts of the destitution that surrounded thousands upon thousands in the terrible years , , and . even philanthropists who had studied the subject, were forced to own themselves perplexed in their endeavour to ascertain the real causes of the misery; the whole matter was of so complicated a nature, that it became next to impossible to understand it thoroughly. it need excite no surprise then to learn that a bad feeling between working-men and the upper classes became very strong in this season of privation. the indigence and sufferings of the operatives induced a suspicion in the minds of many of them, that their legislators, their magistrates, their employers, and even the ministers of religion, were, in general, their oppressors and enemies; and were in league for their prostration and enthralment. the most deplorable and enduring evil that arose out of the period of commercial depression to which i refer, was this feeling of alienation between the different classes of society. it is so impossible to describe, or even faintly to picture, the state of distress which prevailed in the town at that time, that i will not attempt it; and yet i think again that surely, in a christian land, it was not known even so feebly as words could tell it, or the more happy and fortunate would have thronged with their sympathy and their aid. in many instances the sufferers wept first, and then they cursed. their vindictive feelings exhibited themselves in rabid politics. and when i hear, as i have heard, of the sufferings and privations of the poor, of provision shops where ha'porths of tea, sugar, butter, and even flour, were sold to accommodate the indigent,--of parents sitting in their clothes by the fire-side during the whole night for seven weeks together, in order that their only bed and bedding might be reserved for the use of their large family,--of others sleeping upon the cold hearth-stone for weeks in succession, without adequate means of providing themselves with food or fuel (and this in the depth of winter),--of others being compelled to fast for days together, uncheered by any hope of better fortune, living, moreover, or rather starving, in a crowded garret, or damp cellar, and gradually sinking under the pressure of want and despair into a premature grave; and when this has been confirmed by the evidence of their care-worn looks, their excited feelings, and their desolate homes,--can i wonder that many of them, in such times of misery and destitution, spoke and acted with ferocious precipitation? an idea was now springing up among the operatives, that originated with the chartists, but which came at last to be cherished as a darling child by many and many a one. they could not believe that government knew of their misery; they rather chose to think it possible that men could voluntarily assume the office of legislators for a nation, ignorant of its real state; as who should make domestic rules for the pretty behaviour of children, without caring to know that those children had been kept for days without food. besides, the starving multitudes had heard, that the very existence of their distress had been denied in parliament; and though they felt this strange and inexplicable, yet the idea that their misery had still to be revealed in all its depths, and that then some remedy would be found, soothed their aching hearts, and kept down their rising fury. so a petition was framed, and signed by thousands in the bright spring days of , imploring parliament to hear witnesses who could testify to the unparalleled destitution of the manufacturing districts. nottingham, sheffield, glasgow, manchester, and many other towns, were busy appointing delegates to convey this petition, who might speak, not merely of what they had seen, and had heard, but from what they had borne and suffered. life-worn, gaunt, anxious, hunger-stamped men, were those delegates. one of them was john barton. he would have been ashamed to own the flutter of spirits his appointment gave him. there was the childish delight of seeing london--that went a little way, and but a little way. there was the vain idea of speaking out his notions before so many grand folk--that went a little further; and last, there was the really pure gladness of heart, arising from the idea that he was one of those chosen to be instruments in making known the distresses of the people, and consequently in procuring them some grand relief, by means of which they should never suffer want or care any more. he hoped largely, but vaguely, of the results of his expedition. an argosy of the precious hopes of many otherwise despairing creatures, was that petition to be heard concerning their sufferings. the night before the morning on which the manchester delegates were to leave for london, barton might be said to hold a levée, so many neighbours came dropping in. job legh had early established himself and his pipe by john barton's fire, not saying much, but puffing away, and imagining himself of use in adjusting the smoothing-irons that hung before the fire, ready for mary when she should want them. as for mary, her employment was the same as that of beau tibbs' wife, "just washing her father's two shirts," in the pantry back-kitchen; for she was anxious about his appearance in london. (the coat had been redeemed, though the silk handkerchief was forfeited.) the door stood open, as usual, between the houseplace and back-kitchen, so she gave her greeting to their friends as they entered. "so, john, yo're bound for london, are yo?" said one. "ay, i suppose i mun go," answered john, yielding to necessity as it were. "well, there's many a thing i'd like yo to speak on to the parliament people. thou'lt not spare 'em, john, i hope. tell 'em our minds; how we're thinking we've been clemmed long enough, and we donnot see whatten good they'n been doing, if they can't give us what we're all crying for sin' the day we were born." "ay, ay! i'll tell 'em that, and much more to it, when it gets to my turn; but thou knows there's many will have their word afore me." "well, thou'lt speak at last. bless thee, lad, do ask 'em to make th' masters break th' machines. there's never been good times sin' spinning-jennies came up." "machines is th' ruin of poor folk," chimed in several voices. "for my part," said a shivering, half-clad man, who crept near the fire, as if ague-stricken, "i would like thee to tell 'em to pass th' short-hours bill. flesh and blood gets wearied wi' so much work; why should factory hands work so much longer nor other trades? just ask 'em that, barton, will ye?" barton was saved the necessity of answering, by the entrance of mrs. davenport, the poor widow he had been so kind to; she looked half-fed, and eager, but was decently clad. in her hand she brought a little newspaper parcel, which she took to mary, who opened it, and then called out, dangling a shirt collar from her soapy fingers: "see, father, what a dandy you'll be in london! mrs. davenport has brought you this; made new cut, all after the fashion.--thank you for thinking on him." "eh, mary!" said mrs. davenport, in a low voice. "whatten's all i can do, to what he's done for me and mine? but, mary, sure i can help ye, for you'll be busy wi' this journey." "just help me wring these out, and then i'll take 'em to th' mangle." so mrs. davenport became a listener to the conversation; and after a while joined in. "i'm sure, john barton, if yo are taking messages to the parliament folk, yo'll not object to telling 'em what a sore trial it is, this law o' theirs, keeping childer fra' factory work, whether they be weakly or strong. there's our ben; why, porridge seems to go no way wi' him, he eats so much; and i han gotten no money to send him t' school, as i would like; and there he is, rampaging about th' streets a' day, getting hungrier and hungrier, and picking up a' manner o' bad ways; and th' inspector won't let him in to work in th' factory, because he's not right age; though he's twice as strong as sankey's little ritling [ ] of a lad, as works till he cries for his legs aching so, though he is right age, and better." [footnote : "ritling," probably a corruption of "ricketling," a child that suffers from the rickets--a weakling.] "i've one plan i wish to tell john barton," said a pompous, careful-speaking man, "and i should like him for to lay it afore the honourable house. my mother comed out o' oxfordshire, and were under-laundry-maid in sir francis dashwood's family; and when we were little ones, she'd tell us stories of their grandeur; and one thing she named were, that sir francis wore two shirts a day. now he were all as one as a parliament man; and many on 'em, i han no doubt, are like extravagant. just tell 'em, john, do, that they'd be doing th' lancashire weavers a great kindness, if they'd ha' their shirts a' made o' calico; 'twould make trade brisk, that would, wi' the power o' shirts they wear." job legh now put in his word. taking the pipe out of his mouth, and addressing the last speaker, he said: "i'll tell ye what, bill, and no offence, mind ye; there's but hundreds of them parliament folk as wear so many shirts to their back; but there's thousands and thousands o' poor weavers as han only gotten one shirt i' th' world; ay, and don't know where t' get another when that rag's done, though they're turning out miles o' calico every day; and many a mile o't is lying in warehouses, stopping up trade for want o' purchasers. yo take my advice, john barton, and ask parliament to set trade free, so as workmen can earn a decent wage, and buy their two, ay and three, shirts a-year; that would make weaving brisk." he put his pipe in his mouth again, and redoubled his puffing to make up for lost time. "i'm afeard, neighbours," said john barton, "i've not much chance o' telling 'em all yo say; what i think on, is just speaking out about the distress that they say is nought. when they hear o' children born on wet flags, without a rag t' cover 'em, or a bit o' food for th' mother; when they hear of folk lying down to die i' th' streets, or hiding their want i' some hole o' a cellar till death come to set 'em free; and when they hear o' all this plague, pestilence, and famine, they'll surely do somewhat wiser for us than we can guess at now. howe'er, i han no objection, if so be there's an opening, to speak up for what yo say; anyhow, i'll do my best, and yo see now, if better times don't come after parliament knows all." some shook their heads, but more looked cheery; and then one by one dropped off, leaving john and his daughter alone. "didst thou mark how poorly jane wilson looked?" asked he, as they wound up their hard day's work by a supper eaten over the fire, which glowed and glimmered through the room, and formed their only light. "no, i can't say as i did. but she's never rightly held up her head since the twins died; and all along she has never been a strong woman." "never sin' her accident. afore that i mind her looking as fresh and likely a girl as e'er a one in manchester." "what accident, father?" "she cotched [ ] her side again a wheel. it were afore wheels were boxed up. it were just when she were to have been married, and many a one thought george would ha' been off his bargain; but i knew he wern't the chap for that trick. pretty near the first place she went to when she were able to go about again, was th' oud church; poor wench, all pale and limping she went up the aisle, george holding her up as tender as a mother, and walking as slow as e'er he could, not to hurry her, though there were plenty enow of rude lads to cast their jests at him and her. her face were white like a sheet when she came in church, but afore she got to th' altar she were all one flush. but for a' that it's been a happy marriage, and george has stuck by me through life like a brother. he'll never hold up his head again if he loses jane. i didn't like her looks to-night." [footnote : "cotched," caught.] and so he went to bed, the fear of forthcoming sorrow to his friend mingling with his thoughts of to-morrow, and his hopes for the future. mary watched him set off, with her hands over her eyes to shade them from the bright slanting rays of the morning sun, and then she turned into the house to arrange its disorder before going to her work. she wondered if she should like or dislike the evening and morning solitude; for several hours when the clock struck she thought of her father, and wondered where he was; she made good resolutions according to her lights; and by-and-bye came the distractions and events of the broad full day to occupy her with the present, and to deaden the memory of the absent. one of mary's resolutions was, that she would not be persuaded or induced to see mr. harry carson during her father's absence. there was something crooked in her conscience after all; for this very resolution seemed an acknowledgment that it was wrong to meet him at any time; and yet she had brought herself to think her conduct quite innocent and proper, for although unknown to her father, and certain, even did he know it, to fail of obtaining his sanction, she esteemed her love-meetings with mr. carson as sure to end in her father's good and happiness. but now that he was away, she would do nothing that he would disapprove of; no, not even though it was for his own good in the end. now, amongst miss simmonds' young ladies was one who had been from the beginning a confidant in mary's love affair, made so by mr. carson himself. he had felt the necessity of some third person to carry letters and messages, and to plead his cause when he was absent. in a girl named sally leadbitter he had found a willing advocate. she would have been willing to have embarked in a love-affair herself (especially a clandestine one), for the mere excitement of the thing; but her willingness was strengthened by sundry half-sovereigns, which from time to time mr. carson bestowed upon her. sally leadbitter was vulgar-minded to the last degree; never easy unless her talk was of love and lovers; in her eyes it was an honour to have had a long list of wooers. so constituted, it was a pity that sally herself was but a plain, red-haired, freckled girl; never likely, one would have thought, to become a heroine on her own account. but what she lacked in beauty she tried to make up for by a kind of witty boldness, which gave her what her betters would have called piquancy. considerations of modesty or propriety never checked her utterance of a good thing. she had just talent enough to corrupt others. her very good-nature was an evil influence. they could not hate one who was so kind; they could not avoid one who was so willing to shield them from scrapes by any exertion of her own; whose ready fingers would at any time make up for their deficiencies, and whose still more convenient tongue would at any time invent for them. the jews, or mohammedans (i forget which), believe that there is one little bone of our body, one of the vertebræ, if i remember rightly, which will never decay and turn to dust, but will lie incorrupt and indestructible in the ground until the last day: this is the seed of the soul. the most depraved have also their seed of the holiness that shall one day overcome their evil, their one good quality, lurking hidden, but safe, among all the corrupt and bad. sally's seed of the future soul was her love for her mother, an aged bedridden woman. for her she had self-denial; for her, her good-nature rose into tenderness; to cheer her lonely bed, her spirits, in the evenings when her body was often woefully tired, never flagged, but were ready to recount the events of the day, to turn them into ridicule, and to mimic, with admirable fidelity, any person gifted with an absurdity who had fallen under her keen eye. but the mother was lightly principled like sally herself; nor was there need to conceal from her the reason why mr. carson gave her so much money. she chuckled with pleasure, and only hoped that the wooing would be long a-doing. still neither she, nor her daughter, nor harry carson liked this resolution of mary, not to see him during her father's absence. one evening (and the early summer evenings were long and bright now), sally met mr. carson by appointment, to be charged with a letter for mary, imploring her to see him, which sally was to back with all her powers of persuasion. after parting from him she determined, as it was not so very late, to go at once to mary's, and deliver the message and letter. she found mary in great sorrow. she had just heard of george wilson's sudden death: her old friend, her father's friend, jem's father--all his claims came rushing upon her. though not guarded from unnecessary sight or sound of death, as the children of the rich are, yet it had so often been brought home to her this last three or four months. it was so terrible thus to see friend after friend depart. her father, too, who had dreaded jane wilson's death the evening before he set off. and she, the weakly, was left behind while the strong man was taken. at any rate the sorrow her father had so feared for him was spared. such were the thoughts which came over her. she could not go to comfort the bereaved, even if comfort were in her power to give; for she had resolved to avoid jem; and she felt that this of all others was not the occasion on which she could keep up a studiously cold manner. and in this shock of grief, sally leadbitter was the last person she wished to see. however, she rose to welcome her, betraying her tear-swollen face. "well, i shall tell mr. carson to-morrow how you're fretting for him; it's no more nor he's doing for you, i can tell you." "for him, indeed!" said mary, with a toss of her pretty head. "ay, miss, for him! you've been sighing as if your heart would break now for several days, over your work; now arn't you a little goose not to go and see one who i am sure loves you as his life, and whom you love; 'how much, mary?' 'this much,' as the children say" (opening her arms very wide). "nonsense," said mary, pouting; "i often think i don't love him at all." "and i'm to tell him that, am i, next time i see him?" asked sally. "if you like," replied mary. "i'm sure i don't care for that or any thing else now;" weeping afresh. but sally did not like to be the bearer of any such news. she saw she had gone on the wrong tack, and that mary's heart was too full to value either message or letter as she ought. so she wisely paused in their delivery, and said in a more sympathetic tone than she had heretofore used, "do tell me, mary, what's fretting you so? you know i never could abide to see you cry." "george wilson's dropped down dead this afternoon," said mary, fixing her eyes for one minute on sally, and the next hiding her face in her apron as she sobbed anew. "dear, dear! all flesh is grass; here to-day and gone to-morrow, as the bible says. still he was an old man, and not good for much; there's better folk than him left behind. is th' canting old maid as was his sister alive yet?" "i don't know who you mean," said mary, sharply; for she did know, and did not like to have her dear, simple alice so spoken of. "come, mary, don't be so innocent. is miss alice wilson alive, then; will that please you? i haven't seen her hereabouts lately." "no, she's left living here. when the twins died she thought she could, may be, be of use to her sister, who was sadly cast down, and alice thought she could cheer her up; at any rate she could listen to her when her heart grew overburdened; so she gave up her cellar and went to live with them." "well, good go with her. i'd no fancy for her, and i'd no fancy for her making my pretty mary into a methodee." "she wasn't a methodee, she was church o' england." "well, well, mary, you're very particular. you know what i meant. look, who is this letter from?" holding up henry carson's letter. "i don't know, and don't care," said mary, turning very red. "my eye! as if i didn't know you did know and did care." "well, give it me," said mary, impatiently, and anxious in her present mood for her visitor's departure. sally relinquished it unwillingly. she had, however, the pleasure of seeing mary dimple and blush as she read the letter, which seemed to say the writer was not indifferent to her. "you must tell him i can't come," said mary, raising her eyes at last. "i have said i won't meet him while father is away, and i won't." "but, mary, he does so look for you. you'd be quite sorry for him, he's so put out about not seeing you. besides you go when your father's at home, without letting on [ ] to him, and what harm would there be in going now?" [footnote : "letting on," informing. in anglo-saxon, one meaning of "lætan" was "to admit;" and we say, to _let_ out a secret.] "well, sally! you know my answer, i won't; and i won't." "i'll tell him to come and see you himself some evening, instead o' sending me; he'd may be find you not so hard to deal with." mary flashed up. "if he dares to come here while father's away, i'll call the neighbours in to turn him out, so don't be putting him up to that." "mercy on us! one would think you were the first girl that ever had a lover; have you never heard what other girls do and think no shame of?" "hush, sally! that's margaret jennings at the door." and in an instant margaret was in the room. mary had begged job legh to let her come and sleep with her. in the uncertain fire-light you could not help noticing that she had the groping walk of a blind person. "well, i must go, mary," said sally. "and that's your last word?" "yes, yes; good-night." she shut the door gladly on her unwelcome visitor--unwelcome at that time at least. "oh margaret, have ye heard this sad news about george wilson?" "yes, that i have. poor creatures, they've been sore tried lately. not that i think sudden death so bad a thing; it's easy, and there's no terrors for him as dies. for them as survives it's very hard. poor george! he were such a hearty looking man." "margaret," said mary, who had been closely observing her friend, "thou'rt very blind to-night, arn't thou? is it wi' crying? your eyes are so swollen and red." "yes, dear! but not crying for sorrow. han ye heard where i was last night?" "no; where?" "look here." she held up a bright golden sovereign. mary opened her large gray eyes with astonishment. "i'll tell you all how and about it. you see there's a gentleman lecturing on music at th' mechanics', and he wants folk to sing his songs. well, last night th' counter got a sore throat and couldn't make a note. so they sent for me. jacob butterworth had said a good word for me, and they asked me would i sing? you may think i was frightened, but i thought now or never, and said i'd do my best. so i tried o'er the songs wi' th' lecturer, and then th' managers told me i were to make myself decent and be there by seven." "and what did you put on?" asked mary. "oh, why didn't you come in for my pretty pink gingham?" "i did think on't; but you had na come home then. no! i put on my merino, as was turned last winter, and my white shawl, and did my hair pretty tidy; it did well enough. well, but as i was saying, i went at seven. i couldn't see to read my music, but i took th' paper in wi' me, to ha' somewhat to do wi' my fingers. th' folks' heads danced, as i stood as right afore 'em all as if i'd been going to play at ball wi' 'em. you may guess i felt squeamish, but mine weren't the first song, and th' music sounded like a friend's voice, telling me to take courage. so to make a long story short, when it were all o'er th' lecturer thanked me, and th' managers said as how there never was a new singer so applauded (for they'd clapped and stamped after i'd done, till i began to wonder how many pair o' shoes they'd get through a week at that rate, let alone their hands). so i'm to sing again o' thursday; and i got a sovereign last night, and am to have half-a-sovereign every night th' lecturer is at th' mechanics'." "well, margaret, i'm right glad to hear it." "and i don't think you've heard the best bit yet. now that a way seemed opened to me, of not being a burden to any one, though it did please god to make me blind, i thought i'd tell grandfather. i only telled him about the singing and the sovereign last night, for i thought i'd not send him to bed wi' a heavy heart; but this morning i telled him all." "and how did he take it?" "he's not a man of many words; and it took him by surprise like." "i wonder at that; i've noticed it in your ways ever since you telled me." "ay, that's it! if i'd not telled you, and you'd seen me every day, you'd not ha' noticed the little mite o' difference fra' day to day." "well, but what did your grandfather say?" "why, mary," said margaret, half smiling, "i'm a bit loath to tell yo, for unless yo knew grandfather's ways like me, yo'd think it strange. he were taken by surprise, and he said: 'damn yo!' then he began looking at his book as it were, and were very quiet, while i telled him all about it; how i'd feared, and how downcast i'd been; and how i were now reconciled to it, if it were th' lord's will; and how i hoped to earn money by singing; and while i were talking, i saw great big tears come dropping on th' book; but in course i never let on that i saw 'em. dear grandfather! and all day long he's been quietly moving things out o' my way, as he thought might trip me up, and putting things in my way, as he thought i might want; never knowing i saw and felt what he were doing; for, yo see, he thinks i'm out and out blind, i guess--as i shall be soon." margaret sighed, in spite of her cheerful and relieved tone. though mary caught the sigh, she felt it was better to let it pass without notice, and began, with the tact which true sympathy rarely fails to supply, to ask a variety of questions respecting her friend's musical debut, which tended to bring out more distinctly how successful it had been. "why, margaret," at length she exclaimed, "thou'lt become as famous, may be, as that grand lady fra' london, as we seed one night driving up to th' concert room door in her carriage." "it looks very like it," said margaret, with a smile. "and be sure, mary, i'll not forget to give thee a lift now an' then when that comes about. nay, who knows, if thou'rt a good girl, but mayhappen i may make thee my lady's maid! wouldn't that be nice? so i'll e'en sing to mysel' th' beginning o' one o' my songs, 'an' ye shall walk in silk attire, an' siller hae to spare.'" "nay, don't stop; or else give me something a bit more new, for somehow i never quite liked that part about thinking o' donald mair." "well, though i'm a bit tir'd, i don't care if i do. before i come, i were practising well nigh upon two hours this one which i'm to sing o' thursday. th' lecturer said he were sure it would just suit me, and i should do justice to it; and i should be right sorry to disappoint him, he were so nice and encouraging like to me. eh! mary, what a pity there isn't more o' that way, and less scolding and rating i' th' world! it would go a vast deal further. beside, some o' th' singers said they were a'most certain it were a song o' his own, because he were so fidgetty and particular about it, and so anxious i should give it th' proper expression. and that makes me care still more. th' first verse, he said, were to be sung 'tenderly, but joyously!' i'm afraid i don't quite hit that, but i'll try. 'what a single word can do! thrilling all the heart-strings through, calling forth fond memories, raining round hope's melodies, steeping all in one bright hue-- what a single word can do!' now it falls into th' minor key, and must be very sad like. i feel as if i could do that better than t'other. 'what a single word can do! making life seem all untrue, driving joy and hope away, leaving not one cheering ray blighting every flower that grew-- what a single word can do!'" margaret certainly made the most of this little song. as a factory worker, listening outside, observed, "she spun it reet [ ] fine!" and if she only sang it at the mechanics' with half the feeling she put into it that night, the lecturer must have been hard to please, if he did not admit that his expectations were more than fulfilled. [footnote : "reet," right; often used for "very."] when it was ended, mary's looks told more than words could have done what she thought of it; and partly to keep in a tear which would fain have rolled out, she brightened into a laugh, and said, "for certain, th' carriage is coming. so let us go and dream on it." chapter ix. barton's london experiences. "a life of self-indulgence is for us, a life of self-denial is for them; for us the streets, broad-built and populous, for them unhealthy corners, garrets dim, and cellars where the water-rat may swim! for us green paths refreshed by frequent rain, for them dark alleys where the dust lies grim! not doomed by us to this appointed pain-- god made us rich and poor--of what do these complain?" mrs. norton's "child of the islands." the next evening it was a warm, pattering, incessant rain, just the rain to waken up the flowers. but in manchester, where, alas! there are no flowers, the rain had only a disheartening and gloomy effect; the streets were wet and dirty, the drippings from the houses were wet and dirty, and the people were wet and dirty. indeed, most kept within-doors; and there was an unusual silence of footsteps in the little paved courts. mary had to change her clothes after her walk home; and had hardly settled herself before she heard some one fumbling at the door. the noise continued long enough to allow her to get up, and go and open it. there stood--could it be? yes it was, her father! drenched and way-worn, there he stood! he came in with no word to mary in return for her cheery and astonished greeting. he sat down by the fire in his wet things, unheeding. but mary would not let him so rest. she ran up and brought down his working-day clothes, and went into the pantry to rummage up their little bit of provision while he changed by the fire, talking all the while as gaily as she could, though her father's depression hung like lead on her heart. for mary, in her seclusion at miss simmonds',--where the chief talk was of fashions, and dress, and parties to be given, for which such and such gowns would be wanted, varied with a slight whispered interlude occasionally about love and lovers,--had not heard the political news of the day: that parliament had refused to listen to the working-men, when they petitioned with all the force of their rough, untutored words to be heard concerning the distress which was riding, like the conqueror on his pale horse, among the people; which was crushing their lives out of them, and stamping woe-marks over the land. when he had eaten and was refreshed, they sat in silence for some time; for mary wished him to tell her what oppressed him so, yet durst not ask. in this she was wise; for when we are heavy laden in our hearts, it falls in better with our humour to reveal our case in our own way, and our own time. mary sat on a stool at her father's feet in old childish guise, and stole her hand into his, while his sadness infected her, and she "caught the trick of grief, and sighed," she knew not why. "mary, we mun speak to our god to hear us, for man will not hearken; no, not now, when we weep tears o' blood." in an instant mary understood the fact, if not the details, that so weighed down her father's heart. she pressed his hand with silent sympathy. she did not know what to say, and was so afraid of speaking wrongly, that she was silent. but when his attitude had remained unchanged for more than half-an-hour, his eyes gazing vacantly and fixedly at the fire, no sound but now and then a deep drawn sigh to break the weary ticking of the clock, and the drip-drop from the roof without, mary could bear it no longer. any thing to rouse her father. even bad news. "father, do you know george wilson's dead?" (her hand was suddenly and almost violently compressed.) "he dropped down dead in oxford road yester morning. it's very sad, isn't it, father?" her tears were ready to flow as she looked up in her father's face for sympathy. still the same fixed look of despair, not varied by grief for the dead. "best for him to die," he said, in a low voice. this was unbearable. mary got up under pretence of going to tell margaret that she need not come to sleep with her to-night, but really to ask job legh to come and cheer her father. she stopped outside their door. margaret was practising her singing, and through the still night air her voice rang out like that of an angel. "comfort ye, comfort ye, my people, saith your god." the old hebrew prophetic words fell like dew on mary's heart. she could not interrupt. she stood listening and "comforted," till the little buzz of conversation again began, and then entered and told her errand. both grandfather and grand-daughter rose instantly to fulfil her request. "he's just tired out, mary," said old job. "he'll be a different man to-morrow." there is no describing the looks and tones that have power over an aching, heavy laden heart; but in an hour or so john barton was talking away as freely as ever, though all his talk ran, as was natural, on the disappointment of his fond hope, of the forlorn hope of many. "ay, london's a fine place," said he, "and finer folk live in it than i ever thought on, or ever heerd tell on except in th' story-books. they are having their good things now, that afterwards they may be tormented." still at the old parable of dives and lazarus! does it haunt the minds of the rich as it does those of the poor? "do tell us all about london, dear father," asked mary, who was sitting at her old post by her father's knee. "how can i tell yo a' about it, when i never seed one-tenth of it. it's as big as six manchesters, they telled me. one-sixth may be made up o' grand palaces, and three-sixths o' middling kind, and th' rest o' holes o' iniquity and filth, such as manchester knows nought on, i'm glad to say." "well, father, but did you see th' queen?" "i believe i didn't, though one day i thought i'd seen her many a time. you see," said he, turning to job legh, "there were a day appointed for us to go to parliament house. we were most on us biding at a public-house in holborn, where they did very well for us. th' morning of taking our petition we'd such a spread for breakfast as th' queen hersel might ha' sitten down to. i suppose they thought we wanted putting in heart. there were mutton kidneys, and sausages, and broiled ham, and fried beef and onions; more like a dinner nor a breakfast. many on our chaps though, i could see, could eat but little. th' food stuck in their throats when they thought o' them at home, wives and little ones, as had, may be at that very time, nought to eat. well, after breakfast, we were all set to walk in procession, and a time it took to put us in order, two and two, and the petition as was yards long, carried by th' foremost pairs. the men looked grave enough, yo may be sure; and such a set of thin, wan, wretched-looking chaps as they were!" "yourself is none to boast on." "ay, but i were fat and rosy to many a one. well, we walked on and on through many a street, much the same as deansgate. we had to walk slowly, slowly, for th' carriages an' cabs as thronged th' streets. i thought by-and-bye we should may be get clear on 'em, but as th' streets grew wider they grew worse, and at last we were fairly blocked up at oxford street. we getten across at last though, and my eyes! the grand streets we were in then! they're sadly puzzled how to build houses though in london; there'd be an opening for a good steady master-builder there, as know'd his business. for yo see the houses are many on 'em built without any proper shape for a body to live in; some on 'em they've after thought would fall down, so they've stuck great ugly pillars out before 'em. and some on 'em (we thought they must be th' tailor's sign) had getten stone men and women as wanted clothes stuck on 'em. i were like a child, i forgot a' my errand in looking about me. by this it were dinner-time, or better, as we could tell by th' sun, right above our heads, and we were dusty and tired, going a step now and a step then. well, at last we getten into a street grander nor all, leading to th' queen's palace, and there it were i thought i saw th' queen. yo've seen th' hearses wi' white plumes, job?" job assented. "well, them undertaker folk are driving a pretty trade in london. wellnigh every lady we saw in a carriage had hired one o' them plumes for the day, and had it niddle noddling on her head. it were th' queen's drawing-room, they said, and th' carriages went bowling along toward her house, some wi' dressed up gentlemen like circus folk in 'em, and rucks [ ] o' ladies in others. carriages themselves were great shakes too. some o' th' gentlemen as couldn't get inside hung on behind, wi' nosegays to smell at, and sticks to keep off folk as might splash their silk stockings. i wondered why they didn't hire a cab rather than hang on like a whip-behind boy; but i suppose they wished to keep wi' their wives, darby and joan like. coachmen were little squat men, wi' wigs like th' oud fashioned parsons. well, we could na get on for these carriages, though we waited and waited. th' horses were too fat to move quick; they'n never known want o' food, one might tell by their sleek coats; and police pushed us back when we tried to cross. one or two on 'em struck wi' their sticks, and coachmen laughed, and some officers as stood nigh put their spy-glasses in their eye, and left 'em sticking there like mountebanks. one o' th' police struck me. 'whatten business have yo to do that?' said i. [footnote : "rucks," a great quantity.] "'you're frightening them horses,' says he, in his mincing way (for londoners are mostly all tongue-tied, and can't say their a's and i's properly), 'and it's our business to keep you from molesting the ladies and gentlemen going to her majesty's drawing-room.' "'and why are we to be molested?' asked i, 'going decently about our business, which is life and death to us, and many a little one clemming at home in lancashire? which business is of most consequence i' the sight o' god, think yo, our'n or them gran ladies and gentlemen as yo think so much on?' "but i might as well ha' held my peace, for he only laughed." john ceased. after waiting a little to see if he would go on of himself, job said, "well, but that's not a' your story, man. tell us what happened when yo got to th' parliament house." after a little pause john answered, "if yo please, neighbour, i'd rather say nought about that. it's not to be forgotten or forgiven either by me or many another; but i canna tell of our down-casting just as a piece of london news. as long as i live, our rejection that day will bide in my heart; and as long as i live i shall curse them as so cruelly refused to hear us; but i'll not speak of it no [ ] more." [footnote : a similar use of a double negative is not unfrequent in chaucer; as in the "miller's tale": "that of no wife toke he non offering for curtesie, he sayd, he n'old non."] so, daunted in their inquiries, they sat silent for a few minutes. old job, however, felt that some one must speak, else all the good they had done in dispelling john barton's gloom was lost. so after awhile he thought of a subject, neither sufficiently dissonant from the last to jar on the full heart, nor too much the same to cherish the continuance of the gloomy train of thought. "did you ever hear tell," said he to mary, "that i were in london once?" "no!" said she, with surprise, and looking at job with increased respect. "ay, but i were though, and peg there too, though she minds nought about it, poor wench! you must know i had but one child, and she were margaret's mother. i loved her above a bit, and one day when she came (standing behind me for that i should not see her blushes, and stroking my cheeks in her own coaxing way), and told me she and frank jennings (as was a joiner lodging near us) should be so happy if they were married, i could not find in my heart t' say her nay, though i went sick at the thought of losing her away from my home. howe'er, she were my only child, and i never said nought of what i felt, for fear o' grieving her young heart. but i tried to think o' the time when i'd been young mysel, and had loved her blessed mother, and how we'd left father and mother and gone out into th' world together, and i'm now right thankful i held my peace, and didna fret her wi' telling her how sore i was at parting wi' her that were the light o' my eyes." "but," said mary, "you said the young man were a neighbour." "ay, so he were; and his father afore him. but work were rather slack in manchester, and frank's uncle sent him word o' london work and london wages, so he were to go there; and it were there margaret was to follow him. well, my heart aches yet at thought of those days. she so happy, and he so happy; only the poor father as fretted sadly behind their backs. they were married, and stayed some days wi' me afore setting off; and i've often thought sin' margaret's heart failed her many a time those few days, and she would fain ha' spoken; but i knew fra' mysel it were better to keep it pent up, and i never let on what i were feeling. i knew what she meant when she came kissing, and holding my hand, and all her old childish ways o' loving me. well, they went at last. you know them two letters, margaret?" "yes, sure," replied his grand-daughter. "well, them two were the only letters i ever had fra' her, poor lass. she said in them she were very happy, and i believe she were. and frank's family heard he were in good work. in one o' her letters, poor thing, she ends wi' saying, 'farewell, grandad!' wi' a line drawn under grandad, and fra' that an' other hints i knew she were in th' family way; and i said nought, but i screwed up a little money, thinking come whitsuntide i'd take a holiday and go and see her an' th' little one. but one day towards whitsuntide comed jennings wi' a grave face, and says he, 'i hear our frank and your margaret's both getten the fever.' you might ha' knocked me down wi' a straw, for it seemed as if god told me what th' upshot would be. old jennings had gotten a letter, yo see, fra' the landlady they lodged wi'; a well-penned letter, asking if they'd no friends to come and nurse them. she'd caught it first, and frank, who was as tender o' her as her own mother could ha' been, had nursed her till he'd caught it himsel; and she expecting her down-lying [ ] every day. well, t' make a long story short, old jennings and i went up by that night's coach. so you see, mary, that was the way i got to london." [footnote : "down-lying," lying-in.] "but how was your daughter when you got there?" asked mary, anxiously. "she were at rest, poor wench, and so were frank. i guessed as much when i see'd th' landlady's face, all swelled wi' crying, when she opened th' door to us. we said, 'where are they?' and i knew they were dead, fra' her look; but jennings didn't, as i take it; for when she showed us into a room wi' a white sheet on th' bed, and underneath it, plain to be seen, two still figures, he screeched out as if he'd been a woman. "yet he'd other childer and i'd none. there lay my darling, my only one. she were dead, and there were no one to love me, no, not one. i disremember [ ] rightly what i did; but i know i were very quiet, while my heart were crushed within me. [footnote : "disremember," forget.] "jennings could na' stand being in th' room at all, so th' landlady took him down, and i were glad to be alone. it grew dark while i sat there; and at last th' landlady come up again, and said, 'come here.' so i got up and walked into th' light, but i had to hold by th' stair-rails, i were so weak and dizzy. she led me into a room, where jennings lay on a sofa fast asleep, wi' his pocket handkercher over his head for a night-cap. she said he'd cried himself fairly off to sleep. there were tea on th' table all ready; for she were a kind-hearted body. but she still said, 'come here,' and took hold o' my arm. so i went round the table, and there were a clothes-basket by th' fire, wi' a shawl put o'er it. 'lift that up,' says she, and i did; and there lay a little wee babby fast asleep. my heart gave a leap, and th' tears comed rushing into my eyes first time that day. 'is it hers?' said i, though i knew it were. 'yes,' said she. 'she were getting a bit better o' the fever, and th' babby were born; and then the poor young man took worse and died, and she were not many hours behind.' "little mite of a thing! and yet it seemed her angel come back to comfort me. i were quite jealous o' jennings whenever he went near the babby. i thought it were more my flesh and blood than his'n, and yet i were afeared he would claim it. however, that were far enough fra' his thoughts; he'd plenty other childer, and as i found out at after he'd all along been wishing me to take it. well, we buried margaret and her husband in a big, crowded, lonely churchyard in london. i were loath to leave them there, as i thought, when they rose again, they'd feel so strange at first away fra manchester, and all old friends; but it couldna be helped. well, god watches o'er their grave there as well as here. that funeral cost a mint o' money, but jennings and i wished to do th' thing decent. then we'd the stout little babby to bring home. we'd not overmuch money left; but it were fine weather, and we thought we'd take th' coach to brummagem, and walk on. it were a bright may morning when last i saw london town, looking back from a big hill a mile or two off. and in that big mass o' a place i were leaving my blessed child asleep--in her last sleep. well, god's will be done! she's gotten to heaven afore me; but i shall get there at last, please god, though it's a long while first. "the babby had been fed afore we set out, and th' coach moving kept it asleep, bless its little heart. but when th' coach stopped for dinner it were awake, and crying for its pobbies. [ ] so we asked for some bread and milk, and jennings took it first for to feed it; but it made its mouth like a square, and let it run out at each o' th' four corners. 'shake it, jennings,' says i; 'that's the way they make water run through a funnel, when it's o'er full; and a child's mouth is broad end o' th' funnel, and th' gullet the narrow one.' so he shook it, but it only cried th' more. 'let me have it,' says i, thinking he were an awkward oud chap. but it were just as bad wi' me. by shaking th' babby we got better nor a gill into its mouth, but more nor that came up again, wetting a' th' nice dry clothes landlady had put on. well, just as we'd gotten to th' dinner-table, and helped oursels, and eaten two mouthful, came in th' guard, and a fine chap wi' a sample o' calico flourishing in his hand. 'coach is ready!' says one; 'half-a-crown your dinner!' says th' other. well, we thought it a deal for both our dinners, when we'd hardly tasted 'em; but, bless your life, it were half-a-crown apiece, and a shilling for th' bread and milk as were possetted all over babby's clothes. we spoke up again [ ] it; but every body said it were the rule, so what could two poor oud chaps like us do again it? well, poor babby cried without stopping to take breath, fra' that time till we got to brummagem for the night. my heart ached for th' little thing. it caught wi' its wee mouth at our coat sleeves and at our mouths, when we tried t' comfort it by talking to it. poor little wench! it wanted its mammy, as were lying cold in th' grave. 'well,' says i, 'it'll be clemmed to death, if it lets out its supper as it did its dinner. let's get some woman to feed it; it comes natural to women to do for babbies.' so we asked th' chamber-maid at the inn, and she took quite kindly to it; and we got a good supper, and grew rare and sleepy, what wi' th' warmth, and wi' our long ride i' th' open air. th' chamber-maid said she would like t' have it t' sleep wi' her, only missis would scold so; but it looked so quiet and smiling like, as it lay in her arms, that we thought 'twould be no trouble to have it wi' us. i says: 'see, jennings, how women-folk do quieten babbies; it's just as i said.' he looked grave; he were always thoughtful-looking, though i never heard him say any thing very deep. at last says he-- [footnote : "pobbies," or "pobs," child's porridge.] [footnote : "again," for against. "he that is not with me, he is ageyn me."--_wickliffe's version._] "'young woman! have you gotten a spare night-cap?' "'missis always keeps night-caps for gentlemen as does not like to unpack,' says she, rather quick. "'ay, but young woman, it's one of your night-caps i want. th' babby seems to have taken a mind to yo; and may be in th' dark it might take me for yo if i'd getten your night-cap on.' "the chambermaid smirked and went for a cap, but i laughed outright at th' oud bearded chap thinking he'd make hissel like a woman just by putting on a woman's cap. howe'er he'd not be laughed out on't, so i held th' babby till he were in bed. such a night as we had on it! babby began to scream o' th' oud fashion, and we took it turn and turn about to sit up and rock it. my heart were very sore for th' little one, as it groped about wi' its mouth; but for a' that i could scarce keep fra' smiling at th' thought o' us two oud chaps, th' one wi' a woman's night-cap on, sitting on our hinder ends for half th' night, hushabying a babby as wouldn't be hushabied. toward morning, poor little wench! it fell asleep, fairly tired out wi' crying, but even in its sleep it gave such pitiful sobs, quivering up fra' the very bottom of its little heart, that once or twice i almost wished it lay on its mother's breast, at peace for ever. jennings fell asleep too; but i began for to reckon up our money. it were little enough we had left, our dinner the day afore had ta'en so much. i didn't know what our reckoning would be for that night lodging, and supper, and breakfast. doing a sum alway sent me asleep ever sin' i were a lad; so i fell sound in a short time, and were only wakened by chambermaid tapping at th' door, to say she'd dress the babby afore her missis were up if we liked. but bless yo', we'd never thought o' undressing it th' night afore, and now it were sleeping so sound, and we were so glad o' the peace and quietness, that we thought it were no good to waken it up to screech again. "well! (there's mary asleep for a good listener!) i suppose you're getting weary of my tale, so i'll not be long over ending it. th' reckoning left us very bare, and we thought we'd best walk home, for it were only sixty mile, they telled us, and not stop again for nought, save victuals. so we left brummagem, (which is as black a place as manchester, without looking so like home), and walked a' that day, carrying babby turn and turn about. it were well fed by chambermaid afore we left, and th' day were fine, and folk began to have some knowledge o' th' proper way o' speaking, and we were more cheery at thoughts o' home (though mine, god knows, were lonesome enough). we stopped none for dinner, but at baggin-time [ ] we getten a good meal at a public-house, an' fed th' babby as well as we could, but that were but poorly. we got a crust too, for it to suck--chambermaid put us up to that. that night, whether we were tired or whatten, i don't know, but it were dree [ ] work, and poor wench had slept out her sleep, and began th' cry as wore my heart out again. says jennings, says he, [footnote : "baggin-time," time of the evening meal.] [footnote : "dree," long and tedious. anglo-saxon, "dreogan," to suffer, to endure.] "'we should na ha' set out so like gentlefolk a top o' the coach yesterday.' "'nay, lad! we should ha' had more to walk, if we had na ridden, and i'm sure both you and i'se [ ] weary o' tramping.' [footnote : "i have not been, nor _is_, nor never schal."--_wickliffe's "apology," p. ._] "so he were quiet a bit. but he were one o' them as were sure to find out somewhat had been done amiss, when there were no going back to undo it. so presently he coughs, as if he were going to speak, and i says to mysel, 'at it again, my lad.' says he, "'i ax pardon, neighbour, but it strikes me it would ha' been better for my son if he had never begun to keep company wi' your daughter.' "well! that put me up, and my heart got very full, and but that i were carrying _her_ babby, i think i should ha' struck him. at last i could hold in no longer, and says i, "'better say at once it would ha' been better for god never to ha' made th' world, for then we'd never ha' been in it, to have had th' heavy hearts we have now.' "well! he said that were rank blasphemy; but i thought his way of casting up again th' events god had pleased to send, were worse blasphemy. howe'er, i said nought more angry, for th' little babby's sake, as were th' child o' his dead son, as well as o' my dead daughter. "th' longest lane will have a turning, and that night came to an end at last; and we were foot-sore and tired enough, and to my mind th' babby were getting weaker and weaker, and it wrung my heart to hear its little wail; i'd ha' given my right hand for one of yesterday's hearty cries. we were wanting our breakfasts, and so were it too, motherless babby! we could see no public-house, so about six o'clock (only we thought it were later) we stopped at a cottage where a woman were moving about near th' open door. says i, 'good woman, may we rest us a bit?' 'come in,' says she, wiping a chair, as looked bright enough afore, wi' her apron. it were a cheery, clean room; and we were glad to sit down again, though i thought my legs would never bend at th' knees. in a minute she fell a noticing th' babby, and took it in her arms, and kissed it again and again. 'missis,' says i, 'we're not without money, and if yo'd give us somewhat for breakfast, we'd pay yo honest, and if yo would wash and dress that poor babby, and get some pobbies down its throat, for it's well-nigh clemmed, i'd pray for yo' till my dying day.' so she said nought, but gived me th' babby back, and afore yo' could say jack robinson, she'd a pan on th' fire, and bread and cheese on th' table. when she turned round, her face looked red, and her lips were tight pressed together. well! we were right down glad on our breakfast, and god bless and reward that woman for her kindness that day; she fed th' poor babby as gently and softly, and spoke to it as tenderly as its own poor mother could ha' done. it seemed as if that stranger and it had known each other afore, maybe in heaven, where folk's spirits come from they say; th' babby looked up so lovingly in her eyes, and made little noises more like a dove than aught else. then she undressed it (poor darling! it were time), touching it so softly; and washed it from head to foot, and as many on its things were dirty; and what bits o' things its mother had gotten ready for it had been sent by th' carrier fra london, she put 'em aside; and wrapping little naked babby in her apron, she pulled out a key, as were fastened to a black ribbon, and hung down her breast, and unlocked a drawer in th' dresser. i were sorry to be prying, but i could na' help seeing in that drawer some little child's clothes, all strewed wi' lavendar, and lying by 'em a little whip an' a broken rattle. i began to have an insight into that woman's heart then. she took out a thing or two; and locked the drawer, and went on dressing babby. just about then come her husband down, a great big fellow as didn't look half awake, though it were getting late; but he'd heard all as had been said down-stairs, as were plain to be seen; but he were a gruff chap. we'd finished our breakfast, and jennings were looking hard at th' woman as she were getting the babby to sleep wi' a sort of rocking way. at length says he, 'i ha learnt th' way now; it's two jiggits and a shake, two jiggits and a shake. i can get that babby asleep now mysel.' "the man had nodded cross enough to us, and had gone to th' door, and stood there whistling wi' his hands in his breeches-pockets, looking abroad. but at last he turns and says, quite sharp, "'i say, missis, i'm to have no breakfast to-day, i s'pose.' "so wi' that she kissed th' child, a long, soft kiss; and looking in my face to see if i could take her meaning, gave me th' babby without a word. i were loath to stir, but i saw it were better to go. so giving jennings a sharp nudge (for he'd fallen asleep), i says, 'missis, what's to pay?' pulling out my money wi' a jingle that she might na guess we were at all bare o' cash. so she looks at her husband, who said ne'er a word, but were listening wi' all his ears nevertheless; and when she saw he would na say, she said, hesitating, as if pulled two ways, by her fear o' him, 'should you think sixpence over much?' it were so different to public-house reckoning, for we'd eaten a main deal afore the chap came down. so says i, 'and, missis, what should we gie you for the babby's bread and milk?' (i had it once in my mind to say 'and for a' your trouble with it,' but my heart would na let me say it, for i could read in her ways how it had been a work o' love.) so says she, quite quick, and stealing a look at her husband's back, as looked all ear, if ever a back did, 'oh, we could take nought for the little babby's food, if it had eaten twice as much, bless it.' wi' that he looked at her; such a scowling look! she knew what he meant, and stepped softly across the floor to him, and put her hand on his arm. he seem'd as though he'd shake it off by a jerk on his elbow, but she said quite low, 'for poor little johnnie's sake, richard.' he did not move or speak again, and after looking in his face for a minute, she turned away, swallowing deep in her throat. she kissed th' sleeping babby as she passed, when i paid her. to quieten th' gruff husband, and stop him if he rated her, i could na help slipping another sixpence under th' loaf, and then we set off again. last look i had o' that woman she were quietly wiping her eyes wi' the corner of her apron, as she went about her husband's breakfast. but i shall know her in heaven." he stopped to think of that long-ago may morning, when he had carried his grand-daughter under the distant hedge-rows and beneath the flowering sycamores. "there's nought more to say, wench," said he to margaret, as she begged him to go on. "that night we reached manchester, and i'd found out that jennings would be glad enough to give up babby to me, so i took her home at once, and a blessing she's been to me." they were all silent for a few minutes; each following out the current of their thoughts. then, almost simultaneously, their attention fell upon mary. sitting on her little stool, her head resting on her father's knee, and sleeping as soundly as any infant, her breath (still like an infant's) came and went as softly as a bird steals to her leafy nest. her half-open mouth was as scarlet as the winter-berries, and contrasted finely with the clear paleness of her complexion, where the eloquent blood flushed carnation at each motion. her black eye-lashes lay on the delicate cheek, which was still more shaded by the masses of her golden hair, that seemed to form a nest-like pillow for her as she lay. her father in fond pride straightened one glossy curl, for an instant, as if to display its length and silkiness. the little action awoke her, and, like nine out of ten people in similar circumstances, she exclaimed, opening her eyes to their fullest extent, "i'm not asleep. i've been awake all the time." even her father could not keep from smiling, and job legh and margaret laughed outright. "come, wench," said job, "don't look so gloppened [ ] because thou'st fallen asleep while an oud chap like me was talking on oud times. it were like enough to send thee to sleep. try if thou canst keep thine eyes open while i read thy father a bit on a poem as is written by a weaver like oursel. a rare chap i'll be bound is he who could weave verse like this." [footnote : "gloppened," amazed, frightened.] so adjusting his spectacles on nose, cocking his chin, crossing his legs, and coughing to clear his voice, he read aloud a little poem of samuel bamford's [ ] he had picked up somewhere. [footnote : the fine-spirited author of "passages in the life of a radical"--a man who illustrates his order, and shows what nobility may be in a cottage.] god help the poor, who, on this wintry morn, come forth from alleys dim and courts obscure. god help yon poor pale girl, who droops forlorn, and meekly her affliction doth endure; god help her, outcast lamb; she trembling stands, all wan her lips, and frozen red her hands; her sunken eyes are modestly down-cast, her night-black hair streams on the fitful blast; her bosom, passing fair, is half revealed, and oh! so cold, the snow lies there congealed; her feet benumbed, her shoes all rent and worn, god help thee, outcast lamb, who standst forlorn! god help the poor! god help the poor! an infant's feeble wail comes from yon narrow gateway, and behold! a female crouching there, so deathly pale, huddling her child, to screen it from the cold; her vesture scant, her bonnet crushed and torn; a thin shawl doth her baby dear enfold: and so she 'bides the ruthless gale of morn, which almost to her heart hath sent its cold. and now she, sudden, darts a ravening look, as one, with new hot bread, goes past the nook; and, as the tempting load is onward borne, she weeps. god help thee, helpless one, forlorn! god help the poor! god help the poor! behold yon famished lad, no shoes, nor hose, his wounded feet protect; with limping gait, and looks so dreamy sad, he wanders onward, stopping to inspect each window, stored with articles of food. he yearns but to enjoy one cheering meal; oh! to the hungry palate, viands rude, would yield a zest the famished only feel! he now devours a crust of mouldy bread; with teeth and hands the precious boon is torn; unmindful of the storm that round his head impetuous sweeps. god help thee, child forlorn! god help the poor! god help the poor! another have i found-- a bowed and venerable man is he; his slouched hat with faded crape is bound; his coat is gray, and threadbare too, i see. "the rude winds" seem "to mock his hoary hair;" his shirtless bosom to the blast is bare. anon he turns and casts a wistful eye, and with scant napkin wipes the blinding spray; and looks around, as if he fain would spy friends he had feasted in his better day: ah! some are dead; and some have long forborne to know the poor; and he is left forlorn! god help the poor! god help the poor, who in lone valleys dwell, or by far hills, where whin and heather grow; theirs is a story sad indeed to tell, yet little cares the world, and less 't would know about the toil and want men undergo. the wearying loom doth call them up at morn, they work till worn-out nature sinks to sleep, they taste, but are not fed. the snow drifts deep around the fireless cot, and blocks the door; the night-storm howls a dirge across the moor; and shall they perish thus--oppressed and lorn? shall toil and famine, hopeless, still be borne? no! god will yet arise, and help the poor. "amen!" said barton, solemnly, and sorrowfully. "mary! wench, couldst thou copy me them lines, dost think?--that's to say, if job there has no objection." "not i. more they're heard and read and the better, say i." so mary took the paper. and the next day, on the blank half sheet of a valentine, all bordered with hearts and darts--a valentine she had once suspected to come from jem wilson--she copied bamford's beautiful little poem. chapter x. return of the prodigal. "my heart, once soft as woman's tear, is gnarled with gloating on the ills i cannot cure." elliott. "then guard and shield her innocence, let her not fall like me; 'twere better, oh! a thousand times, she in her grave should be." "the outcast." despair settled down like a heavy cloud; and now and then, through the dead calm of sufferings, came pipings of stormy winds, foretelling the end of these dark prognostics. in times of sorrowful or fierce endurance, we are often soothed by the mere repetition of old proverbs which tell the experience of our forefathers; but now, "it's a long lane that has no turning," "the weariest day draws to an end," &c., seemed false and vain sayings, so long and so weary was the pressure of the terrible times. deeper and deeper still sank the poor; it showed how much lingering suffering it takes to kill men, that so few (in comparison) died during those times. but remember! we only miss those who do men's work in their humble sphere; the aged, the feeble, the children, when they die, are hardly noted by the world; and yet to many hearts, their deaths make a blank which long years will never fill up. remember, too, that though it may take much suffering to kill the able-bodied and effective members of society, it does _not_ take much to reduce them to worn, listless, diseased creatures, who thenceforward crawl through life with moody hearts and pain-stricken bodies. the people had thought the poverty of the preceding years hard to bear, and had found its yoke heavy; but this year added sorely to its weight. former times had chastised them with whips, but this chastised them with scorpions. of course, barton had his share of mere bodily sufferings. before he had gone up to london on his vain errand, he had been working short time. but in the hopes of speedy redress by means of the interference of parliament, he had thrown up his place; and now, when he asked leave to resume work, he was told they were diminishing their number of hands every week, and he was made aware by the remarks of fellow workmen, that a chartist delegate, and a leading member of a trades' union, was not likely to be favoured in his search after employment. still he tried to keep up a brave heart concerning himself. he knew he could bear hunger; for that power of endurance had been called forth when he was a little child, and had seen his mother hide her daily morsel to share it among her children, and when he, being the eldest, had told the noble lie, that "he was not hungry, could not eat a bit more," in order to imitate his mother's bravery, and still the sharp wail of the younger infants. mary, too, was secure of two meals a day at miss simmonds'; though, by the way, the dress-maker, too, feeling the effect of bad times, had left off giving tea to her apprentices, setting them the example of long abstinence by putting off her own meal until work was done for the night, however late that might be. but the rent! it was half-a-crown a week--nearly all mary's earnings--and much less room might do for them, only two.--(now came the time to be thankful that the early dead were saved from the evil to come.)--the agricultural labourer generally has strong local attachments; but they are far less common, almost obliterated, among the inhabitants of a town. still there are exceptions, and barton formed one. he had removed to his present house just after the last bad times, when little tom had sickened and died. he had then thought the bustle of a removal would give his poor stunned wife something to do, and he had taken more interest in the details of the proceeding than he otherwise would have done, in the hope of calling her forth to action again. so he seemed to know every brass-headed nail driven up for her convenience. one only had been displaced. it was esther's bonnet nail, which, in his deep revengeful anger against her, after his wife's death, he had torn out of the wall, and cast into the street. it would be hard work to leave that house, which yet seemed hallowed by his wife's presence in the happy days of old. but he was a law unto himself, though sometimes a bad, fierce law; and he resolved to give the rent-collector notice, and look out for a cheaper abode, and tell mary they must flit. poor mary! she loved the house, too. it was wrenching up her natural feelings of home, for it would be long before the fibres of her heart would gather themselves about another place. this trial was spared. the collector (of himself), on the very monday when barton planned to give him notice of his intention to leave, lowered the rent threepence a week, just enough to make barton compromise and agree to stay on a little longer. but by degrees the house was stripped of its little ornaments. some were broken; and the odd twopences and threepences wanted to pay for their repairs, were required for the far sterner necessity of food. and by-and-bye mary began to part with other superfluities at the pawn-shop. the smart tea-tray and tea-caddy, long and carefully kept, went for bread for her father. he did not ask for it, or complain, but she saw hunger in his shrunk, fierce, animal look. then the blankets went, for it was summer time, and they could spare them; and their sale made a fund, which mary fancied would last till better times came. but it was soon all gone; and then she looked around the room to crib it of its few remaining ornaments. to all these proceedings her father said never a word. if he fasted, or feasted (after the sale of some article), on an unusual meal of bread and cheese, he took all with a sullen indifference, which depressed mary's heart. she often wished he would apply for relief from the guardian's relieving office; often wondered the trades' union did nothing for him. once when she asked him as he sat, grimed, unshaven, and gaunt, after a day's fasting over the fire, why he did not get relief from the town, he turned round, with grim wrath, and said, "i don't want money, child! d----n their charity and their money! i want work, and it is my right. i want work." he would bear it all, he said to himself. and he did bear it, but not meekly; that was too much to expect. real meekness of character is called out by experience of kindness. and few had been kind to him. yet through it all, with stern determination he refused the assistance his trades' union would have given him. it had not much to give, but with worldly wisdom, thought it better to propitiate an active, useful member, than to help those who were unenergetic, though they had large families to provide for. not so thought john barton. with him need was right. "give it to tom darbyshire," he said. "he's more claim on it than me, for he's more need of it, with his seven children." now tom darbyshire was, in his listless, grumbling way, a backbiting enemy of john barton's. and he knew it; but he was not to be influenced by that in a matter like this. mary went early to her work; but her cheery laugh over it was now missed by the other girls. her mind wandered over the present distress, and then settled, as she stitched, on the visions of the future, where yet her thoughts dwelt more on the circumstances of ease, and the pomps and vanities awaiting her, than on the lover with whom she was to share them. still she was not insensible to the pride of having attracted one so far above herself in station; not insensible to the secret pleasure of knowing that he, whom so many admired, had often said he would give any thing for one of her sweet smiles. her love for him was a bubble, blown out of vanity; but it looked very real and very bright. sally leadbitter, meanwhile, keenly observed the signs of the times; she found out that mary had begun to affix a stern value to money as the "purchaser of life," and many girls had been dazzled and lured by gold, even without the betraying love which she believed to exist in mary's heart. so she urged young mr. carson, by representations of the want she was sure surrounded mary, to bring matters more to a point. but he had a kind of instinctive dread of hurting mary's pride of spirit, and durst not hint his knowledge in any way of the distress that many must be enduring. he felt that for the present he must still be content with stolen meetings and summer evening strolls, and the delight of pouring sweet honeyed words into her ear, while she listened with a blush and a smile that made her look radiant with beauty. no, he would be cautious in order to be certain; for mary, one way or another, he must make his. he had no doubt of the effect of his own personal charms in the long run; for he knew he was handsome, and believed himself fascinating. if he had known what mary's home was, he would not have been so much convinced of his increasing influence over her, by her being more and more ready to linger with him in the sweet summer air. for when she returned for the night her father was often out, and the house wanted the cheerful look it had had in the days when money was never wanted to purchase soap and brushes, black-lead and pipe-clay. it was dingy and comfortless; for, of course, there was not even the dumb familiar home-friend, a fire. and margaret, too, was now so often from home, singing at some of those grand places. and alice; oh, mary wished she had never left her cellar to go and live at ancoats with her sister-in-law. for in that matter mary felt very guilty; she had put off and put off going to see the widow after george wilson's death from dread of meeting jem, or giving him reason to think she wished to be as intimate with him as formerly; and now she was so much ashamed of her delay that she was likely never to go at all. if her father was at home it was no better; indeed it was worse. he seldom spoke, less than ever; and often when he did speak they were sharp angry words, such as he had never given her formerly. her temper was high, too, and her answers not over-mild; and once in his passion he had even beaten her. if sally leadbitter or mr. carson had been at hand at that moment, mary would have been ready to leave home for ever. she sat alone, after her father had flung out of the house, bitterly thinking on the days that were gone; angry with her own hastiness, and believing that her father did not love her; striving to heap up one painful thought on another. who cared for her? mr. carson might, but in this grief that seemed no comfort. mother dead! father so often angry, so lately cruel (for it was a hard blow, and blistered and reddened mary's soft white skin with pain): and then her heart turned round, and she remembered with self-reproach how provokingly she had looked and spoken, and how much her father had to bear; and oh, what a kind and loving parent he had been, till these days of trial. the remembrance of one little instance of his fatherly love thronged after another into her mind, and she began to wonder how she could have behaved to him as she had done. then he came home; and but for very shame she would have confessed her penitence in words. but she looked sullen, from her effort to keep down emotion; and for some time her father did not know how to begin to speak. at length he gulped down pride, and said: "mary, i'm not above saying i'm very sorry i beat thee. thou wert a bit aggravating, and i'm not the man i was. but it were wrong, and i'll try never to lay hands on thee again." so he held out his arms, and in many tears she told him her repentance for her fault. he never struck her again. still, he often was angry. but that was almost better than being silent. then he sat near the fire-place (from habit), smoking, or chewing opium. oh, how mary loathed that smell! and in the dusk, just before it merged into the short summer night, she had learned to look with dread towards the window, which now her father would have kept uncurtained; for there were not seldom seen sights which haunted her in her dreams. strange faces of pale men, with dark glaring eyes, peered into the inner darkness, and seemed desirous to ascertain if her father were at home. or a hand and arm (the body hidden) was put within the door, and beckoned him away. he always went. and once or twice, when mary was in bed, she heard men's voices below, in earnest, whispered talk. they were all desperate members of trades' unions, ready for any thing; made ready by want. while all this change for gloom yet struck fresh and heavy on mary's heart, her father startled her out of a reverie one evening, by asking her when she had been to see jane wilson. from his manner of speaking, she was made aware that he had been; but at the time of his visit he had never mentioned any thing about it. now, however, he gruffly told her to go next day without fail, and added some abuse of her for not having been before. the little outward impulse of her father's speech gave mary the push which she, in this instance, required; and, accordingly, timing her visit so as to avoid jem's hours at home, she went the following afternoon to ancoats. the outside of the well-known house struck her as different; for the door was closed, instead of open, as it once had always stood. the window-plants, george wilson's pride and especial care, looked withering and drooping. they had been without water for a long time, and now, when the widow had reproached herself severely for neglect, in her ignorant anxiety, she gave them too much. on opening the door, alice was seen, not stirring about in her habitual way, but knitting by the fire-side. the room felt hot, although the fire burnt gray and dim, under the bright rays of the afternoon sun. mrs. wilson was "siding" [ ] the dinner things, and talking all the time, in a kind of whining, shouting voice, which mary did not at first understand. she understood at once, however, that her absence had been noted, and talked over; she saw a constrained look on mrs. wilson's sorrow-stricken face, which told her a scolding was to come. [footnote : to "side," to put aside, or in order.] "dear mary, is that you?" she began. "why, who would ha' dreamt of seeing you! we thought you'd clean forgotten us; and jem has often wondered if he should know you, if he met you in the street." now, poor jane wilson had been sorely tried; and at present her trials had had no outward effect, but that of increased acerbity of temper. she wished to show mary how much she was offended, and meant to strengthen her cause, by putting some of her own sharp speeches into jem's mouth. mary felt guilty, and had no good reason to give as an apology; so for a minute she stood silent, looking very much ashamed, and then turned to speak to aunt alice, who, in her surprised, hearty greeting to mary, had dropped her ball of worsted, and was busy trying to set the thread to rights, before the kitten had entangled it past redemption, once round every chair, and twice round the table. "you mun speak louder than that, if you mean her to hear; she become as deaf as a post this last few weeks. i'd ha' told you, if i'd remembered how long it were sin' you'd seen her." "yes, my dear, i'm getting very hard o' hearing of late," said alice, catching the state of the case, with her quick-glancing eyes. "i suppose it's the beginning of th' end." "don't talk o' that way," screamed her sister-in-law. "we've had enow of ends and deaths without forecasting more." she covered her face with her apron, and sat down to cry. "he was such a good husband," said she, in a less excited tone, to mary, as she looked up with tear-streaming eyes from behind her apron. "no one can tell what i've lost in him, for no one knew his worth like me." mary's listening sympathy softened her, and she went on to unburden her heavy laden heart. "eh, dear, dear! no one knows what i've lost. when my poor boys went, i thought th' almighty had crushed me to th' ground, but i never thought o' losing george; i did na think i could ha' borne to ha' lived without him. and yet i'm here, and he's--" a fresh burst of crying interrupted her speech. "mary,"--beginning to speak again,--"did you ever hear what a poor creature i were when he married me? and he such a handsome fellow! jem's nothing to what his father were at his age." yes! mary had heard, and so she said. but the poor woman's thoughts had gone back to those days, and her little recollections came out, with many interruptions of sighs, and tears, and shakes of the head. "there were nought about me for him to choose me. i were just well enough afore that accident, but at after i were downright plain. and there was bessy witter as would ha' given her eyes for him; she as is mrs. carson now, for she were a handsome lass, although i never could see her beauty then; and carson warn't so much above her, as they're both above us all now." mary went very red, and wished she could help doing so, and wished also that mrs. wilson would tell her more about the father and mother of her lover; but she durst not ask, and mrs. wilson's thoughts soon returned to her husband, and their early married days. "if you'll believe me, mary, there never was such a born goose at house-keeping as i were; and yet he married me! i had been in a factory sin' five years old a'most, and i knew nought about cleaning, or cooking, let alone washing and such-like work. the day after we were married he goes to his work at after breakfast, and says he, 'jenny, we'll ha' th' cold beef, and potatoes, and that's a dinner fit for a prince.' i were anxious to make him comfortable, god knows how anxious. and yet i'd no notion how to cook a potato. i know'd they were boiled, and i know'd their skins were taken off, and that were all. so i tidyed my house in a rough kind o' way, and then i looked at that very clock up yonder," pointing at one that hung against the wall, "and i seed it were nine o'clock, so, thinks i, th' potatoes shall be well boiled at any rate, and i gets 'em on th' fire in a jiffy (that's to say, as soon as i could peel 'em, which were a tough job at first), and then i fell to unpacking my boxes! and at twenty minutes past twelve he comes home, and i had th' beef ready on th' table, and i went to take the potatoes out o' th' pot; but oh! mary, th' water had boiled away, and they were all a nasty brown mass, as smelt through all the house. he said nought, and were very gentle; but, oh, mary, i cried so that afternoon. i shall ne'er forget it; no, never. i made many a blunder at after, but none that fretted me like that." "father does not like girls to work in factories," said mary. "no, i know he doesn't; and reason good. they oughtn't to go at after they're married, that i'm very clear about. i could reckon up" (counting with her fingers) "ay, nine men i know, as has been driven to th' public-house by having wives as worked in factories; good folk, too, as thought there was no harm in putting their little ones out at nurse, and letting their house go all dirty, and their fires all out; and that was a place as was tempting for a husband to stay in, was it? he soon finds out gin-shops, where all is clean and bright, and where th' fire blazes cheerily, and gives a man a welcome as it were." alice, who was standing near for the convenience of hearing, had caught much of this speech, and it was evident the subject had previously been discussed by the women, for she chimed in. "i wish our jem could speak a word to th' queen about factory work for married women. eh! but he comes it strong, when once yo get him to speak about it. wife o' his'n will never work away fra' home." "i say it's prince albert as ought to be asked how he'd like his missis to be from home when he comes in, tired and worn, and wanting some one to cheer him; and may be, her to come in by-and-bye, just as tired and down in th' mouth; and how he'd like for her never to be at home to see to th' cleaning of his house, or to keep a bright fire in his grate. let alone his meals being all hugger-mugger and comfortless. i'd be bound, prince as he is, if his missis served him so, he'd be off to a gin-palace, or summut o' that kind. so why can't he make a law again poor folks' wives working in factories?" mary ventured to say that she thought the queen and prince albert could not make laws, but the answer was, "pooh! don't tell me it's not the queen as makes laws; and isn't she bound to obey prince albert? and if he said they mustn't, why she'd say they mustn't, and then all folk would say, oh no, we never shall do any such thing no more." "jem's getten on rarely," said alice, who had not heard her sister's last burst of eloquence, and whose thoughts were still running on her nephew, and his various talents. "he's found out summut about a crank or a tank, i forget rightly which it is, but th' master's made him foreman, and he all the while turning off hands; but he said he could na part wi' jem, nohow. he's good wage now: i tell him he'll be thinking of marrying soon, and he deserves a right down good wife, that he does." mary went very red, and looked annoyed, although there was a secret spring of joy deep down in her heart, at hearing jem so spoken of. but his mother only saw the annoyed look, and was piqued accordingly. she was not over and above desirous that her son should marry. his presence in the house seemed a relic of happier times, and she had some little jealousy of his future wife, whoever she might be. still she could not bear any one not to feel gratified and flattered by jem's preference, and full well she knew how above all others he preferred mary. now she had never thought mary good enough for jem, and her late neglect in coming to see her still rankled a little in her breast. so she determined to invent a little, in order to do away with any idea mary might have that jem would choose her for "his right down good wife," as aunt alice called it. "ay, he'll be for taking a wife soon," and then, in a lower voice, as if confidentially, but really to prevent any contradiction or explanation from her simple sister-in-law, she added, "it'll not be long afore molly gibson (that's her at th' provision-shop round the corner) will hear a secret as will not displease her, i'm thinking. she's been casting sheep's eyes at our jem this many a day, but he thought her father would not give her to a common working man; but now he's as good as her, every bit. i thought once he'd a fancy for thee, mary, but i donnot think yo'd ever ha' suited, so it's best as it is." by an effort mary managed to keep down her vexation, and to say, "she hoped he'd be happy with molly gibson. she was very handsome, for certain." "ay, and a notable body, too. i'll just step up stairs and show you the patchwork quilt she gave me but last saturday." mary was glad she was going out of the room. her words irritated her; perhaps not the less because she did not fully believe them. besides she wanted to speak to alice, and mrs. wilson seemed to think that she, as the widow, ought to absorb all the attention. "dear alice," began mary, "i'm so grieved to find you so deaf; it must have come on very rapid." "yes, dear, it's a trial; i'll not deny it. pray god give me strength to find out its teaching. i felt it sore one fine day when i thought i'd go gather some meadow-sweet to make tea for jane's cough; and the fields seemed so dree and still, and at first i could na make out what was wanting; and then it struck me it were th' song o' the birds, and that i never should hear their sweet music no more, and i could na help crying a bit. but i've much to be thankful for. i think i'm a comfort to jane, if i'm only some one to scold now and then; poor body! it takes off her thoughts from her sore losses when she can scold a bit. if my eyes are left i can do well enough; i can guess at what folk are saying." the splendid red and yellow patch quilt now made its appearance, and jane wilson would not be satisfied unless mary praised it all over, border, centre, and ground-work, right side and wrong; and mary did her duty, saying all the more, because she could not work herself up to any very hearty admiration of her rival's present. she made haste, however, with her commendations, in order to avoid encountering jem. as soon as she was fairly away from the house and street, she slackened her pace, and began to think. did jem really care for molly gibson? well, if he did, let him. people seemed all to think he was much too good for her (mary's own self). perhaps some one else, far more handsome, and far more grand, would show him one day that she was good enough to be mrs. henry carson. so temper, or what mary called "spirit," led her to encourage mr. carson more than ever she had done before. some weeks after this, there was a meeting of the trades' union to which john barton belonged. the morning of the day on which it was to take place he had lain late in bed, for what was the use of getting up? he had hesitated between the purchase of meal or opium, and had chosen the latter, for its use had become a necessity with him. he wanted it to relieve him from the terrible depression its absence occasioned. a large lump seemed only to bring him into a natural state, or what had been his natural state formerly. eight o'clock was the hour fixed for the meeting; and at it were read letters, filled with details of woe, from all parts of the country. fierce, heavy gloom brooded over the assembly; and fiercely and heavily did the men separate, towards eleven o'clock, some irritated by the opposition of others to their desperate plans. it was not a night to cheer them, as they quitted the glare of the gas-lighted room, and came out into the street. unceasing, soaking rain was falling; the very lamps seemed obscured by the damp upon the glass, and their light reached but to a little distance from the posts. the streets were cleared of passers-by; not a creature seemed stirring, except here and there a drenched policeman in his oil-skin cape. barton wished the others good night, and set off home. he had gone through a street or two, when he heard a step behind him; but he did not care to look and see who it was. a little further, and the person quickened step, and touched his arm very lightly. he turned, and saw, even by the darkness visible of that badly-lighted street, that the woman who stood by him was of no doubtful profession. it was told by her faded finery, all unfit to meet the pelting of that pitiless storm; the gauze bonnet, once pink, now dirty white; the muslin gown, all draggled, and soaking wet up to the very knees; the gay-coloured barège shawl, closely wrapped round the form, which yet shivered and shook, as the woman whispered: "i want to speak to you." he swore an oath, and bade her begone. "i really do. don't send me away. i'm so out of breath, i cannot say what i would all at once." she put her hand to her side, and caught her breath with evident pain. "i tell thee i'm not the man for thee," adding an opprobrious name. "stay," said he, as a thought suggested by her voice flashed across him. he gripped her arm--the arm he had just before shaken off, and dragged her, faintly resisting, to the nearest lamp-post. he pushed her bonnet back, and roughly held the face she would fain have averted, to the light, and in her large, unnaturally bright gray eyes, her lovely mouth, half open, as if imploring the forbearance she could not ask for in words, he saw at once the long-lost esther; she who had caused his wife's death. much was like the gay creature of former years; but the glaring paint, the sharp features, the changed expression of the whole! but most of all, he loathed the dress; and yet the poor thing, out of her little choice of attire, had put on the plainest she had, to come on that night's errand. "so it's thee, is it! it's thee!" exclaimed john, as he ground his teeth, and shook her with passion. "i've looked for thee long at corners o' streets, and such like places. i knew i should find thee at last. thee'll may be bethink thee o' some words i spoke, which put thee up at th' time; summut about street-walkers; but oh no! thou art none o' them naughts; no one thinks thou art, who sees thy fine draggle-tailed dress, and thy pretty pink cheeks!" stopping for very want of breath. "oh, mercy! john, mercy! listen to me for mary's sake!" she meant his daughter, but the name only fell on his ear as belonging to his wife; and it was adding fuel to the fire. in vain did her face grow deadly pale round the vivid circle of paint, in vain did she gasp for mercy,--he burst forth again. "and thou names that name to me! and thou thinks the thought of her will bring thee mercy! dost thou know it was thee who killed her, as sure as ever cain killed abel. she'd loved thee as her own, and she trusted thee as her own, and when thou wert gone she never held up head again, but died in less than a three week; and at the judgment day she'll rise, and point to thee as her murderer; or if she don't, i will." he flung her, trembling, sickening, fainting, from him, and strode away. she fell with a feeble scream against the lamp-post, and lay there in her weakness, unable to rise. a policeman came up in time to see the close of these occurrences, and concluding from esther's unsteady, reeling fall, that she was tipsy, he took her in her half-unconscious state to the lock-ups for the night. the superintendent of that abode of vice and misery was roused from his dozing watch through the dark hours, by half-delirious wails and moanings, which he reported as arising from intoxication. if he had listened, he would have heard these words, repeated in various forms, but always in the same anxious, muttering way. "he would not listen to me; what can i do? he would not listen to me, and i wanted to warn him! oh, what shall i do to save mary's child? what shall i do? how can i keep her from being such a one as i am; such a wretched, loathsome creature! she was listening just as i listened, and loving just as i loved, and the end will be just like my end. how shall i save her? she won't hearken to warning, or heed it more than i did; and who loves her well enough to watch over her as she should be watched? god keep her from harm! and yet i won't pray for her; sinner that i am! can my prayers be heard? no! they'll only do harm. how shall i save her? he would not listen to me." so the night wore away. the next morning she was taken up to the new bailey. it was a clear case of disorderly vagrancy, and she was committed to prison for a month. how much might happen in that time! chapter xi. mr. carson's intentions revealed. "o mary, canst thou wreck his peace, wha for thy sake wad gladly die? or canst thou break that heart of his, whase only faut is loving thee?" burns. "i can like of the wealth, i must confess, yet more i prize the man, though moneyless; i am not of their humour yet that can for title or estate affect a man; or of myself one body deign to make with him i loathe, for his possessions' sake." wither's "fidelia." barton returned home after his encounter with esther, uneasy and dissatisfied. he had said no more than he had been planning to say for years, in case she was ever thrown in his way, in the character in which he felt certain he should meet her. he believed she deserved it all, and yet he now wished he had not said it. her look, as she asked for mercy, haunted him through his broken and disordered sleep; her form, as he last saw her, lying prostrate in helplessness, would not be banished from his dreams. he sat up in bed to try and dispel the vision. now, too late, his conscience smote him for his harshness. it would have been all very well, he thought, to have said what he did, if he had added some kind words, at last. he wondered if his dead wife was conscious of that night's occurrence; and he hoped not, for with her love for esther he believed it would embitter heaven to have seen her so degraded and repulsed. for he now recalled her humility, her tacit acknowledgment of her lost character; and he began to marvel if there was power in the religion he had often heard of, to turn her from her ways. he felt that no earthly power that he knew of could do it, but there glimmered on his darkness the idea that religion might save her. still, where to find her again? in the wilderness of a large town, where to meet with an individual of so little value or note to any? and evening after evening he paced those streets in which he had heard her footsteps following him, peering under every fantastic, discreditable bonnet, in the hopes of once more meeting esther, and addressing her in a far different manner from what he had done before. but he returned, night after night, disappointed in his search, and at last gave it up in despair, and tried to recall his angry feelings towards her, in order to find relief from his present self-reproach. he often looked at mary, and wished she were not so like her aunt, for the very bodily likeness seemed to suggest the possibility of a similar likeness in their fate; and then this idea enraged his irritable mind, and he became suspicious and anxious about mary's conduct. now hitherto she had been so remarkably free from all control, and almost from all inquiry concerning her actions, that she did not brook this change in her father's behaviour very well. just when she was yielding more than ever to mr. carson's desire of frequent meetings, it was hard to be so questioned concerning her hours of leaving off work, whether she had come straight home, &c. she could not tell lies; though she could conceal much if she were not questioned. so she took refuge in obstinate silence, alleging as a reason for it her indignation at being so cross-examined. this did not add to the good feeling between father and daughter, and yet they dearly loved each other; and in the minds of each, one principal reason for maintaining such behaviour as displeased the other, was the believing that this conduct would insure that person's happiness. her father now began to wish mary were married. then this terrible superstitious fear suggested by her likeness to esther would be done away with. he felt that he could not resume the reins he had once slackened. but with a husband it would be different. if jem wilson would but marry her! with his character for steadiness and talent! but he was afraid mary had slighted him, he came so seldom now to the house. he would ask her. "mary, what's come o'er thee and jem wilson? yo were great friends at one time." "oh, folk say he's going to be married to molly gibson, and of course courting takes up a deal o' time," answered mary, as indifferently as she could. "thou'st played thy cards badly, then," replied her father, in a surly tone. "at one time he were desperate fond o' thee, or i'm much mistaken. much fonder of thee than thou deservedst." "that's as people think," said mary, pertly, for she remembered that the very morning before she had met mr. carson, who had sighed, and swore, and protested all manner of tender vows that she was the loveliest, sweetest, best, &c. and when she had seen him afterwards riding with one of his beautiful sisters, had he not evidently pointed her out as in some way or other an object worthy of attention and interest, and then lingered behind his sister's horse for a moment to kiss his hand repeatedly. so, as for jem wilson, she could whistle him down the wind. but her father was not in the mood to put up with pertness, and he upbraided her with the loss of jem wilson till she had to bite her lips till the blood came, in order to keep down the angry words that would rise in her heart. at last her father left the house, and then she might give way to her passionate tears. it so happened that jem, after much anxious thought, had determined that day to "put his fate to the touch, to win or lose it all." he was in a condition to maintain a wife in comfort. it was true his mother and aunt must form part of the household; but such is not an uncommon case among the poor, and if there were the advantage of previous friendship between the parties, it was not, he thought, an obstacle to matrimony. both mother and aunt he believed would welcome mary. and oh! what a certainty of happiness the idea of that welcome implied. he had been absent and abstracted all day long with the thought of the coming event of the evening. he almost smiled at himself for his care in washing and dressing in preparation for his visit to mary. as if one waistcoat or another could decide his fate in so passionately momentous a thing. he believed he only delayed before his little looking-glass for cowardice, for absolute fear of a girl. he would try not to think so much about the affair, and he thought the more. poor jem! it is not an auspicious moment for thee! "come in," said mary, as some one knocked at the door, while she sat sadly at her sewing, trying to earn a few pence by working over hours at some mourning. jem entered, looking more awkward and abashed than he had ever done before. yet here was mary all alone, just as he had hoped to find her. she did not ask him to take a chair, but after standing a minute or two he sat down near her. "is your father at home, mary?" said he, by way of making an opening, for she seemed determined to keep silence, and went on stitching away. "no, he's gone to his union, i suppose." another silence. it was no use waiting, thought jem. the subject would never be led to by any talk he could think of in his anxious fluttered state. he had better begin at once. "mary!" said he, and the unusual tone of his voice made her look up for an instant, but in that time she understood from his countenance what was coming, and her heart beat so suddenly and violently she could hardly sit still. yet one thing she was sure of; nothing he could say should make her have him. she would show them all _who_ would be glad to have her. she was not yet calm after her father's irritating speeches. yet her eyes fell veiled before that passionate look fixed upon her. "dear mary! (for how dear you are, i cannot rightly tell you in words). it's no new story i'm going to speak about. you must ha' seen and known it long; for since we were boy and girl, i ha' loved you above father and mother and all; and all i've thought on by day and dreamt on by night, has been something in which you've had a share. i'd no way of keeping you for long, and i scorned to try and tie you down; and i lived in terror lest some one else should take you to himself. but now, mary, i'm foreman in th' works, and, dear mary! listen," as she, in her unbearable agitation, stood up and turned away from him. he rose, too, and came nearer, trying to take hold of her hand; but this she would not allow. she was bracing herself up to refuse him, for once and for all. "and now, mary, i've a home to offer you, and a heart as true as ever man had to love you and cherish you; we shall never be rich folk, i dare say; but if a loving heart and a strong right arm can shield you from sorrow, or from want, mine shall do it. i cannot speak as i would like; my love won't let itself be put in words. but oh! darling, say you believe me, and that you'll be mine." she could not speak at once; her words would not come. "mary, they say silence gives consent; is it so?" he whispered. now or never the effort must be made. "no! it does not with me." her voice was calm, although she trembled from head to foot. "i will always be your friend, jem, but i can never be your wife." "not my wife!" said he, mournfully. "oh mary, think awhile! you cannot be my friend if you will not be my wife. at least i can never be content to be only your friend. do think awhile! if you say no you will make me hopeless, desperate. it's no love of yesterday. it has made the very groundwork of all that people call good in me. i don't know what i shall be if you won't have me. and, mary! think how glad your father would be! it may sound vain, but he's told me more than once how much he should like to see us two married!" jem intended this for a powerful argument, but in mary's present mood it told against him more than any thing; for it suggested the false and foolish idea, that her father, in his evident anxiety to promote her marriage with jem, had been speaking to him on the subject with some degree of solicitation. "i tell you, jem, it cannot be. once for all, i will never marry you." "and is this the end of all my hopes and fears? the end of my life, i may say, for it is the end of all worth living for!" his agitation rose and carried him into passion. "mary! you'll hear, may be, of me as a drunkard, and may be as a thief, and may be as a murderer. remember! when all are speaking ill of me, you will have no right to blame me, for it's your cruelty that will have made me what i feel i shall become. you won't even say you'll try and like me; will you, mary?" said he, suddenly changing his tone from threatening despair to fond passionate entreaty, as he took her hand and held it forcibly between both of his, while he tried to catch a glimpse of her averted face. she was silent, but it was from deep and violent emotion. he could not bear to wait; he would not hope, to be dashed away again; he rather in his bitterness of heart chose the certainty of despair, and before she could resolve what to answer, he flung away her hand and rushed out of the house. "jem! jem!" cried she, with faint and choking voice. it was too late; he left street after street behind him with his almost winged speed, as he sought the fields, where he might give way unobserved to all the deep despair he felt. it was scarcely ten minutes since he had entered the house, and found mary at comparative peace, and now she lay half across the dresser, her head hidden in her hands, and every part of her body shaking with the violence of her sobs. she could not have told at first (if you had asked her, and she could have commanded voice enough to answer) why she was in such agonised grief. it was too sudden for her to analyse, or think upon it. she only felt that by her own doing her life would be hereafter dreary and blank. by-and-bye her sorrow exhausted her body by its power, and she seemed to have no strength left for crying. she sat down; and now thoughts crowded on her mind. one little hour ago, and all was still unsaid, and she had her fate in her own power. and yet, how long ago had she determined to say pretty much what she did, if the occasion ever offered. it was as if two people were arguing the matter; that mournful, desponding communion between her former self and her present self. herself, a day, an hour ago; and herself now. for we have every one of us felt how a very few minutes of the months and years called life, will sometimes suffice to place all time past and future in an entirely new light; will make us see the vanity or the criminality of the bye-gone, and so change the aspect of the coming time, that we look with loathing on the very thing we have most desired. a few moments may change our character for life, by giving a totally different direction to our aims and energies. to return to mary. her plan had been, as we well know, to marry mr. carson, and the occurrence an hour ago was only a preliminary step. true; but it had unveiled her heart to her; it had convinced her she loved jem above all persons or things. but jem was a poor mechanic, with a mother and aunt to keep; a mother, too, who had shown her pretty clearly she did not desire her for a daughter-in-law: while mr. carson was rich, and prosperous, and gay, and (she believed) would place her in all circumstances of ease and luxury, where want could never come. what were these hollow vanities to her, now she had discovered the passionate secret of her soul? she felt as if she almost hated mr. carson, who had decoyed her with his baubles. she now saw how vain, how nothing to her, would be all gaieties and pomps, all joys and pleasures, unless she might share them with jem; yes, with him she harshly rejected so short a time ago. if he were poor, she loved him all the better. if his mother did think her unworthy of him, what was it but the truth, as she now owned with bitter penitence. she had hitherto been walking in grope-light towards a precipice; but in the clear revelation of that past hour, she saw her danger, and turned away resolutely and for ever. that was some comfort: i mean her clear perception of what she ought not to do; of what no luring temptation should ever again induce her to hearken to. how she could best undo the wrong she had done to jem and herself by refusing his love, was another anxious question. she wearied herself with proposing plans, and rejecting them. she was roused to a consciousness of time by hearing the neighbouring church clock strike twelve. her father she knew might be expected home any minute, and she was in no mood for a meeting with him. so she hastily gathered up her work, and went to her own little bed-room, leaving him to let himself in. she put out her candle, that her father might not see its light under the door; and sat down on her bed to think. but after turning things over in her mind again and again, she could only determine at once to put an end to all further communication with mr. carson, in the most decided way she could. maidenly modesty (and true love is ever modest) seemed to oppose every plan she could think of, for showing jem how much she repented her decision against him, and how dearly she had now discovered that she loved him. she came to the unusual wisdom of resolving to do nothing, but try and be patient, and improve circumstances as they might turn up. surely, if jem knew of her remaining unmarried, he would try his fortune again. he would never be content with one rejection; she believed she could not in his place. she had been very wrong, but now she would try and do right, and have womanly patience, until he saw her changed and repentant mind in her natural actions. even if she had to wait for years, it was no more than now it was easy to look forward to, as a penance for her giddy flirting on the one hand, and her cruel mistake concerning her feelings on the other. so anticipating a happy ending to the course of her love, however distant it might be, she fell asleep just as the earliest factory bells were ringing. she had sunk down in her clothes, and her sleep was unrefreshing. she wakened up shivery and chill in body, and sorrow-stricken in mind, though she could not at first rightly tell the cause of her depression. she recalled the events of the night before, and still resolved to adhere to those determinations she had then formed. but patience seemed a far more difficult virtue this morning. she hastened down-stairs, and in her earnest sad desire to do right, now took much pains to secure a comfortable though scanty breakfast for her father; and when he dawdled into the room, in an evidently irritable temper, she bore all with the gentleness of penitence, till at last her mild answers turned away wrath. she loathed the idea of meeting sally leadbitter at her daily work; yet it must be done, and she tried to nerve herself for the encounter, and to make it at once understood, that having determined to give up having any thing further to do with mr. carson, she considered the bond of intimacy broken between them. but sally was not the person to let these resolutions be carried into effect too easily. she soon became aware of the present state of mary's feelings, but she thought they merely arose from the changeableness of girlhood, and that the time would come when mary would thank her for almost forcing her to keep up her meetings and communications with her rich lover. so, when two days had passed over in rather too marked avoidance of sally on mary's part, and when the former was made aware by mr. carson's complaints that mary was not keeping her appointments with him, and that unless he detained her by force, he had no chance of obtaining a word as she passed him in the street on her rapid walk home, she resolved to compel mary to what she called her own good. she took no notice during the third day of mary's avoidance as they sat at work; she rather seemed to acquiesce in the coolness of their intercourse. she put away her sewing early, and went home to her mother, who, she said, was more ailing than usual. the other girls soon followed her example, and mary, casting a rapid glance up and down the street, as she stood last on miss simmonds' door-step, darted homewards, in hopes of avoiding the person whom she was fast learning to dread. that night she was safe from any encounter on her road, and she arrived at home, which she found as she expected, empty; for she knew it was a club night, which her father would not miss. she sat down to recover breath, and to still her heart, which panted more from nervousness than from over-exertion, although she had walked so quickly. then she rose, and taking off her bonnet, her eye caught the form of sally leadbitter passing the window with a lingering step, and looking into the darkness with all her might, as if to ascertain if mary were returned. in an instant she re-passed and knocked at the house-door, but without awaiting an answer, she entered. "well, mary, dear" (knowing well how little "dear" mary considered her just then); "i's so difficult to get any comfortable talk at miss simmonds', i thought i'd just step up and see you at home." "i understood from what you said your mother was ailing, and that you wanted to be with her," replied mary, in no welcoming tone. "ay, but mother's better now," said the unabashed sally. "your father's out i suppose?" looking round as well as she could; for mary made no haste to perform the hospitable offices of striking a match, and lighting a candle. "yes, he's out," said mary, shortly, and busying herself at last about the candle, without ever asking her visitor to sit down. "so much the better," answered sally, "for to tell you the truth, mary, i've a friend at th' end of the street, as is anxious to come and see you at home, since you're grown so particular as not to like to speak to him in the street. he'll be here directly." "oh, sally, don't let him," said mary, speaking at last heartily; and running to the door she would have fastened it, but sally held her hands, laughing meanwhile at her distress. "oh, please, sally," struggling, "dear sally! don't let him come here, the neighbours will so talk, and father'll go mad if he hears; he'll kill me, sally, he will. besides, i don't love him--i never did. oh, let me go," as footsteps approached; and then, as they passed the house, and seemed to give her a respite, she continued, "do, sally, dear sally, go and tell him i don't love him, and that i don't want to have any thing more to do with him. it was very wrong, i dare say, keeping company with him at all, but i'm very sorry, if i've led him to think too much of me; and i don't want him to think any more. will you tell him this, sally? and i'll do any thing for you if you will." "i'll tell you what i'll do," said sally, in a more relenting mood, "i'll go back with you to where he's waiting for us; or rather, i should say, where i told him to wait for a quarter of an hour, till i seed if your father was at home; and if i didn't come back in that time, he said he'd come here, and break the door open but he'd see you." "oh, let us go, let us go," said mary, feeling that the interview must be, and had better be anywhere than at home, where her father might return at any minute. she snatched up her bonnet, and was at the end of the court in an instant; but then, not knowing whether to turn to the right or to the left, she was obliged to wait for sally, who came leisurely up, and put her arm through mary's, with a kind of decided hold, intended to prevent the possibility of her changing her mind, and turning back. but this, under the circumstances, was quite different to mary's plan. she had wondered more than once if she must not have another interview with mr. carson; and had then determined, while she expressed her resolution that it should be the final one, to tell him how sorry she was if she had thoughtlessly given him false hopes. for be it remembered, she had the innocence, or the ignorance, to believe his intentions honourable; and he, feeling that at any price he must have her, only that he would obtain her as cheaply as he could, had never undeceived her; while sally leadbitter laughed in her sleeve at them both, and wondered how it would all end,--whether mary would gain her point of marriage, with her sly affectation of believing such to be mr. carson's intention in courting her. not very far from the end of the street, into which the court where mary lived opened, they met mr. carson, his hat a good deal slouched over his face as if afraid of being recognised. he turned when he saw them coming, and led the way without uttering a word (although they were close behind) to a street of half-finished houses. the length of the walk gave mary time to recoil from the interview which was to follow; but even if her own resolve to go through with it had failed, there was the steady grasp of sally leadbitter, which she could not evade without an absolute struggle. at last he stopped in the shelter and concealment of a wooden fence, put up to keep the building rubbish from intruding on the foot-pavement. inside this fence, a minute afterwards, the girls were standing by him; mary now returning sally's detaining grasp with interest, for she had determined on the way to make her a witness, willing or unwilling, to the ensuing conversation. but sally's curiosity led her to be a very passive prisoner in mary's hold. with more freedom than he had ever used before, mr. carson put his arm firmly round mary's waist, in spite of her indignant resistance. "nay, nay! you little witch! now i have caught you, i shall keep you prisoner. tell me now what has made you run away from me so fast these few days--tell me, you sweet little coquette!" mary ceased struggling, but turned so as to be almost opposite to him, while she spoke out calmly and boldly, "mr. carson! i want to speak to you for once and for all. since i met you last monday evening, i have made up my mind to have nothing more to do with you. i know i've been wrong in leading you to think i liked you; but i believe i didn't rightly know my own mind; and i humbly beg your pardon, sir, if i've led you to think too much of me." for an instant he was surprised; the next, vanity came to his aid, and convinced him that she could only be joking. he, young, agreeable, rich, handsome! no! she was only showing a little womanly fondness for coquetting. "you're a darling little rascal to go on in this way! 'humbly begging my pardon if you've made me think too much of you.' as if you didn't know i think of you from morning to night. but you want to be told it again and again, do you?" "no, indeed, sir, i don't. i would far liefer [ ] that you should say you will never think of me again, than that you should speak of me in this way. for indeed, sir, i never was more in earnest than i am, when i say to-night is the last night i will ever speak to you." [footnote : "liefer," rather. "yet had i _levre_ unwist for sorrow die." _chaucer; "troilus and creseide."_] "last night, you sweet little equivocator, but not last day. ha, mary! i've caught you, have i?" as she, puzzled by his perseverance in thinking her joking, hesitated in what form she could now put her meaning. "i mean, sir," she said, sharply, "that i will never speak to you again at any time, after to-night." "and what's made this change, mary?" said he, seriously enough now. "have i done any thing to offend you?" added he, earnestly. "no, sir," she answered gently, but yet firmly. "i cannot tell you exactly why i've changed my mind; but i shall not alter it again; and as i said before, i beg your pardon if i've done wrong by you. and now, sir, if you please, good night." "but i do not please. you shall not go. what have i done, mary? tell me. you must not go without telling me how i have vexed you. what would you have me do?" "nothing, sir! but (in an agitated tone) oh! let me go! you cannot change my mind; it's quite made up. oh, sir! why do you hold me so tight? if you _will_ know why i won't have any thing more to do with you, it is that i cannot love you. i have tried, and i really cannot." this naive and candid avowal served her but little. he could not understand how it could be true. some reason lurked behind. he was passionately in love. what should he do to tempt her? a thought struck him. "listen! mary. nay, i cannot let you go till you have heard me. i do love you dearly; and i won't believe but what you love me a very little, just a very little. well, if you don't like to own it, never mind! i only want now to tell you how much i love you, by what i am ready to give up for you. you know (or perhaps you are not fully aware) how little my father and mother would like me to marry you. so angry would they be, and so much ridicule should i have to brave, that of course i have never thought of it till now. i thought we could be happy enough without marriage." (deep sank those words into mary's heart.) "but now, if you like, i'll get a licence to-morrow morning--nay, to-night, and i'll marry you in defiance of all the world, rather than give you up. in a year or two my father will forgive me, and meanwhile you shall have every luxury money can purchase, and every charm that love can devise to make your life happy. after all, my mother was but a factory girl." (this was said half to himself, as if to reconcile himself to this bold step.) "now, mary, you see how willing i am to--to sacrifice a good deal for you; i even offer you marriage, to satisfy your little ambitious heart; so, now, won't you say you can love me a little, little bit?" he pulled her towards him. to his surprise, she still resisted. yes! though all she had pictured to herself for so many months in being the wife of mr. carson was now within her grasp, she resisted. his speech had given her but one feeling, that of exceeding great relief. for she had dreaded, now she knew what true love was, to think of the attachment she might have created; the deep feeling her flirting conduct might have called out. she had loaded herself with reproaches for the misery she might have caused. it was a relief to gather that the attachment was of that low, despicable kind, which can plan to seduce the object of its affection; that the feeling she had caused was shallow enough, for it only pretended to embrace self, at the expense of the misery, the ruin, of one falsely termed beloved. she need not be penitent to such a plotter! that was the relief. "i am obliged to you, sir, for telling me what you have. you may think i am a fool; but i did think you meant to marry me all along; and yet, thinking so, i felt i could not love you. still i felt sorry i had gone so far in keeping company with you. now, sir, i tell you, if i had loved you before, i don't think i should have loved you now you have told me you meant to ruin me; for that's the plain english of not meaning to marry me till just this minute. i said i was sorry, and humbly begged your pardon; that was before i knew what you were. now i scorn you, sir, for plotting to ruin a poor girl. good night." and with a wrench, for which she had reserved all her strength, she was off like a bolt. they heard her flying footsteps echo down the quiet street. the next sound was sally's laugh, which grated on mr. carson's ears, and keenly irritated him. "and what do you find so amusing, sally?" asked he. "oh, sir, i beg your pardon. i humbly beg your pardon, as mary says, but i can't help laughing, to think how she's outwitted us." (she was going to have said, "outwitted you," but changed the pronoun.) "why, sally, had you any idea she was going to fly out in this style?" "no, i hadn't, to be sure. but if you did think of marrying her, why (if i may be so bold as to ask) did you go and tell her you had no thought of doing otherwise by her? that was what put her up at last!" "why i had repeatedly before led her to infer that marriage was not my object. i never dreamed she could have been so foolish as to have mistaken me, little provoking romancer though she be! so i naturally wished her to know what a sacrifice of prejudice, of--of myself, in short, i was willing to make for her sake; yet i don't think she was aware of it after all. i believe i might have any lady in manchester if i liked, and yet i was willing and ready to marry a poor dress-maker. don't you understand me now? and don't you see what a sacrifice i was making to humour her? and all to no avail." sally was silent, so he went on: "my father would have forgiven any temporary connexion, far sooner than my marrying one so far beneath me in rank." "i thought you said, sir, your mother was a factory girl," reminded sally, rather maliciously. "yes, yes!--but then my father was in much such a station; at any rate, there was not the disparity there is between mary and me." another pause. "then you mean to give her up, sir? she made no bones of saying she gave you up." "no, i do not mean to give her up, whatever you and she may please to think. i am more in love with her than ever; even for this charming capricious ebullition of hers. she'll come round, you may depend upon it. women always do. they always have second thoughts, and find out that they are best in casting off a lover. mind! i don't say i shall offer her the same terms again." with a few more words of no importance, the allies parted. chapter xii. old alice's bairn. "i lov'd him not; and yet, now he is gone, i feel i am alone. i check'd him while he spoke; yet, could he speak, alas! i would not check. for reasons not to love him once i sought, and wearied all my thought." w. s. landor. and now mary had, as she thought, dismissed both her lovers. but they looked on their dismissals with very different eyes. he who loved her with all his heart and with all his soul, considered his rejection final. he did not comfort himself with the idea, which would have proved so well founded in his case, that women have second thoughts about casting off their lovers. he had too much respect for his own heartiness of love to believe himself unworthy of mary; that mock humble conceit did not enter his head. he thought he did not "hit mary's fancy;" and though that may sound a trivial every-day expression, yet the reality of it cut him to the heart. wild visions of enlistment, of drinking himself into forgetfulness, of becoming desperate in some way or another, entered his mind; but then the thought of his mother stood like an angel with a drawn sword in the way to sin. for, you know, "he was the only son of his mother, and she was a widow;" dependent on him for daily bread. so he could not squander away health and time, which were to him money wherewith to support her failing years. he went to his work, accordingly, to all outward semblance just as usual; but with a heavy, heavy heart within. mr. carson, as we have seen, persevered in considering mary's rejection of him as merely a "charming caprice." if she were at work, sally leadbitter was sure to slip a passionately loving note into her hand, and then so skilfully move away from her side, that mary could not all at once return it, without making some sensation among the work-women. she was even forced to take several home with her. but after reading one, she determined on her plan. she made no great resistance to receiving them from sally, but kept them unopened, and occasionally returned them in a blank half-sheet of paper. but far worse than this, was the being so constantly waylaid as she went home by her persevering lover; who had been so long acquainted with all her habits, that she found it difficult to evade him. late or early, she was never certain of being free from him. go this way or that, he might come up some cross street when she had just congratulated herself on evading him for that day. he could not have taken a surer mode of making himself odious to her. and all this time jem wilson never came! not to see her--that she did not expect--but to see her father; to--she did not know what, but she had hoped he would have come on some excuse, just to see if she hadn't changed her mind. he never came. then she grew weary and impatient, and her spirits sank. the persecution of the one lover, and the neglect of the other, oppressed her sorely. she could not now sit quietly through the evening at her work; or, if she kept, by a strong effort, from pacing up and down the room, she felt as if she must sing to keep off thought while she sewed. and her songs were the maddest, merriest, she could think of. "barbara allen," and such sorrowful ditties, did well enough for happy times; but now she required all the aid that could be derived from external excitement to keep down the impulse of grief. and her father, too--he was a great anxiety to her, he looked so changed and so ill. yet he would not acknowledge to any ailment. she knew, that be it as late as it would, she never left off work until (if the poor servants paid her pretty regularly for the odd jobs of mending she did for them) she had earned a few pence, enough for one good meal for her father on the next day. but very frequently all she could do in the morning, after her late sitting up at night, was to run with the work home, and receive the money from the person for whom it was done. she could not stay often to make purchases of food, but gave up the money at once to her father's eager clutch; sometimes prompted by savage hunger it is true, but more frequently by a craving for opium. on the whole he was not so hungry as his daughter. for it was a long fast from the one o'clock dinner-hour at miss simmonds' to the close of mary's vigil, which was often extended to midnight. she was young, and had not yet learned to bear "clemming." one evening, as she sang a merry song over her work, stopping occasionally to sigh, the blind margaret came groping in. it had been one of mary's additional sorrows that her friend had been absent from home, accompanying the lecturer on music in his round among the manufacturing towns of yorkshire and lancashire. her grandfather, too, had seen this a good time for going his expeditions in search of specimens; so that the house had been shut up for several weeks. "oh! margaret, margaret! how glad i am to see you. take care. there, now, you're all right, that's father's chair. sit down."--she kissed her over and over again. "it seems like the beginning o' brighter times, to see you again, margaret. bless you! and how well you look!" "doctors always send ailing folk for change of air! and you know i've had plenty o' that same lately." "you've been quite a traveller for sure! tell us all about it, do, margaret. where have you been to, first place?" "eh, lass, that would take a long time to tell. half o'er the world i sometimes think. bolton, and bury, and owdham, and halifax, and--but mary, guess who i saw there! may be you know though, so it's not fair guessing." "no, i donnot. tell me, margaret, for i cannot abide waiting and guessing." "well, one night as i were going fra' my lodgings wi' the help on a lad as belonged to th' landlady, to find the room where i were to sing, i heard a cough before me, walking along. thinks i, that's jem wilson's cough, or i'm much mistaken. next time came a sneeze and a cough, and then i were certain. first i hesitated whether i should speak, thinking if it were a stranger he'd may be think me forrard. [ ] but i knew blind folks must not be nesh about using their tongues, so says i, 'jem wilson, is that you?' and sure enough it was, and nobody else. did you know he were in halifax, mary?" [footnote : "forrard," forward.] "no;" she answered, faintly and sadly; for halifax was all the same to her heart as the antipodes; equally inaccessible by humble penitent looks and maidenly tokens of love. "well, he's there, however; he's putting up an engine for some folks there, for his master. he's doing well, for he's getten four or five men under him; we'd two or three meetings, and he telled me all about his invention for doing away wi' the crank, or somewhat. his master's bought it from him, and ta'en out a patent, and jem's a gentleman for life wi' the money his master gied him. but you'll ha' heard all this, mary?" no! she had not. "well, i thought it all happened afore he left manchester, and then in course you'd ha' known. but may be it were all settled after he got to halifax; however, he's gotten two or three hunder pounds for his invention. but what's up with you, mary? you're sadly out o' sorts. you've never been quarrelling wi' jem, surely?" now mary cried outright; she was weak in body, and unhappy in mind, and the time was come when she might have the relief of telling her grief. she could not bring herself to confess how much of her sorrow was caused by her having been vain and foolish; she hoped that need never be known, and she could not bear to think of it. "oh, margaret; do you know jem came here one night when i were put out, and cross. oh, dear! dear! i could bite my tongue out when i think on it. and he told me how he loved me, and i thought i did not love him, and i told him i didn't; and, margaret,--he believed me, and went away so sad, and so angry; and now i'd do any thing,--i would, indeed," her sobs choked the end of her sentence. margaret looked at her with sorrow, but with hope; for she had no doubt in her own mind, that it was only a temporary estrangement. "tell me, margaret," said mary, taking her apron down from her eyes, and looking at margaret with eager anxiety, "what can i do to bring him back to me? should i write to him?" "no," replied her friend, "that would not do. men are so queer, they like to have a' the courting to themselves." "but i did not mean to write him a courting letter," said mary, somewhat indignantly. "if you wrote at all, it would be to give him a hint you'd taken the rue, and would be very glad to have him now. i believe now he'd rather find that out himself." "but he won't try," said mary, sighing. "how can he find it out when he's at halifax?" "if he's a will he's a way, depend upon it. and you would not have him if he's not a will to you, mary! no, dear!" changing her tone from the somewhat hard way in which sensible people too often speak, to the soft accents of tenderness which come with such peculiar grace from them; "you must just wait and be patient. you may depend upon it, all will end well, and better than if you meddled in it now." "but it's so hard to be patient," pleaded mary. "ay, dear; being patient is the hardest work we, any on us, have to do through life, i take it. waiting is far more difficult than doing. i've known that about my sight, and many a one has known it in watching the sick; but it's one of god's lessons we all must learn, one way or another." after a pause. "have ye been to see his mother of late?" "no; not for some weeks. when last i went she was so frabbit [ ] with me, that i really thought she wished i'd keep away." [footnote : "frabbit," ill-tempered.] "well! if i were you i'd go. jem will hear on't, and it will do you far more good in his mind than writing a letter, which, after all, you would find a tough piece of work when you came to settle to it. 'twould be hard to say neither too much nor too little. but i must be going, grandfather is at home, and it's our first night together, and he must not be sitting wanting me any longer." she rose up from her seat, but still delayed going. "mary! i've somewhat else i want to say to you, and i don't rightly know how to begin. you see, grandfather and i know what bad times is, and we know your father is out o' work, and i'm getting more money than i can well manage; and, dear, would you just take this bit o' gold, and pay me back in good times?" the tears stood in margaret's eyes as she spoke. "dear margaret, we're not so bad pressed as that." (the thought of her father, and his ill looks, and his one meal a day, rushed upon mary.) "and yet, dear, if it would not put you out o' your way,--i would work hard to make it up to you;--but would not your grandfather be vexed?" "not he, wench! it were more his thought than mine, and we have gotten ever so many more at home, so don't hurry yoursel about paying. it's hard to be blind, to be sure, else money comes in so easily now to what it used to do; and it's downright pleasure to earn it, for i do so like singing." "i wish i could sing," said mary, looking at the sovereign. "some has one kind o' gifts, and some another. many's the time when i could see, that i longed for your beauty, mary! we're like childer, ever wanting what we han not got. but now i must say just one more word. remember, if you're sore pressed for money, we shall take it very unkind if you donnot let us know. good bye to ye." in spite of her blindness she hurried away, anxious to rejoin her grandfather, and desirous also to escape from mary's expressions of gratitude. her visit had done mary good in many ways. it had strengthened her patience and her hope. it had given her confidence in margaret's sympathy; and last, and really least in comforting power (of so little value are silver and gold in comparison to love, that gift in every one's power to bestow), came the consciousness of the money-value of the sovereign she held in her hand. the many things it might purchase! first of all came the thought of a comfortable supper for her father that very night; and acting instantly upon the idea, she set off in hopes that all the provision-shops might not yet be closed, although it was so late. that night the cottage shone with unusual light, and fire-gleam; and the father and daughter sat down to a meal they thought almost extravagant. it was so long since they had had enough to eat. "food gives heart," say the lancashire people; and the next day mary made time to go and call on mrs. wilson, according to margaret's advice. she found her quite alone, and more gracious than she had been the last time mary had visited her. alice was gone out, she said. "she would just step to the post-office, all for no earthly use. for it were to ask if they hadn't a letter lying there for her from her foster-son will wilson, the sailor-lad." "what made her think there were a letter?" asked mary. "why, yo see, a neighbour as has been in liverpool, telled us will's ship were come in. now he said last time he were in liverpool he'd ha' come to ha' seen alice, but his ship had but a week holiday, and hard work for the men in that time too. so alice makes sure he'll come this, and has had her hand behind her ear at every noise in th' street, thinking it were him. and to-day she were neither to have nor to hold, but off she would go to th' post, and see if he had na sent her a line to th' old house near yo. i tried to get her to give up going, for let alone her deafness she's getten so dark, she cannot see five yards afore her; but no, she would go, poor old body." "i did not know her sight had failed her; she used to have good eyes enough when she lived near us." "ay, but it's gone lately a good deal. but you never ask after jem--" anxious to get in a word on the subject nearest her heart. "no," replied mary, blushing scarlet. "how is he?" "i cannot justly say how he is, seeing he's at halifax; but he were very well when he wrote last tuesday. han ye heard o' his good luck?" rather to her disappointment, mary owned she had heard of the sum his master had paid him for his invention. "well! and did not margaret tell yo what he'd done wi' it? it's just like him though, ne'er to say a word about it. why, when it were paid what does he do, but get his master to help him to buy an income for me and alice. he had her name put down for her life; but, poor thing, she'll not be long to the fore, i'm thinking. she's sadly failed of late. and so, mary, yo see, we're two ladies o' property. it's a matter o' twenty pound a year they tell me. i wish the twins had lived, bless 'em," said she, dropping a few tears. "they should ha' had the best o' schooling, and their belly-fulls o' food. i suppose they're better off in heaven, only i should so like to see 'em." mary's heart filled with love at this new proof of jem's goodness; but she could not talk about it. she took jane wilson's hand, and pressed it with affection; and then turned the subject to will, her sailor nephew. jane was a little bit sorry, but her prosperity had made her gentler, and she did not resent what she felt as mary's indifference to jem and his merits. "he's been in africa and that neighbourhood, i believe. he's a fine chap, but he's not gotten jem's hair. his has too much o' the red in it. he sent alice (but, maybe, she telled you) a matter o' five pound when he were over before; but that were nought to an income, yo know." "it's not every one that can get a hundred or two at a time," said mary. "no! no! that's true enough. there's not many a one like jem. that's alice's step," said she, hastening to open the door to her sister-in-law. alice looked weary, and sad, and dusty. the weariness and the dust would not have been noticed either by her, or the others, if it had not been for the sadness. "no letters!" said mrs. wilson. "no, none! i must just wait another day to hear fra my lad. it's very dree work, waiting!" said alice. margaret's words came into mary's mind. every one has their time and kind of waiting. "if i but knew he were safe, and not drowned!" spoke alice. "if i but knew he _were_ drowned, i would ask grace to say, thy will be done. it's the waiting." "it's hard work to be patient to all of us," said mary; "i know i find it so, but i did not know one so good as you did, alice; i shall not think so badly of myself for being a bit impatient, now i've heard you say you find it difficult." the idea of reproach to alice was the last in mary's mind; and alice knew it was. nevertheless, she said, "then, my dear, i ask your pardon, and god's pardon, too, if i've weakened your faith, by showing you how feeble mine was. half our life's spent in waiting, and it ill becomes one like me, wi' so many mercies, to grumble. i'll try and put a bridle o'er my tongue, and my thoughts too." she spoke in a humble and gentle voice, like one asking forgiveness. "come, alice," interposed mrs. wilson, "don't fret yoursel for e'er a trifle wrong said here or there. see! i've put th' kettle on, and you and mary shall ha' a dish o' tea in no time." so she bustled about, and brought out a comfortable-looking substantial loaf, and set mary to cut bread and butter, while she rattled out the tea-cups--always a cheerful sound. just as they were sitting down, there was a knock heard at the door, and without waiting for it to be opened from the inside, some one lifted the latch, and in a man's voice asked, if one george wilson lived there? mrs. wilson was entering on a long and sorrowful explanation of his having once lived there, but of his having dropped down dead; when alice, with the instinct of love (for in all usual and common instances, sight and hearing failed to convey impressions to her until long after other people had received them), arose, and tottered to the door. "my bairn!--my own dear bairn!" she exclaimed, falling on will wilson's neck. you may fancy the hospitable and welcoming commotion that ensued; how mrs. wilson laughed, and talked, and cried, altogether, if such a thing can be done; and how mary gazed with wondering pleasure at her old playmate; now a dashing, bronzed-looking, ringletted sailor, frank, and hearty, and affectionate. but it was something different from common to see alice's joy at once more having her foster-child with her. she did not speak, for she really could not; but the tears came coursing down her old withered cheeks, and dimmed the horn spectacles she had put on, in order to pry lovingly into his face. so what with her failing sight, and her tear-blinded eyes, she gave up the attempt of learning his face by heart through the medium of that sense, and tried another. she passed her sodden, shrivelled hands, all trembling with eagerness, over his manly face, bent meekly down in order that she might more easily make her strange inspection. at last, her soul was satisfied. after tea, mary, feeling sure there was much to be said on both sides, at which it would be better no one should be present, not even an intimate friend like herself, got up to go away. this seemed to arouse alice from her dreamy consciousness of exceeding happiness, and she hastily followed mary to the door. there, standing outside, with the latch in her hand, she took hold of mary's arm, and spoke nearly the first words she had uttered since her nephew's return. "my dear! i shall never forgive mysel, if my wicked words to-night are any stumbling-block in your path. see how the lord has put coals of fire on my head! oh! mary, don't let my being an unbelieving thomas weaken your faith. wait patiently on the lord, whatever your trouble may be." chapter xiii. a traveller's tales. "the mermaid sat upon the rocks all day long, admiring her beauty and combing her locks, and singing a mermaid song. "and hear the mermaid's song you may, as sure as sure can be, if you will but follow the sun all day, and souse with him into the sea." w. s. landor. it was perhaps four or five days after the events mentioned in the last chapter, that one evening, as mary stood lost in reverie at the window, she saw will wilson enter the court, and come quickly up to her door. she was glad to see him, for he had always been a friend of hers, perhaps too much like her in character ever to become any thing nearer or dearer. she opened the door in readiness to receive his frank greeting, which she as frankly returned. "come, mary! on with bonnet and shawl, or whatever rigging you women require before leaving the house. i'm sent to fetch you, and i can't lose time when i'm under orders." "where am i to go to?" asked mary, as her heart leaped up at the thought of who might be waiting for her. "not very far," replied he. "only to old job legh's round the corner here. aunt would have me come and see these new friends of hers, and then we meant to ha' come on here to see you and your father, but the old gentleman seems inclined to make a night of it, and have you all there. where's your father? i want to see him. he must come too." "he's out, but i'll leave word next door for him to follow me; that's to say, if he comes home afore long." she added, hesitatingly, "is any one else at job's?" "no! my aunt jane would not come for some maggot or other; and as for jem! i don't know what you've all been doing to him, but he's as down-hearted a chap as i'd wish to see. he's had his sorrows sure enough, poor lad! but it's time for him to be shaking off his dull looks, and not go moping like a girl." "then he's come fra halifax, is he?" asked mary. "yes! his body's come, but i think he's left his heart behind him. his tongue i'm sure he has, as we used to say to childer, when they would not speak. i try to rouse him up a bit, and i think he likes having me with him, but still he's as gloomy and as dull as can be. 'twas only yesterday he took me to the works, and you'd ha' thought us two quakers as the spirit hadn't moved, all the way down we were so mum. it's a place to craze a man, certainly; such a noisy black hole! there were one or two things worth looking at, the bellows for instance, or the gale they called a bellows. i could ha' stood near it a whole day; and if i'd a berth in that place, i should like to be bellows-man, if there is such a one. but jem weren't diverted even with that; he stood as grave as a judge while it blew my hat out o' my hand. he's lost all relish for his food, too, which frets my aunt sadly. come! mary, ar'n't you ready?" she had not been able to gather if she were to see jem at job legh's; but when the door was opened, she at once saw and felt he was not there. the evening then would be a blank; at least so she thought for the first five minutes; but she soon forgot her disappointment in the cheerful meeting of old friends, all, except herself, with some cause for rejoicing at that very time. margaret, who could not be idle, was knitting away, with her face looking full into the room, away from her work. alice sat meek and patient with her dimmed eyes and gentle look, trying to see and to hear, but never complaining; indeed, in her inner self she was blessing god for her happiness; for the joy of having her nephew, her child, near her, was far more present to her mind, than her deprivations of sight and hearing. job was in the full glory of host and hostess too, for by a tacit agreement he had roused himself from his habitual abstraction, and had assumed many of margaret's little household duties. while he moved about he was deep in conversation with the young sailor, trying to extract from him any circumstances connected with the natural history of the different countries he had visited. "oh! if you are fond of grubs, and flies, and beetles, there's no place for 'em like sierra leone. i wish you'd had some of ours; we had rather too much of a good thing; we drank them with our drink, and could scarcely keep from eating them with our food. i never thought any folk could care for such fat green beasts as those, or i would ha' brought you them by the thousand. a plate full o' peas-soup would ha' been full enough for you, i dare say; it were often too full for us." "i would ha' given a good deal for some on 'em," said job. "well, i knew folk at home liked some o' the queer things one meets with abroad; but i never thought they'd care for them nasty slimy things. i were always on the look-out for a mermaid, for that i knew were a curiosity." "you might ha' looked long enough," said job, in an under-tone of contempt, which, however, the quick ears of the sailor caught. "not so long, master, in some latitudes, as you think. it stands to reason th' sea hereabouts is too cold for mermaids; for women here don't go half-naked on account o' climate. but i've been in lands where muslin were too hot to wear on land, and where the sea were more than milk-warm; and though i'd never the good luck to see a mermaid in that latitude, i know them that has." "do tell us about it," cried mary. "pooh, pooh!" said job the naturalist. both speeches determined will to go on with his story. what could a fellow who had never been many miles from home know about the wonders of the deep, that he should put him down in that way? "well, it were jack harris, our third mate last voyage, as many and many a time telled us all about it. you see he were becalmed off chatham island (that's in the great pacific, and a warm enough latitude for mermaids, and sharks, and such like perils). so some of the men took the long boat, and pulled for the island to see what it were like; and when they got near, they heard a puffing, like a creature come up to take breath; you've never heard a diver? no! well! you've heard folks in th' asthma, and it were for all the world like that. so they looked around, and what should they see but a mermaid, sitting on a rock, and sunning herself. the water is always warmer when it's rough, you know, so i suppose in the calm she felt it rather chilly, and had come up to warm herself." "what was she like?" asked mary, breathlessly. job took his pipe off the chimney-piece and began to smoke with very audible puffs, as if the story were not worth listening to. "oh! jack used to say she was for all the world as beautiful as any of the wax ladies in the barbers' shops; only, mary, there were one little difference: her hair was bright grass green." "i should not think that was pretty," said mary, hesitatingly; as if not liking to doubt the perfection of any thing belonging to such an acknowledged beauty. "oh! but it is when you're used to it. i always think when first we get sight of land, there's no colour so lovely as grass green. however, she had green hair sure enough; and were proud enough of it, too; for she were combing it out full-length when first they saw her. they all thought she were a fair prize, and may be as good as a whale in ready money (they were whale-fishers you know). for some folk think a deal of mermaids, whatever other folk do." this was a hit at job, who retaliated in a series of sonorous spittings and puffs. "so, as i were saying, they pulled towards her, thinking to catch her. she were all the while combing her beautiful hair, and beckoning to them, while with the other hand she held a looking-glass." "how many hands had she?" asked job. "two, to be sure, just like any other woman," answered will, indignantly. "oh! i thought you said she beckoned with one hand, and combed her hair with another, and held a looking-glass with a third," said job, with provoking quietness. "no! i didn't! at least if i did, i meant she did one thing after another, as any one but" (here he mumbled a word or two) "could understand. well, mary," turning very decidedly towards her, "when she saw them coming near, whether it were she grew frightened at their fowling-pieces, as they had on board, for a bit o' shooting on the island, or whether it were she were just a fickle jade as did not rightly know her own mind (which, seeing one half of her was woman, i think myself was most probable), but when they were only about two oars' length from the rock where she sat, down she plopped into the water, leaving nothing but her hinder end of a fish tail sticking up for a minute, and then that disappeared too." "and did they never see her again?" asked mary. "never so plain; the man who had the second watch one night declared he saw her swimming round the ship, and holding up her glass for him to look in; and then he saw the little cottage near aber in wales (where his wife lived) as plain as ever he saw it in life, and his wife standing outside, shading her eyes as if she were looking for him. but jack harris gave him no credit, for he said he were always a bit of a romancer, and beside that, were a home-sick, down-hearted chap." "i wish they had caught her," said mary, musing. "they got one thing as belonged to her," replied will, "and that i've often seen with my own eyes, and i reckon it's a sure proof of the truth of their story; for them that wants proof." "what was it?" asked margaret, almost anxious her grandfather should be convinced. "why, in her hurry she left her comb on the rock, and one o' the men spied it; so they thought that were better than nothing, and they rowed there and took it, and jack harris had it on board the _john cropper_, and i saw him comb his hair with it every sunday morning." "what was it like?" asked mary, eagerly; her imagination running on coral combs, studded with pearls. "why, if it had not had such a strange yarn belonging to it, you'd never ha' noticed it from any other small-tooth comb." "i should rather think not," sneered job legh. the sailor bit his lips to keep down his anger against an old man. margaret felt very uneasy, knowing her grandfather so well, and not daring to guess what caustic remark might come next to irritate the young sailor guest. mary, however, was too much interested by the wonders of the deep to perceive the incredulity with which job legh received wilson's account of the mermaid; and when he left off, half offended, and very much inclined not to open his lips again through the evening, she eagerly said, "oh do tell us something more of what you hear and see on board ship. do, will!" "what's the use, mary, if folk won't believe one. there are things i saw with my own eyes, that some people would pish and pshaw at, as if i were a baby to be put down by cross noises. but i'll tell you, mary," with an emphasis on _you_, "some more of the wonders of the sea, sin' you're not too wise to believe me. i have seen a fish fly." this did stagger mary. she had heard of mermaids as signs of inns, and as sea-wonders, but never of flying fish. not so job. he put down his pipe, and nodding his head as a token of approbation, he said "ay, ay! young man. now you're speaking truth." "well now! you'll swallow that, old gentleman. you'll credit me when i say i've seen a crittur half fish, half bird, and you won't credit me when i say there be such beasts as mermaids, half fish, half woman. to me, one's just as strange as t'other." "you never saw the mermaid yoursel," interposed margaret, gently. but "love me, love my dog," was will wilson's motto, only his version was "believe me, believe jack harris;" and the remark was not so soothing to him as it was intended to have been. "it's the exocetus; one of the malacopterygii abdominales," said job, much interested. "ay, there you go! you're one o' them folks as never knows beasts unless they're called out o' their names. put 'em in sunday clothes and you know 'em, but in their work-a-day english you never know nought about 'em. i've met wi' many o' your kidney; and if i'd ha' known it, i'd ha' christened poor jack's mermaid wi' some grand gibberish of a name. mermaidicus jack harrisensis; that's just like their new-fangled words. d'ye believe there's such a thing as the mermaidicus, master?" asked will, enjoying his own joke uncommonly, as most people do. "not i! tell me about the--" "well!" said will, pleased at having excited the old gentleman's faith and credit at last. "it were on this last voyage, about a day's sail from madeira, that one of our men--" "not jack harris, i hope," murmured job. "called me," continued will, not noticing the interruption, "to see the what d'ye call it--flying fish i say it is. it were twenty feet out o' water, and it flew near on to a hundred yards. but i say, old gentleman, i ha' gotten one dried, and if you'll take it, why, i'll give it you; only," he added, in a lower tone, "i wish you'd just gie me credit for the mermaidicus." i really believe if the assuming faith in the story of the mermaid had been made the condition of receiving the flying fish, job legh, sincere man as he was, would have pretended belief; he was so much delighted at the idea of possessing this specimen. he won the sailor's heart by getting up to shake both his hands in his vehement gratitude, puzzling poor old alice, who yet smiled through her wonder; for she understood the action to indicate some kindly feeling towards her nephew. job wanted to prove his gratitude, and was puzzled how to do it. he feared the young man would not appreciate any of his duplicate araneides; not even the great american mygale, one of his most precious treasures; or else he would gladly have bestowed any duplicate on the donor of a real dried exocetus. what could he do for him? he could ask margaret to sing. other folks beside her old doating grandfather thought a deal of her songs. so margaret began some of her noble old-fashioned songs. she knew no modern music (for which her auditors might have been thankful), but she poured her rich voice out in some of the old canzonets she had lately learnt while accompanying the musical lecturer on his tour. mary was amused to see how the young sailor sat entranced; mouth, eyes, all open, in order to catch every breath of sound. his very lids refused to wink, as if afraid in that brief proverbial interval to lose a particle of the rich music that floated through the room. for the first time the idea crossed mary's mind that it was possible the plain little sensible margaret, so prim and demure, might have power over the heart of the handsome, dashing, spirited will wilson. job, too, was rapidly changing his opinion of his new guest. the flying fish went a great way, and his undisguised admiration for margaret's singing carried him still further. it was amusing enough to see these two, within the hour so barely civil to each other, endeavouring now to be ultra-agreeable. will, as soon as he had taken breath (a long, deep gasp of admiration) after margaret's song, sidled up to job, and asked him in a sort of doubting tone, "you wouldn't like a live manx cat, would ye, master?" "a what?" exclaimed job. "i don't know its best name," said will, humbly. "but we call 'em just manx cats. they're cats without tails." now job, in all his natural history, had never heard of such animals; so will continued, "because i'm going, afore joining my ship, to see mother's friends in the island, and would gladly bring you one, if so be you'd like to have it. they look as queer and out o' nature as flying fish, or"--he gulped the words down that should have followed. "especially when you see 'em walking a roof-top, right again the sky, when a cat, as is a proper cat, is sure to stick her tail stiff out behind, like a slack-rope dancer a-balancing; but these cats having no tail, cannot stick it out, which captivates some people uncommonly. if yo'll allow me, i'll bring one for miss there," jerking his head at margaret. job assented with grateful curiosity, wishing much to see the tail-less phenomenon. "when are you going to sail?" asked mary. "i cannot justly say; our ship's bound for america next voyage, they tell me. a mess-mate will let me know when her sailing-day is fixed; but i've got to go to th' isle o' man first. i promised uncle last time i were in england to go this next time. i may have to hoist the blue peter any day; so, make much of me while you have me, mary." job asked him if he had ever been in america. "haven't i? north and south both! this time we're bound to north. yankee-land, as we call it, where uncle sam lives." "uncle who?" said mary. "oh, it's a way sailors have of speaking. i only mean i'm going to boston, u. s., that's uncle sam." mary did not understand, so she left him and went to sit by alice, who could not hear conversation unless expressly addressed to her. she had sat patiently silent the greater part of the night, and now greeted mary with a quiet smile. "where's yo'r father?" asked she. "i guess he's at his union; he's there most evenings." alice shook her head; but whether it were that she did not hear, or that she did not quite approve of what she heard, mary could not make out. she sat silently watching alice, and regretting over her dimmed and veiled eyes, formerly so bright and speaking; as if alice understood by some other sense what was passing in mary's mind, she turned suddenly round, and answered mary's thought. "yo're mourning for me, my dear; and there's no need, mary. i'm as happy as a child. i sometimes think i am a child, whom the lord is hushabying to my long sleep. for when i were a nurse-girl, my missis alway telled me to speak very soft and low, and to darken the room that her little one might go to sleep; and now all noises are hushed and still to me, and the bonny earth seems dim and dark, and i know it's my father lulling me away to my long sleep. i'm very well content, and yo mustn't fret for me. i've had well nigh every blessing in life i could desire." mary thought of alice's long-cherished, fond wish to revisit the home of her childhood, so often and often deferred, and now probably never to take place. or if it did, how changed from the fond anticipation of what it was to have been! it would be a mockery to the blind and deaf alice. the evening came quickly to an end. there was the humble cheerful meal, and then the bustling merry farewell, and mary was once more in the quietness and solitude of her own dingy, dreary-looking home; her father still out, the fire extinguished, and her evening's task of work lying all undone upon the dresser. but it had been a pleasant little interlude to think upon. it had distracted her attention for a few hours from the pressure of many uneasy thoughts, of the dark, heavy, oppressive times, when sorrow and want seemed to surround her on every side; of her father, his changed and altered looks, telling so plainly of broken health, and an embittered heart; of the morrow, and the morrow beyond that, to be spent in that close monotonous work-room, with sally leadbitter's odious whispers hissing in her ear; and of the hunted look, so full of dread, from miss simmonds' door-step up and down the street, lest her persecuting lover should be near: for he lay in wait for her with wonderful perseverance, and of late had made himself almost hateful, by the unmanly force which he had used to detain her to listen to him, and the indifference with which he exposed her to the remarks of the passers-by, any one of whom might circulate reports which it would be terrible for her father to hear--and worse than death should they reach jem wilson. and all this she had drawn upon herself by her giddy flirting. oh! how she loathed the recollection of the hot summer evening, when, worn out by stitching and sewing, she had loitered homewards with weary languor, and first listened to the voice of the tempter. and jem wilson! oh, jem, jem, why did you not come to receive some of the modest looks and words of love which mary longed to give you, to try and make up for the hasty rejection which you as hastily took to be final, though both mourned over it with many tears. but day after day passed away, and patience seemed of no avail; and mary's cry was ever the old moan of the moated grange, "why comes he not," she said, "i am aweary, aweary, i would that i were dead." chapter xiv. jem's interview with poor esther. "know the temptation ere you judge the crime! look on this tree--'twas green, and fair, and graceful; yet now, save these few shoots, how dry and rotten! thou canst not tell the cause. not long ago, a neighbour oak, with which its roots were twined, in falling wrenched them with such cruel force, that though we covered them again with care, its beauty withered, and it pined away. so, could we look into the human breast, how oft the fatal blight that meets our view, should we trace down to the torn, bleeding fibres of a too trusting heart--where it were shame, for pitying tears, to give contempt or blame." "street walks." the month was over;--the honeymoon to the newly-married; the exquisite convalescence to the "living mother of a living child;" the "first dark days of nothingness" to the widow and the child bereaved; the term of penance, of hard labour, and solitary confinement, to the shrinking, shivering, hopeless prisoner. "sick, and in prison, and ye visited me." shall you, or i, receive such blessing? i know one who will. an overseer of a foundry, an aged man, with hoary hair, has spent his sabbaths, for many years, in visiting the prisoners and the afflicted in manchester new bailey; not merely advising and comforting, but putting means into their power of regaining the virtue and the peace they had lost; becoming himself their guarantee in obtaining employment, and never deserting those who have once asked help from him. [ ] [footnote : vide _manchester guardian_, of wednesday, march , ; and also the reports of captain williams, prison inspector.] esther's term of imprisonment was ended. she received a good character in the governor's books; she had picked her daily quantity of oakum, had never deserved the extra punishment of the tread-mill, and had been civil and decorous in her language. and once more she was out of prison. the door closed behind her with a ponderous clang, and in her desolation she felt as if shut out of home--from the only shelter she could meet with, houseless and pennyless as she was, on that dreary day. but it was but for an instant that she stood there doubting. one thought had haunted her both by night and by day, with monomaniacal incessancy; and that thought was how to save mary (her dead sister's only child, her own little pet in the days of her innocence) from following in the same downward path to vice. to whom could she speak and ask for aid? she shrank from the idea of addressing john barton again; her heart sank within her, at the remembrance of his fierce repulsing action, and far fiercer words. it seemed worse than death to reveal her condition to mary, else she sometimes thought that this course would be the most terrible, the most efficient warning. she must speak; to that she was soul-compelled; but to whom? she dreaded addressing any of her former female acquaintance, even supposing they had sense, or spirit, or interest enough to undertake her mission. to whom shall the outcast prostitute tell her tale? who will give her help in her day of need? hers is the leper-sin, and all stand aloof dreading to be counted unclean. in her wild night wanderings, she had noted the haunts and habits of many a one who little thought of a watcher in the poor forsaken woman. you may easily imagine that a double interest was attached by her to the ways and companionships of those with whom she had been acquainted in the days which, when present, she had considered hardly-worked and monotonous, but which now in retrospection seemed so happy and unclouded. accordingly, she had, as we have seen, known where to meet with john barton on that unfortunate night, which had only produced irritation in him, and a month's imprisonment to her. she had also observed that he was still intimate with the wilsons. she had seen him walking and talking with both father and son; her old friends too; and she had shed unregarded, unvalued tears, when some one had casually told her of george wilson's sudden death. it now flashed across her mind, that to the son, to mary's play-fellow, her elder brother in the days of childhood, her tale might be told, and listened to with interest, and some mode of action suggested by him by which mary might be guarded and saved. all these thoughts had passed through her mind while yet she was in prison; so when she was turned out, her purpose was clear, and she did not feel her desolation of freedom as she would otherwise have done. that night she stationed herself early near the foundry where she knew jem worked; he stayed later than usual, being detained by some arrangements for the morrow. she grew tired and impatient; many workmen had come out of the door in the long, dead, brick wall, and eagerly had she peered into their faces, deaf to all insult or curse. he must have gone home early; one more turn in the street, and she would go. during that turn he came out, and in the quiet of that street of workshops and warehouses, she directly heard his steps. now her heart failed her for an instant; but still she was not daunted from her purpose, painful as its fulfilment was sure to be. she laid her hand on his arm. as she expected, after a momentary glance at the person who thus endeavoured to detain him, he made an effort to shake it off, and pass on. but trembling as she was, she had provided against this by a firm and unusual grasp. "you must listen to me, jem wilson," she said, with almost an accent of command. "go away, missis; i've nought to do with you, either in hearkening, or talking." he made another struggle. "you must listen," she said again, authoritatively, "for mary barton's sake." the spell of her name was as potent as that of the mariner's glittering eye. "he listened like a three-year child." "i know you care enough for her to wish to save her from harm." he interrupted his earnest gaze into her face, with the exclamation-- "and who can yo be to know mary barton, or to know that she's ought to me?" there was a little strife in esther's mind for an instant, between the shame of acknowledging herself, and the additional weight to her revelation which such acknowledgment would give. then she spoke. "do you remember esther, the sister of john barton's wife? the aunt to mary? and the valentine i sent you last february ten years?" "yes, i mind her well! but yo are not esther, are you?" he looked again into her face, and seeing that indeed it was his boyhood's friend, he took her hand, and shook it with a cordiality that forgot the present in the past. "why, esther! where han ye been this many a year? where han ye been wandering that we none of us could find you out?" the question was asked thoughtlessly, but answered with fierce earnestness. "where have i been? what have i been doing? why do you torment me with questions like these? can you not guess? but the story of my life is wanted to give force to my speech, afterwards i will tell it you. nay! don't change your fickle mind now, and say you don't want to hear it. you must hear it, and i must tell it; and then see after mary, and take care she does not become like me. as she is loving now, so did i love once; one above me far." she remarked not, in her own absorption, the change in jem's breathing, the sudden clutch at the wall which told the fearfully vivid interest he took in what she said. "he was so handsome, so kind! well, the regiment was ordered to chester (did i tell you he was an officer?), and he could not bear to part from me, nor i from him, so he took me with him. i never thought poor mary would have taken it so to heart! i always meant to send for her to pay me a visit when i was married; for, mark you! he promised me marriage. they all do. then came three years of happiness. i suppose i ought not to have been happy, but i was. i had a little girl, too. oh! the sweetest darling that ever was seen! but i must not think of her," putting her hand wildly up to her forehead, "or i shall go mad; i shall." "don't tell me any more about yoursel," said jem, soothingly. "what! you're tired already, are you? but i'll tell you; as you've asked for it, you shall hear it. i won't recall the agony of the past for nothing. i will have the relief of telling it. oh, how happy i was!"--sinking her voice into a plaintive child-like manner. "it came like a shot on me when one day he came to me and told me he was ordered to ireland, and must leave me behind; at bristol we then were." jem muttered some words; she caught their meaning, and in a pleading voice continued, "oh, don't abuse him; don't speak a word against him! you don't know how i love him yet; yet, when i am sunk so low. you don't guess how kind he was. he gave me fifty pound before we parted, and i knew he could ill spare it. don't, jem, please," as his muttered indignation rose again. for her sake he ceased. "i might have done better with the money; i see now. but i did not know the value of money. formerly i had earned it easily enough at the factory, and as i had no more sensible wants, i spent it on dress and on eating. while i lived with him, i had it for asking; and fifty pounds would, i thought, go a long way. so i went back to chester, where i'd been so happy, and set up a small-ware shop, and hired a room near. we should have done well, but alas! alas! my little girl fell ill, and i could not mind my shop and her too; and things grew worse and worse. i sold my goods any how to get money to buy her food and medicine; i wrote over and over again to her father for help, but he must have changed his quarters, for i never got an answer. the landlord seized the few bobbins and tapes i had left, for shop-rent; and the person to whom the mean little room, to which we had been forced to remove, belonged, threatened to turn us out unless his rent was paid; it had run on many weeks, and it was winter, cold bleak winter; and my child was so ill, so ill, and i was starving. and i could not bear to see her suffer, and forgot how much better it would be for us to die together;--oh her moans, her moans, which money would give me the means of relieving! so i went out into the street, one january night--do you think god will punish me for that?" she asked with wild vehemence, almost amounting to insanity, and shaking jem's arm in order to force an answer from him. but before he could shape his heart's sympathy into words, her voice had lost its wildness, and she spoke with the quiet of despair. "but it's no matter! i've done that since, which separates us as far asunder as heaven and hell can be." her voice rose again to the sharp pitch of agony. "my darling! my darling! even after death i may not see thee, my own sweet one! she was so good--like a little angel. what is that text, i don't remember,--that text mother used to teach me when i sat on her knee long ago; it begins, 'blessed are the pure'"-- "blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see god." "ay, that's it! it would break mother's heart if she knew what i am now--it did break mary's heart, you see. and now i recollect it was about her child i wanted so to see you, jem. you know mary barton, don't you?" said she, trying to collect her thoughts. yes, jem knew her. how well, his beating heart could testify! "well, there's something to do for her; i forget what; wait a minute! she is so like my little girl;" said she, raising her eyes, glistening with unshed tears, in search of the sympathy of jem's countenance. he deeply pitied her; but oh! how he longed to recall her mind to the subject of mary, and the lover above her in rank, and the service to be done for her sake. but he controlled himself to silence. after awhile, she spoke again, and in a calmer voice. "when i came to manchester (for i could not stay in chester after her death), i found you all out very soon. and yet i never thought my poor sister was dead. i suppose i would not think so. i used to watch about the court where john lived, for many and many a night, and gather all i could about them from the neighbours' talk; for i never asked a question. i put this and that together, and followed one, and listened to the other; many's the time i've watched the policeman off his beat, and peeped through the chink of the window-shutter to see the old room, and sometimes mary or her father sitting up late for some reason or another. i found out mary went to learn dress-making, and i began to be frightened for her; for it's a bad life for a girl to be out late at night in the streets, and after many an hour of weary work, they're ready to follow after any novelty that makes a little change. but i made up my mind, that bad as i was, i could watch over mary and perhaps keep her from harm. so i used to wait for her at nights, and follow her home, often when she little knew any one was near her. there was one of her companions i never could abide, and i'm sure that girl is at the bottom of some mischief. by-and-bye, mary's walks homewards were not alone. she was joined soon after she came out, by a man; a gentleman. i began to fear for her, for i saw she was light-hearted, and pleased with his attentions; and i thought worse of him for having such long talks with that bold girl i told you of. but i was laid up for a long time with spitting of blood; and could do nothing. i'm sure it made me worse, thinking about what might be happening to mary. and when i came out, all was going on as before, only she seemed fonder of him than ever; and oh jem! her father won't listen to me, and it's you must save mary! you're like a brother to her, and maybe could give her advice and watch over her, and at any rate john will hearken to you; only he's so stern and so cruel." she began to cry a little at the remembrance of his harsh words; but jem cut her short by his hoarse, stern inquiry, "who is this spark that mary loves? tell me his name!" "it's young carson, old carson's son, that your father worked for." there was a pause. she broke the silence. "oh! jem, i charge you with the care of her! i suppose it would be murder to kill her, but it would be better for her to die than to live to lead such a life as i do. do you hear me, jem?" "yes! i hear you. it would be better. better we were all dead." this was said as if thinking aloud; but he immediately changed his tone, and continued, "esther, you may trust to my doing all i can for mary. that i have determined on. and now listen to me! you loathe the life you lead, else you would not speak of it as you do. come home with me. come to my mother. she and my aunt alice live together. i will see that they give you a welcome. and to-morrow i will see if some honest way of living cannot be found for you. come home with me." she was silent for a minute, and he hoped he had gained his point. then she said, "god bless you, jem, for the words you have just spoken. some years ago you might have saved me, as i hope and trust you will yet save mary. but it is too late now;--too late," she added, with accents of deep despair. still he did not relax his hold. "come home," he said. "i tell you, i cannot. i could not lead a virtuous life if i would. i should only disgrace you. if you will know all," said she, as he still seemed inclined to urge her, "i must have drink. such as live like me could not bear life if they did not drink. it's the only thing to keep us from suicide. if we did not drink, we could not stand the memory of what we have been, and the thought of what we are, for a day. if i go without food, and without shelter, i must have my dram. oh! you don't know the awful nights i have had in prison for want of it!" said she, shuddering, and glaring round with terrified eyes, as if dreading to see some spiritual creature, with dim form, near her. "it is so frightful to see them," whispering in tones of wildness, although so low spoken. "there they go round and round my bed the whole night through. my mother, carrying little annie (i wonder how they got together) and mary--and all looking at me with their sad, stony eyes; oh jem! it is so terrible! they don't turn back either, but pass behind the head of the bed, and i feel their eyes on me everywhere. if i creep under the clothes i still see them; and what is worse," hissing out her words with fright, "they see me. don't speak to me of leading a better life--i must have drink. i cannot pass to-night without a dram; i dare not." jem was silent from deep sympathy. oh! could he, then, do nothing for her! she spoke again, but in a less excited tone, although it was thrillingly earnest. "you are grieved for me! i know it better than if you told me in words. but you can do nothing for me. i am past hope. you can yet save mary. you must. she is innocent, except for the great error of loving one above her in station. jem! you _will_ save her?" with heart and soul, though in few words, jem promised that if aught earthly could keep her from falling, he would do it. then she blessed him, and bade him good-night. "stay a minute," said he, as she was on the point of departure. "i may want to speak to you again. i mun know where to find you--where do you live?" she laughed strangely. "and do you think one sunk so low as i am has a home? decent, good people have homes. we have none. no, if you want me, come at night, and look at the corners of the streets about here. the colder, the bleaker, the more stormy the night, the more certain you will be to find me. for then," she added, with a plaintive fall in her voice, "it is so cold sleeping in entries, and on door-steps, and i want a dram more than ever." again she rapidly turned off, and jem also went on his way. but before he reached the end of the street, even in the midst of the jealous anguish that filled his heart, his conscience smote him. he had not done enough to save her. one more effort, and she might have come. nay, twenty efforts would have been well rewarded by her yielding. he turned back, but she was gone. in the tumult of his other feelings, his self-reproach was deadened for the time. but many and many a day afterwards he bitterly regretted his omission of duty; his weariness of well-doing. now, the great thing was to reach home, and solitude. mary loved another! oh! how should he bear it? he had thought her rejection of him a hard trial, but that was nothing now. he only remembered it, to be thankful he had not yielded to the temptation of trying his fate again, not in actual words, but in a meeting, where her manner should tell far more than words, that her sweeter smiles, her dainty movements, her pretty household ways, were all to be reserved to gladden another's eyes and heart. and he must live on; that seemed the strangest. that a long life (and he knew men did live long, even with deep, biting sorrow corroding at their hearts) must be spent without mary; nay, with the consciousness she was another's! that hell of thought he would reserve for the quiet of his own room, the dead stillness of night. he was on the threshold of home now. he entered. there were the usual faces, the usual sights. he loathed them, and then he cursed himself because he loathed them. his mother's love had taken a cross turn, because he had kept the tempting supper she had prepared for him waiting until it was nearly spoilt. alice, her dulled senses deadening day by day, sat mutely near the fire; her happiness, bounded by the circle of the consciousness of the presence of her foster child, knowing that his voice repeated what was passing to her deafened ear, that his arm removed each little obstacle to her tottering steps. and will, out of the very kindness of his heart, talked more and more merrily than ever. he saw jem was downcast, and fancied his rattling might cheer him; at any rate, it drowned his aunt's muttered grumblings, and in some measure concealed the blank of the evening. at last, bed-time came; and will withdrew to his neighbouring lodging; and jane and alice wilson had raked the fire, and fastened doors and shutters, and pattered up stairs, with their tottering foot-steps, and shrill voices. jem, too, went to the closet termed his bed-room. there was no bolt to the door; but by one strong effort of his right arm, a heavy chest was moved against it, and he could sit down on the side of his bed, and think. mary loved another! that idea would rise uppermost in his mind, and had to be combated in all its forms of pain. it was, perhaps, no great wonder that she should prefer one so much above jem in the external things of life. but the gentleman; why did he, with his range of choice among the ladies of the land, why did he stoop down to carry off the poor man's darling? with all the glories of the garden at his hand, why did he prefer to cull the wild-rose,--jem's own fragrant wild-rose? his _own!_ oh! never now his own!--gone for evermore! then uprose the guilty longing for blood!--the frenzy of jealousy!--some one should die. he would rather mary were dead, cold in her grave, than that she were another's. a vision of her pale, sweet face, with her bright hair all bedabbled with gore, seemed to float constantly before his aching eyes. but hers were ever open, and contained, in their soft, deathly look, such mute reproach! what had she done to deserve such cruel treatment from him? she had been wooed by one whom jem knew to be handsome, gay, and bright, and she had given him her love. that was all! it was the wooer who should die. yes, die, knowing the cause of his death. jem pictured him (and gloated on the picture), lying smitten, yet conscious; and listening to the upbraiding accusation of his murderer. how he had left his own rank, and dared to love a maiden of low degree; and--oh! stinging agony of all--how she, in return, had loved him! then the other nature spoke up, and bade him remember the anguish he should so prepare for mary! at first he refused to listen to that better voice; or listened only to pervert. he would glory in her wailing grief! he would take pleasure in her desolation of heart! no! he could not, said the still small voice. it would be worse, far worse, to have caused such woe, than it was now to bear his present heavy burden. but it was too heavy, too grievous to be borne, and live. he would slay himself, and the lovers should love on, and the sun shine bright, and he with his burning, woeful heart would be at rest. "rest that is reserved for the people of god." had he not promised with such earnest purpose of soul, as makes words more solemn than oaths, to save mary from becoming such as esther? should he shrink from the duties of life, into the cowardliness of death? who would then guard mary, with her love and her innocence? would it not be a goodly thing to serve her, although she loved him not; to be her preserving angel, through the perils of life; and she, unconscious all the while? he braced up his soul, and said to himself, that with god's help he would be that earthly keeper. and now the mists and the storms seemed clearing away from his path, though it still was full of stinging thorns. having done the duty nearest to him (of reducing the tumult of his own heart to something like order), the second became more plain before him. poor esther's experience had led her, perhaps, too hastily to the conclusion, that mr. carson's intentions were evil towards mary; at least she had given no just ground for the fears she entertained that such was the case. it was possible, nay, to jem's heart, very probable, that he might only be too happy to marry her. she was a lady by right of nature, jem thought; in movement, grace, and spirit. what was birth to a manchester manufacturer, many of whom glory, and justly too, in being the architects of their own fortunes? and, as far as wealth was concerned, judging another by himself, jem could only imagine it a great privilege to lay it at the feet of the loved one. harry carson's mother had been a factory girl; so, after all, what was the great reason for doubting his intentions towards mary? there might probably be some little awkwardness about the affair at first: mary's father having such strong prejudices on the one hand; and something of the same kind being likely to exist on the part of mr. carson's family. but jem knew he had power over john barton's mind; and it would be something to exert that power in promoting mary's happiness, and to relinquish all thought of self in so doing. oh! why had esther chosen him for this office? it was beyond his strength to act rightly! why had she singled him out? the answer came when he was calm enough to listen for it. because mary had no other friend capable of the duty required of him; the duty of a brother, as esther imagined him to be in feeling, from his long friendship. he would be unto her as a brother. as such, he ought to ascertain harry carson's intentions towards her in winning her affections. he would ask him, straightforwardly, as became man speaking to man, not concealing, if need were, the interest he felt in mary. then, with the resolve to do his duty to the best of his power, peace came into his soul; he had left the windy storm and tempest behind. two hours before day-dawn he fell asleep. chapter xv. a violent meeting between the rivals. "what thoughtful heart can look into this gulf that darkly yawns 'twixt rich and poor, and not find food for saddest meditation! can see, without a pang of keenest grief, them fiercely battling (like some natural foes) whom god had made, with help and sympathy, to stand as brothers, side by side, united! where is the wisdom that shall bridge this gulf, and bind them once again in trust and love?" "love-truths." we must return to john barton. poor john! he never got over his disappointing journey to london. the deep mortification he then experienced (with, perhaps, as little selfishness for its cause as mortification ever had) was of no temporary nature; indeed, few of his feelings were. then came a long period of bodily privation; of daily hunger after food; and though he tried to persuade himself he could bear want himself with stoical indifference, and did care about it as little as most men, yet the body took its revenge for its uneasy feelings. the mind became soured and morose, and lost much of its equipoise. it was no longer elastic, as in the days of youth, or in times of comparative happiness; it ceased to hope. and it is hard to live on when one can no longer hope. the same state of feeling which john barton entertained, if belonging to one who had had leisure to think of such things, and physicians to give names to them, would have been called monomania; so haunting, so incessant, were the thoughts that pressed upon him. i have somewhere read a forcibly described punishment among the italians, worthy of a borgia. the supposed or real criminal was shut up in a room, supplied with every convenience and luxury; and at first mourned little over his imprisonment. but day by day he became aware that the space between the walls of his apartment was narrowing, and then he understood the end. those painted walls would come into hideous nearness, and at last crush the life out of him. and so day by day, nearer and nearer, came the diseased thoughts of john barton. they excluded the light of heaven, the cheering sounds of earth. they were preparing his death. it is true, much of their morbid power might be ascribed to the use of opium. but before you blame too harshly this use, or rather abuse, try a hopeless life, with daily cravings of the body for food. try, not alone being without hope yourself, but seeing all around you reduced to the same despair, arising from the same circumstances; all around you telling (though they use no words or language), by their looks and feeble actions, that they are suffering and sinking under the pressure of want. would you not be glad to forget life, and its burdens? and opium gives forgetfulness for a time. it is true they who thus purchase it pay dearly for their oblivion; but can you expect the uneducated to count the cost of their whistle? poor wretches! they pay a heavy price. days of oppressive weariness and languor, whose realities have the feeble sickliness of dreams; nights, whose dreams are fierce realities of agony; sinking health, tottering frames, incipient madness, and worse, the _consciousness_ of incipient madness; this is the price of their whistle. but have you taught them the science of consequences? john barton's overpowering thought, which was to work out his fate on earth, was rich and poor; why are they so separate, so distinct, when god has made them all? it is not his will, that their interests are so far apart. whose doing is it? and so on into the problems and mysteries of life, until, bewildered and lost, unhappy and suffering, the only feeling that remained clear and undisturbed in the tumult of his heart, was hatred to the one class and keen sympathy with the other. but what availed his sympathy? no education had given him wisdom; and without wisdom, even love, with all its effects, too often works but harm. he acted to the best of his judgment, but it was a widely-erring judgment. the actions of the uneducated seem to me typified in those of frankenstein, that monster of many human qualities, ungifted with a soul, a knowledge of the difference between good and evil. the people rise up to life; they irritate us, they terrify us, and we become their enemies. then, in the sorrowful moment of our triumphant power, their eyes gaze on us with a mute reproach. why have we made them what they are; a powerful monster, yet without the inner means for peace and happiness? john barton became a chartist, a communist, all that is commonly called wild and visionary. ay! but being visionary is something. it shows a soul, a being not altogether sensual; a creature who looks forward for others, if not for himself. and with all his weakness he had a sort of practical power, which made him useful to the bodies of men to whom he belonged. he had a ready kind of rough lancashire eloquence, arising out of the fulness of his heart, which was very stirring to men similarly circumstanced, who liked to hear their feelings put into words. he had a pretty clear head at times, for method and arrangement; a necessary talent to large combinations of men. and what perhaps more than all made him relied upon and valued, was the consciousness which every one who came in contact with him felt, that he was actuated by no selfish motives; that his class, his order, was what he stood by, not the rights of his own paltry self. for even in great and noble men, as soon as self comes into prominent existence, it becomes a mean and paltry thing. a little time before this, there had come one of those occasions for deliberation among the employed, which deeply interested john barton; and the discussions concerning which had caused his frequent absence from home of late. i am not sure if i can express myself in the technical terms of either masters or workmen, but i will try simply to state the case on which the latter deliberated. an order for coarse goods came in from a new foreign market. it was a large order, giving employment to all the mills engaged in that species of manufacture: but it was necessary to execute it speedily, and at as low prices as possible, as the masters had reason to believe a duplicate order had been sent to one of the continental manufacturing towns, where there were no restrictions on food, no taxes on building or machinery, and where consequently they dreaded that the goods could be made at a much lower price than they could afford them for; and that, by so acting and charging, the rival manufacturers would obtain undivided possession of the market. it was clearly their interest to buy cotton as cheaply, and to beat down wages as low as possible. and in the long run the interests of the workmen would have been thereby benefited. distrust each other as they may, the employers and the employed must rise or fall together. there may be some difference as to chronology, none as to fact. but the masters did not choose to make all these facts known. they stood upon being the masters, and that they had a right to order work at their own prices, and they believed that in the present depression of trade, and unemployment of hands, there would be no great difficulty in getting it done. now let us turn to the workmen's view of the question. the masters (of the tottering foundation of whose prosperity they were ignorant) seemed doing well, and like gentlemen, "lived at home in ease," while they were starving, gasping on from day to day; and there was a foreign order to be executed, the extent of which, large as it was, was greatly exaggerated; and it was to be done speedily. why were the masters offering such low wages under these circumstances? shame upon them! it was taking advantage of their work-people being almost starved; but they would starve entirely rather than come into such terms. it was bad enough to be poor, while by the labour of their thin hands, the sweat of their brows, the masters were made rich; but they would not be utterly ground down to dust. no! they would fold their hands, and sit idle, and smile at the masters, whom even in death they could baffle. with spartan endurance they determined to let the employers know their power, by refusing to work. so class distrusted class, and their want of mutual confidence wrought sorrow to both. the masters would not be bullied, and compelled to reveal why they felt it wisest and best to offer only such low wages; they would not be made to tell that they were even sacrificing capital to obtain a decisive victory over the continental manufacturers. and the workmen sat silent and stern with folded hands, refusing to work for such pay. there was a strike in manchester. of course it was succeeded by the usual consequences. many other trades' unions, connected with different branches of business, supported with money, countenance, and encouragement of every kind, the stand which the manchester power-loom weavers were making against their masters. delegates from glasgow, from nottingham, and other towns, were sent to manchester, to keep up the spirit of resistance; a committee was formed, and all the requisite officers elected; chairman, treasurer, honorary secretary:--among them was john barton. the masters, meanwhile, took their measures. they placarded the walls with advertisements for power-loom weavers. the workmen replied by a placard in still larger letters, stating their grievances. the masters met daily in town, to mourn over the time (so fast slipping away) for the fulfilment of the foreign orders; and to strengthen each other in their resolution not to yield. if they gave up now, they might give up always. it would never do. and amongst the most energetic of the masters, the carsons, father and son, took their places. it is well known, that there is no religionist so zealous as a convert; no masters so stern, and regardless of the interests of their work-people, as those who have risen from such a station themselves. this would account for the elder mr. carson's determination not to be bullied into yielding; not even to be bullied into giving reasons for acting as the masters did. it was the employer's will, and that should be enough for the employed. harry carson did not trouble himself much about the grounds for his conduct. he liked the excitement of the affair. he liked the attitude of resistance. he was brave, and he liked the idea of personal danger, with which some of the more cautious tried to intimidate the violent among the masters. meanwhile, the power-loom weavers living in the more remote parts of lancashire, and the neighbouring counties, heard of the masters' advertisements for workmen; and in their solitary dwellings grew weary of starvation, and resolved to come to manchester. foot-sore, way-worn, half-starved looking men they were, as they tried to steal into town in the early dawn, before people were astir, or late in the dusk of evening. and now began the real wrong-doing of the trades' unions. as to their decision to work, or not, at such a particular rate of wages, that was either wise or unwise; all error of judgment at the worst. but they had no right to tyrannise over others, and tie them down to their own procrustean bed. abhorring what they considered oppression in the masters, why did they oppress others? because, when men get excited, they know not what they do. judge, then, with something of the mercy of the holy one, whom we all love. in spite of policemen set to watch over the safety of the poor country weavers,--in spite of magistrates, and prisons, and severe punishments,--the poor depressed men tramping in from burnley, padiham, and other places, to work at the condemned "starvation prices," were waylaid, and beaten, and left almost for dead by the road-side. the police broke up every lounging knot of men:--they separated quietly, to reunite half-a-mile further out of town. of course the feeling between the masters and workmen did not improve under these circumstances. combination is an awful power. it is like the equally mighty agency of steam; capable of almost unlimited good or evil. but to obtain a blessing on its labours, it must work under the direction of a high and intelligent will; incapable of being misled by passion, or excitement. the will of the operatives had not been guided to the calmness of wisdom. so much for generalities. let us now return to individuals. a note, respectfully worded, although its tone of determination was strong, had been sent from the power-loom weavers, requesting that a "deputation" of them might have a meeting with the masters, to state the conditions they must have fulfilled before they would end the turn-out. they thought they had attained a sufficiently commanding position to dictate. john barton was appointed one of the deputation. the masters agreed to this meeting, being anxious to end the strife, although undetermined among themselves how far they should yield, or whether they should yield at all. some of the old, whose experience had taught them sympathy, were for concession. others, white-headed men too, had only learnt hardness and obstinacy from the days of the years of their lives, and sneered at the more gentle and yielding. the younger men were one and all for an unflinching resistance to claims urged with so much violence. of this party harry carson was the leader. but like all energetic people, the more he had to do the more time he seemed to find. with all his letter-writing, his calling, his being present at the new bailey, when investigations of any case of violence against knob-sticks [ ] were going on, he beset mary more than ever. she was weary of her life for him. from blandishments he had even gone to threats--threats that whether she would or not she should be his; he showed an indifference that was almost insulting to every thing that might attract attention and injure her character. [footnote : "knob-sticks," those who consent to work at lower wages.] and still she never saw jem. she knew he had returned home. she heard of him occasionally through his cousin, who roved gaily from house to house, finding and making friends everywhere. but she never saw him. what was she to think? had he given her up? were a few hasty words, spoken in a moment of irritation, to stamp her lot through life? at times she thought that she could bear this meekly, happy in her own constant power of loving. for of change or of forgetfulness she did not dream. then at other times her state of impatience was such, that it required all her self-restraint to prevent her from going and seeking him out, and (as man would do to man, or woman to woman) begging him to forgive her hasty words, and allow her to retract them, and bidding him accept of the love that was filling her whole heart. she wished margaret had not advised her against such a manner of proceeding; she believed it was her friend's words that seemed to make such a simple action impossible, in spite of all the internal urgings. but a friend's advice is only thus powerful, when it puts into language the secret oracle of our souls. it was the whisperings of her womanly nature that caused her to shrink from any unmaidenly action, not margaret's counsel. all this time, this ten days or so, of will's visit to manchester, there was something going on which interested mary even now, and which, in former times, would have exceedingly amused and excited her. she saw as clearly as if told in words, that the merry, random, boisterous sailor had fallen deeply in love with the quiet, prim, somewhat plain margaret: she doubted if margaret was aware of it, and yet, as she watched more closely, she began to think some instinct made the blind girl feel whose eyes were so often fixed upon her pale face; that some inner feeling made the delicate and becoming rose-flush steal over her countenance. she did not speak so decidedly as before; there was a hesitation in her manner, that seemed to make her very attractive; as if something softer, more loveable than excellent sense, were coming in as a motive for speech; her eyes had always been soft, and were in no ways disfigured by her blindness, and now seemed to have a new charm, as they quivered under their white down-cast lids. she must be conscious, thought mary,--heart answering heart. will's love had no blushings, no downcast eyes, no weighing of words; it was as open and undisguised as his nature; yet he seemed afraid of the answer its acknowledgment might meet with. it was margaret's angelic voice that had entranced him, and which made him think of her as a being of some other sphere, that he feared to woo. so he tried to propitiate job in all manner of ways. he went over to liverpool to rummage in his great sea-chest for the flying-fish (no very odorous present by the way). he hesitated over a child's caul for some time, which was, in his eyes, a far greater treasure than any exocetus. what use could it be of to a landsman? then margaret's voice rang in his ears; and he determined to sacrifice it, his most precious possession, to one whom she loved, as she did her grandfather. it was rather a relief to him, when, having put it and the flying-fish together in a brown paper parcel, and sat upon them for security all the way in the railroad, he found that job was so indifferent to the precious caul, that he might easily claim it again. he hung about margaret, till he had received many warnings and reproaches from his conscience in behalf of his dear aunt alice's claims upon his time. he went away, and then he bethought him of some other little word with job. and he turned back, and stood talking once more in margaret's presence, door in hand, only waiting for some little speech of encouragement to come in and sit down again. but as the invitation was not given, he was forced to leave at last, and go and do his duty. four days had jem wilson watched for mr. harry carson without success; his hours of going and returning to his home were so irregular, owing to the meetings and consultations among the masters, which were rendered necessary by the turn-out. on the fifth, without any purpose on jem's part, they met. it was the workmen's dinner-hour, the interval between twelve and one; when the streets of manchester are comparatively quiet, for a few shopping ladies and lounging gentlemen count for nothing in that busy, bustling, living place. jem had been on an errand for his master, instead of returning to his dinner; and in passing along a lane, a road (called, in compliment to the intentions of some future builder, a street), he encountered harry carson, the only person, as far as he saw beside himself, treading the unfrequented path. along one side ran a high broad fence, blackened over by coal-tar, and spiked and stuck with pointed nails at the top, to prevent any one from climbing over into the garden beyond. by this fence was the foot-path. the carriage road was such as no carriage, no, not even a cart, could possibly have passed along, without hercules to assist in lifting it out of the deep clay ruts. on the other side of the way was a dead brick wall; and a field after that, where there was a sawpit, and joiner's shed. jem's heart beat violently when he saw the gay, handsome young man approaching, with a light, buoyant step. this, then, was he whom mary loved. it was, perhaps, no wonder; for he seemed to the poor smith so elegant, so well-appointed, that he felt his superiority in externals, strangely and painfully, for an instant. then something uprose within him, and told him, that "a man's a man for a' that, for a' that, and twice as much as a' that." and he no longer felt troubled by the outward appearance of his rival. harry carson came on, lightly bounding over the dirty places with almost a lad's buoyancy. to his surprise the dark, sturdy-looking artisan stopped him by saying respectfully, "may i speak a word wi' you, sir?" "certainly, my good man," looking his astonishment; then finding that the promised speech did not come very quickly, he added, "but make haste, for i'm in a hurry." jem had cast about for some less abrupt way of broaching the subject uppermost in his mind than he now found himself obliged to use. with a husky voice that trembled as he spoke, he said, "i think, sir, yo're keeping company wi' a young woman called mary barton?" a light broke in upon harry carson's mind, and he paused before he gave the answer for which the other waited. could this man be a lover of mary's? and (strange, stinging thought) could he be beloved by her, and so have caused her obstinate rejection of himself? he looked at jem from head to foot, a black, grimy mechanic, in dirty fustian clothes, strongly built, and awkward (according to the dancing-master); then he glanced at himself, and recalled the reflection he had so lately quitted in his bed-room. it was impossible. no woman with eyes could choose the one when the other wooed. it was hyperion to a satyr. that quotation came aptly; he forgot "that a man's a man for a' that." and yet here was a clue, which he had often wanted, to her changed conduct towards him. if she loved this man. if-- he hated the fellow, and longed to strike him. he would know all. "mary barton! let me see. ay, that is the name of the girl. an arrant flirt, the little hussy is; but very pretty. ay, mary barton is her name." jem bit his lips. was it then so; that mary was a flirt, the giddy creature of whom he spoke? he would not believe it, and yet how he wished the suggestive words unspoken. that thought must keep now, though. even if she were, the more reason for there being some one to protect her; poor, faulty darling. "she's a good girl, sir, though may be a bit set up with her beauty; but she's her father's only child, sir, and--" he stopped; he did not like to express suspicion, and yet he was determined he would be certain there was ground for none. what should he say? "well, my fine fellow, and what have i to do with that? it's but loss of my time, and yours, too, if you've only stopped me to tell me mary barton is very pretty; i know that well enough." he seemed as though he would have gone on, but jem put his black, working, right hand upon his arm to detain him. the haughty young man shook it off, and with his glove pretended to brush away the sooty contamination that might be left upon his light great-coat sleeve. the little action aroused jem. "i will tell you in plain words what i have got to say to you, young man. it's been telled me by one as knows, and has seen, that you walk with this same mary barton, and are known to be courting her; and her as spoke to me about it, thinks as how mary loves you. that may be, or may not. but i'm an old friend of hers, and her father's; and i just wished to know if you mean to marry the girl. spite of what you said of her lightness, i ha' known her long enough to be sure she'll make a noble wife for any one, let him be what he may; and i mean to stand by her like a brother; and if you mean rightly, you'll not think the worse on me for what i've now said; and if--but no, i'll not say what i'll do to the man who wrongs a hair of her head. he shall rue it the longest day he lives, that's all. now, sir, what i ask of you is this. if you mean fair and honourable by her, well and good; but if not, for your own sake as well as hers, leave her alone, and never speak to her more." jem's voice quivered with the earnestness with which he spoke, and he eagerly waited for some answer. harry carson, meanwhile, instead of attending very particularly to the purpose the man had in addressing him, was trying to gather from his speech what was the real state of the case. he succeeded so far as to comprehend that jem inclined to believe that mary loved his rival; and consequently, that if the speaker were attached to her himself, he was not a favoured admirer. the idea came into mr. carson's mind, that perhaps, after all, mary loved him in spite of her frequent and obstinate rejections; and that she had employed this person (whoever he was) to bully him into marrying her. he resolved to try and ascertain more correctly the man's relation to her. either he was a lover, and if so, not a favoured one (in which case mr. carson could not at all understand the man's motives for interesting himself in securing her marriage); or he was a friend, an accomplice, whom she had employed to bully him. so little faith in goodness have the mean and selfish! "before i make you into my confidant, my good man," said mr. carson, in a contemptuous tone, "i think it might be as well to inquire your right to meddle with our affairs. neither mary nor i, as i conceive, called you in as a mediator." he paused; he wanted a distinct answer to this last supposition. none came; so he began to imagine he was to be threatened into some engagement, and his angry spirit rose. "and so, my fine fellow, you will have the kindness to leave us to ourselves, and not meddle with what does not concern you. if you were a brother, or father of hers, the case might have been different. as it is, i can only consider you an impertinent meddler." again he would have passed on, but jem stood in a determined way before him, saying, "you say if i had been her brother, or her father, you'd have answered me what i ask. now, neither father nor brother could love her as i have loved her, ay, and as i love her still; if love gives a right to satisfaction, it's next to impossible any one breathing can come up to my right. now, sir, tell me! do you mean fair by mary or not? i've proved my claim to know, and, by g----, i will know." "come, come, no impudence," replied mr. carson, who, having discovered what he wanted to know (namely, that jem was a lover of mary's, and that she was not encouraging his suit), wished to pass on. "father, brother, or rejected lover" (with an emphasis on the word rejected), "no one has a right to interfere between my little girl and me. no one shall. confound you, man! get out of my way, or i'll make you," as jem still obstructed his path with dogged determination. "i won't, then, till you've given me your word about mary," replied the mechanic, grinding his words out between his teeth, and the livid paleness of the anger he could no longer keep down covering his face till he looked ghastly. "won't you?" (with a taunting laugh), "then i'll make you." the young man raised his slight cane, and smote the artisan across the face with a stinging stroke. an instant afterwards he lay stretched in the muddy road, jem standing over him, panting with rage. what he would have done next in his moment of ungovernable passion, no one knows; but a policeman from the main street, into which this road led, had been sauntering about for some time, unobserved by either of the parties, and expecting some kind of conclusion like the present to the violent discussion going on between the two young men. in a minute he had pinioned jem, who sullenly yielded to the surprise. mr. carson was on his feet directly, his face glowing with rage or shame. "shall i take him to the lock-ups for assault, sir?" said the policeman. "no, no," exclaimed mr. carson; "i struck him first. it was no assault on his side; though," he continued, hissing out his words to jem, who even hated freedom procured for him, however justly, at the intervention of his rival, "i will never forgive or forget your insult. trust me," he gasped the words in excess of passion, "mary shall fare no better for your insolent interference." he laughed, as if with the consciousness of power. jem replied with equal excitement--"and if you dare to injure her in the least, i will await you where no policeman can step in between. and god shall judge between us two." the policeman now interfered with persuasions and warnings. he locked his arm in jem's to lead him away in an opposite direction to that in which he saw mr. carson was going. jem submitted gloomily, for a few steps, then wrenched himself free. the policeman shouted after him, "take care, my man! there's no girl on earth worth what you'll be bringing on yourself if you don't mind." but jem was out of hearing. chapter xvi. meeting between masters and workmen. "not for a moment take the scorner's chair; while seated there, thou know'st not how a word, a tone, a look, may gall thy brother's heart, and make him turn in bitterness against thee." "love-truths." the day arrived on which the masters were to have an interview with a deputation of the work-people. the meeting was to take place in a public room, at an hotel; and there, about eleven o'clock, the mill-owners, who had received the foreign orders, began to collect. of course, the first subject, however full their minds might be of another, was the weather. having done their duty by all the showers and sunshine which had occurred during the past week, they fell to talking about the business which brought them together. there might be about twenty gentlemen in the room, including some by courtesy, who were not immediately concerned in the settlement of the present question; but who, nevertheless, were sufficiently interested to attend. these were divided into little groups, who did not seem unanimous by any means. some were for a slight concession, just a sugar-plum to quieten the naughty child, a sacrifice to peace and quietness. some were steadily and vehemently opposed to the dangerous precedent of yielding one jot or one tittle to the outward force of a turn-out. it was teaching the work-people how to become masters, said they. did they want the wildest thing heareafter, they would know that the way to obtain their wishes would be to strike work. besides, one or two of those present had only just returned from the new bailey, where one of the turn-outs had been tried for a cruel assault on a poor north-country weaver, who had attempted to work at the low price. they were indignant, and justly so, at the merciless manner in which the poor fellow had been treated; and their indignation at wrong, took (as it so often does) the extreme form of revenge. they felt as if, rather than yield to the body of men who were resorting to such cruel measures towards their fellow-workmen, they, the masters, would sooner relinquish all the benefits to be derived from the fulfilment of the commission, in order that the workmen might suffer keenly. they forgot that the strike was in this instance the consequence of want and need, suffered unjustly, as the endurers believed; for, however insane, and without ground of reason, such was their belief, and such was the cause of their violence. it is a great truth, that you cannot extinguish violence by violence. you may put it down for a time; but while you are crowing over your imaginary success, see if it does not return with seven devils worse than its former self! no one thought of treating the workmen as brethren and friends, and openly, clearly, as appealing to reasonable men, stating the exact and full circumstances which led the masters to think it was the wise policy of the time to make sacrifices themselves, and to hope for them from the operatives. in going from group to group in the room, you caught such a medley of sentences as the following: "poor devils! they're near enough to starving, i'm afraid. mrs. aldred makes two cows' heads into soup every week, and people come several miles to fetch it; and if these times last we must try and do more. but we must not be bullied into any thing!" "a rise of a shilling or so won't make much difference, and they will go away thinking they've gained their point." "that's the very thing i object to. they'll think so, and whenever they've a point to gain, no matter how unreasonable, they'll strike work." "it really injures them more than us." "i don't see how our interests can be separated." "the d----d brute had thrown vitriol on the poor fellow's ankles, and you know what a bad part that is to heal. he had to stand still with the pain, and that left him at the mercy of the cruel wretch, who beat him about the head till you'd hardly have known he was a man. they doubt if he'll live." "if it were only for that, i'll stand out against them, even if it were the cause of my ruin." "ay, i for one won't yield one farthing to the cruel brutes; they're more like wild beasts than human beings." (well! who might have made them different?) "i say, carson, just go and tell duncombe of this fresh instance of their abominable conduct. he's wavering, but i think this will decide him." the door was now opened, and a waiter announced that the men were below, and asked if it were the pleasure of the gentlemen that they should be shown up. they assented, and rapidly took their places round the official table; looking, as like as they could, to the roman senators who awaited the irruption of brennus and his gauls. tramp, tramp, came the heavy clogged feet up the stairs; and in a minute five wild, earnest-looking men stood in the room. john barton, from some mistake as to time, was not among them. had they been larger boned men, you would have called them gaunt; as it was, they were little of stature, and their fustian clothes hung loosely upon their shrunk limbs. in choosing their delegates, too, the operatives had had more regard to their brains, and power of speech, than to their wardrobes; they might have read the opinions of that worthy professor teufelsdruch, in sartor resartus, to judge from the dilapidated coats and trousers, which yet clothed men of parts and of power. it was long since many of them had known the luxury of a new article of dress; and air-gaps were to be seen in their garments. some of the masters were rather affronted at such a ragged detachment coming between the wind and their nobility; but what cared they? at the request of a gentleman hastily chosen to officiate as chairman, the leader of the delegates read, in a high-pitched, psalm-singing voice, a paper, containing the operatives' statement of the case at issue, their complaints, and their demands, which last were not remarkable for moderation. he was then desired to withdraw for a few minutes, with his fellow delegates, to another room, while the masters considered what should be their definitive answer. when the men had left the room, a whispered earnest consultation took place, every one re-urging his former arguments. the conceders carried the day, but only by a majority of one. the minority haughtily and audibly expressed their dissent from the measures to be adopted, even after the delegates re-entered the room; their words and looks did not pass unheeded by the quick-eyed operatives; their names were registered in bitter hearts. the masters could not consent to the advance demanded by the workmen. they would agree to give one shilling per week more than they had previously offered. were the delegates empowered to accept such offer? they were empowered to accept or decline any offer made that day by the masters. then it might be as well for them to consult among themselves as to what should be their decision. they again withdrew. it was not for long. they came back, and positively declined any compromise of their demands. then up sprang mr. henry carson, the head and voice of the violent party among the masters, and addressing the chairman, even before the scowling operatives, he proposed some resolutions, which he, and those who agreed with him, had been concocting during this last absence of the deputation. they were, firstly, withdrawing the proposal just made, and declaring all communication between the masters and that particular trades' union at an end; secondly, declaring that no master would employ any workman in future, unless he signed a declaration that he did not belong to any trades' union, and pledged himself not to assist or subscribe to any society, having for its object interference with the masters' powers; and, thirdly, that the masters should pledge themselves to protect and encourage all workmen willing to accept employment on those conditions, and at the rate of wages first offered. considering that the men who now stood listening with lowering brows of defiance were all of them leading members of the union, such resolutions were in themselves sufficiently provocative of animosity: but not content with simply stating them, harry carson went on to characterise the conduct of the workmen in no measured terms; every word he spoke rendering their looks more livid, their glaring eyes more fierce. one among them would have spoken, but checked himself in obedience to the stern glance and pressure on his arm, received from the leader. mr. carson sat down, and a friend instantly got up to second the motion. it was carried, but far from unanimously. the chairman announced it to the delegates (who had been once more turned out of the room for a division). they received it with deep brooding silence, but spake never a word, and left the room without even a bow. now there had been some by-play at this meeting, not recorded in the manchester newspapers, which gave an account of the more regular part of the transaction. while the men had stood grouped near the door, on their first entrance, mr. harry carson had taken out his silver pencil, and had drawn an admirable caricature of them--lank, ragged, dispirited, and famine-stricken. underneath he wrote a hasty quotation from the fat knight's well-known speech in henry iv. he passed it to one of his neighbours, who acknowledged the likeness instantly, and by him it was sent round to others, who all smiled and nodded their heads. when it came back to its owner he tore the back of the letter on which it was drawn, in two; twisted them up, and flung them into the fire-place; but, careless whether they reached their aim or not, he did not look to see that they fell just short of any consuming cinders. this proceeding was closely observed by one of the men. he watched the masters as they left the hotel (laughing, some of them were, at passing jokes), and when all had gone, he re-entered. he went to the waiter, who recognised him. "there's a bit on a picture up yonder, as one o' the gentlemen threw away; i've a little lad at home as dearly loves a picture; by your leave i'll go up for it." the waiter, good-natured and sympathetic, accompanied him up-stairs; saw the paper picked up and untwisted, and then being convinced, by a hasty glance at its contents, that it was only what the man had called it, "a bit of a picture," he allowed him to bear away his prize. towards seven o'clock that evening many operatives began to assemble in a room in the weavers' arms public-house, a room appropriated for "festive occasions," as the landlord, in his circular, on opening the premises, had described it. but, alas! it was on no festive occasion that they met there on this night. starved, irritated, despairing men, they were assembling to hear the answer that morning given by the masters to their delegates; after which, as was stated in the notice, a gentleman from london would have the honour of addressing the meeting on the present state of affairs between the employers and the employed, or (as he chose to term them) the idle and the industrious classes. the room was not large, but its bareness of furniture made it appear so. unshaded gas flared down upon the lean and unwashed artisans as they entered, their eyes blinking at the excess of light. they took their seats on benches, and awaited the deputation. the latter, gloomily and ferociously, delivered the masters' ultimatum, adding thereunto not one word of their own; and it sank all the deeper into the sore hearts of the listeners for their forbearance. then the "gentleman from london" (who had been previously informed of the masters' decision) entered. you would have been puzzled to define his exact position, or what was the state of his mind as regarded education. he looked so self-conscious, so far from earnest, among the group of eager, fierce, absorbed men, among whom he now stood. he might have been a disgraced medical student of the bob sawyer class, or an unsuccessful actor, or a flashy shopman. the impression he would have given you would have been unfavourable, and yet there was much about him that could only be characterised as doubtful. he smirked in acknowledgment of their uncouth greetings, and sat down; then glancing round, he inquired whether it would not be agreeable to the gentlemen present to have pipes and liquor handed round; adding, that he would stand treat. as the man who has had his taste educated to love reading, falls devouringly upon books after a long abstinence, so these poor fellows, whose tastes had been left to educate themselves into a liking for tobacco, beer, and similar gratifications, gleamed up at the proposal of the london delegate. tobacco and drink deaden the pangs of hunger, and make one forget the miserable home, the desolate future. they were now ready to listen to him with approbation. he felt it; and rising like a great orator, with his right arm outstretched, his left in the breast of his waistcoat, he began to declaim, with a forced theatrical voice. after a burst of eloquence, in which he blended the deeds of the elder and the younger brutus, and magnified the resistless might of the "millions of manchester," the londoner descended to matter-of-fact business, and in his capacity this way he did not belie the good judgment of those who had sent him as delegate. masses of people, when left to their own free choice, seem to have discretion in distinguishing men of natural talent; it is a pity they so little regard temper and principles. he rapidly dictated resolutions, and suggested measures. he wrote out a stirring placard for the walls. he proposed sending delegates to entreat the assistance of other trades' unions in other towns. he headed the list of subscribing unions, by a liberal donation from that with which he was especially connected in london; and what was more, and more uncommon, he paid down the money in real, clinking, blinking, golden sovereigns! the money, alas, was cravingly required; but before alleviating any private necessities on the morrow, small sums were handed to each of the delegates, who were in a day or two to set out on their expeditions to glasgow, newcastle, nottingham, &c. these men were most of them members of the deputation who had that morning waited upon the masters. after he had drawn up some letters, and spoken a few more stirring words, the gentleman from london withdrew, previously shaking hands all round; and many speedily followed him out of the room, and out of the house. the newly-appointed delegates, and one or two others, remained behind to talk over their respective missions, and to give and exchange opinions in more homely and natural language than they dared to use before the london orator. "he's a rare chap, yon," began one, indicating the departed delegate by a jerk of his thumb towards the door. "he's gotten the gift of the gab, anyhow!" "ay! ay! he knows what he's about. see how he poured it into us about that there brutus. he were pretty hard, too, to kill his own son!" "i could kill mine if he took part wi' the masters; to be sure, he's but a step-son, but that makes no odds," said another. but now tongues were hushed, and all eyes were directed towards the member of the deputation who had that morning returned to the hotel to obtain possession of harry carson's clever caricature of the operatives. the heads clustered together, to gaze at and detect the likenesses. "that's john slater! i'd ha' known him anywhere, by his big nose. lord! how like; that's me, by g----, it's the very way i'm obligated to pin my waistcoat up, to hide that i've gotten no shirt. that _is_ a shame, and i'll not stand it." "well!" said john slater, after having acknowledged his nose and his likeness; "i could laugh at a jest as well as e'er the best on 'em, though it did tell again mysel, if i were not clemming" (his eyes filled with tears; he was a poor, pinched, sharp-featured man, with a gentle and melancholy expression of countenance), "and if i could keep from thinking of them at home, as is clemming; but with their cries for food ringing in my ears, and making me afeard of going home, and wonder if i should hear 'em wailing out, if i lay cold and drowned at th' bottom o' th' canal, there,--why, man, i cannot laugh at ought. it seems to make me sad that there is any as can make game on what they've never knowed; as can make such laughable pictures on men, whose very hearts within 'em are so raw and sore as ours were and are, god help us." john barton began to speak; they turned to him with great attention. "it makes me more than sad, it makes my heart burn within me, to see that folk can make a jest of earnest men; of chaps who comed to ask for a bit o' fire for th' old granny, as shivers in th' cold; for a bit o' bedding, and some warm clothing to the poor wife as lies in labour on th' damp flags; and for victuals for the childer, whose little voices are getting too faint and weak to cry aloud wi' hunger. for, brothers, is not them the things we ask for when we ask for more wage? we donnot want dainties, we want bellyfuls; we donnot want gimcrack coats and waistcoats, we want warm clothes, and so that we get 'em we'd not quarrel wi' what they're made on. we donnot want their grand houses, we want a roof to cover us from the rain, and the snow, and the storm; ay, and not alone to cover us, but the helpless ones that cling to us in the keen wind, and ask us with their eyes why we brought 'em into th' world to suffer?" he lowered his deep voice almost to a whisper. "i've seen a father who had killed his child rather than let it clem before his eyes; and he were a tender-hearted man." he began again in his usual tone. "we come to th' masters wi' full hearts, to ask for them things i named afore. we know that they've gotten money, as we've earned for 'em; we know trade is mending, and that they've large orders, for which they'll be well paid; we ask for our share o' th' payment; for, say we, if th' masters get our share of payment it will only go to keep servants and horses, to more dress and pomp. well and good, if yo choose to be fools we'll not hinder you, so long as you're just; but our share we must and will have; we'll not be cheated. _we_ want it for daily bread, for life itself; and not for our own lives neither (for there's many a one here, i know by mysel, as would be glad and thankful to lie down and die out o' this weary world), but for the lives of them little ones, who don't yet know what life is, and are afeard of death. well, we come before th' masters to state what we want, and what we must have, afore we'll set shoulder to their work; and they say, 'no.' one would think that would be enough of hard-heartedness, but it isn't. they go and make jesting pictures of us! i could laugh at mysel, as well as poor john slater there; but then i must be easy in my mind to laugh. now i only know that i would give the last drop o' my blood to avenge us on yon chap, who had so little feeling in him as to make game on earnest, suffering men!" a low angry murmur was heard among the men, but it did not yet take form or words. john continued-- "you'll wonder, chaps, how i came to miss the time this morning; i'll just tell you what i was a-doing. th' chaplain at the new bailey sent and gived me an order to see jonas higginbotham; him as was taken up last week for throwing vitriol in a knob-stick's face. well, i couldn't help but go; and i didn't reckon it would ha' kept me so late. jonas were like one crazy when i got to him; he said he could na get rest night or day for th' face of the poor fellow he had damaged; then he thought on his weak, clemmed look, as he tramped, foot-sore, into town; and jonas thought, may be, he had left them at home as would look for news, and hope and get none, but, haply, tidings of his death. well, jonas had thought on these things till he could not rest, but walked up and down continually like a wild beast in his cage. at last he bethought him on a way to help a bit, and he got th' chaplain to send for me; and he telled me this; and that th' man were lying in th' infirmary, and he bade me go (to-day's the day as folk may be admitted into th' infirmary) and get his silver watch, as was his mother's, and sell it as well as i could, and take the money, and bid the poor knob-stick send it to his friends beyond burnley; and i were to take him jonas's kind regards, and he humbly axed him to forgive him. so i did what jonas wished. but bless your life, none on us would ever throw vitriol again (at least at a knob-stick) if they could see the sight i saw to-day. the man lay, his face all wrapped in cloths, so i didn't see _that_; but not a limb, nor a bit of a limb, could keep from quivering with pain. he would ha' bitten his hand to keep down his moans, but couldn't, his face hurt him so if he moved it e'er so little. he could scarce mind me when i telled him about jonas; he did squeeze my hand when i jingled the money, but when i axed his wife's name he shrieked out, 'mary, mary, shall i never see you again? mary, my darling, they've made me blind because i wanted to work for you and our own baby; oh, mary, mary!' then the nurse came, and said he were raving, and that i had made him worse. and i'm afeard it was true; yet i were loth to go without knowing where to send the money. . . . so that kept me beyond my time, chaps." "did yo hear where the wife lived at last?" asked many anxious voices. "no! he went on talking to her, till his words cut my heart like a knife. i axed th' nurse to find out who she was, and where she lived. but what i'm more especial naming it now for is this,--for one thing i wanted yo all to know why i weren't at my post this morning; for another, i wish to say, that i, for one, ha' seen enough of what comes of attacking knob-sticks, and i'll ha nought to do with it no more." there were some expressions of disapprobation, but john did not mind them. "nay! i'm no coward," he replied, "and i'm true to th' backbone. what i would like, and what i would do, would be to fight the masters. there's one among yo called me a coward. well! every man has a right to his opinion; but since i've thought on th' matter to-day, i've thought we han all on us been more like cowards in attacking the poor like ourselves; them as has none to help, but mun choose between vitriol and starvation. i say we're more cowardly in doing that than in leaving them alone. no! what i would do is this. have at the masters!" again he shouted, "have at the masters!" he spoke lower; all listened with hushed breath. "it's the masters as has wrought this woe; it's the masters as should pay for it. him as called me coward just now, may try if i am one or not. set me to serve out the masters, and see if there's ought i'll stick at." "it would give th' masters a bit on a fright if one on them were beaten within an inch of his life," said one. "ay! or beaten till no life were left in him," growled another. and so with words, or looks that told more than words, they built up a deadly plan. deeper and darker grew the import of their speeches, as they stood hoarsely muttering their meaning out, and glaring, with eyes that told the terror their own thoughts were to them, upon their neighbours. their clenched fists, their set teeth, their livid looks, all told the suffering their minds were voluntarily undergoing in the contemplation of crime, and in familiarising themselves with its details. then came one of those fierce terrible oaths which bind members of trades' unions to any given purpose. then, under the flaring gaslight, they met together to consult further. with the distrust of guilt, each was suspicious of his neighbour; each dreaded the treachery of another. a number of pieces of paper (the identical letter on which the caricature had been drawn that very morning) were torn up, and _one was marked_. then all were folded up again, looking exactly alike. they were shuffled together in a hat. the gas was extinguished; each drew out a paper. the gas was re-lighted. then each went as far as he could from his fellows, and examined the paper he had drawn without saying a word, and with a countenance as stony and immovable as he could make it. then, still rigidly silent, they each took up their hats and went every one his own way. he who had drawn the marked paper had drawn the lot of the assassin! and he had sworn to act according to his drawing! but no one save god and his own conscience knew who was the appointed murderer! chapter xvii. barton's night-errand. "mournful is't to say farewell, though for few brief hours we part; in that absence, who can tell what may come to wring the heart!" anonymous. the events recorded in the last chapter took place on a tuesday. on thursday afternoon mary was surprised, in the midst of some little bustle in which she was engaged, by the entrance of will wilson. he looked strange, at least it was strange to see any different expression on his face to his usual joyous beaming appearance. he had a paper parcel in his hand. he came in, and sat down, more quietly than usual. "why, will! what's the matter with you? you seem quite cut up about something!" "and i am, mary! i'm come to say good-bye; and few folk like to say good-bye to them they love." "good-bye! bless me, will, that's sudden, isn't it?" mary left off ironing, and came and stood near the fire-place. she had always liked will; but now it seemed as if a sudden spring of sisterly love had gushed up in her heart, so sorry did she feel to hear of his approaching departure. "it's very sudden, isn't it?" said she, repeating her question. "yes! it's very sudden," said he, dreamily. "no, it isn't;" rousing himself, to think of what he was saying. "the captain told me in a fortnight he would be ready to sail again; but it comes very sudden on me, i had got so fond of you all." mary understood the particular fondness that was thus generalised. she spoke again. "but it's not a fortnight since you came. not a fortnight since you knocked at jane wilson's door, and i was there, you remember. nothing like a fortnight!" "no; i know it's not. but, you see, i got a letter this afternoon from jack harris, to tell me our ship sails on tuesday next; and it's long since i promised my uncle (my mother's brother, him that lives at kirk-christ, beyond ramsay, in the isle of man) that i'd go and see him and his, this time of coming ashore. i must go. i'm sorry enough; but i mustn't slight poor mother's friends. i must go. don't try to keep me," said he, evidently fearing the strength of his own resolution, if hard pressed by entreaty. "i'm not a-going, will. i dare say you're right; only i can't help feeling sorry you're going away. it seems so flat to be left behind. when do you go?" "to-night. i shan't see you again." "to-night! and you go to liverpool! may be you and father will go together. he's going to glasgow, by way of liverpool." "no! i'm walking; and i don't think your father will be up to walking." "well! and why on earth are you walking? you can get by railway for three-and-sixpence." "ay, but mary! (thou mustn't let out what i'm going to tell thee) i haven't got three shillings, no, nor even a sixpence left, at least not here; before i came here i gave my landlady enough to carry me to the island and back, and may be a trifle for presents, and i brought all the rest here; and it's all gone but this," jingling a few coppers in his hand. "nay, never fret over my walking a matter of thirty mile," added he, as he saw she looked grave and sorry. "it's a fine clear night, and i shall set off betimes, and get in afore the manx packet sails. where's your father going? to glasgow, did you say? perhaps he and i may have a bit of a trip together then, for, if the manx boat has sailed when i get into liverpool, i shall go by a scotch packet. what's he going to do in glasgow?--seek for work? trade is as bad there as here, folk say." "no; he knows that," answered mary, sadly. "i sometimes think he'll never get work again, and that trade will never mend. it's very hard to keep up one's heart. i wish i were a boy, i'd go to sea with you. it would be getting away from bad news at any rate; and now, there's hardly a creature that crosses the door-step, but has something sad and unhappy to tell one. father is going as a delegate from his union, to ask help from the glasgow folk. he's starting this evening." mary sighed, for the feeling again came over her that it was very flat to be left alone. "you say no one crosses the threshold but has something sad to say; you don't mean that margaret jennings has any trouble?" asked the young sailor, anxiously. "no!" replied mary, smiling a little, "she's the only one i know, i believe, who seems free from care. her blindness almost appears a blessing sometimes; she was so downhearted when she dreaded it, and now she seems so calm and happy when it's downright come. no! margaret's happy, i do think." "i could almost wish it had been otherwise," said will, thoughtfully. "i could have been so glad to comfort her, and cherish her, if she had been in trouble." "and why can't you cherish her, even though she is happy?" asked mary. "oh! i don't know. she seems so much better than i am! and her voice! when i hear it, and think of the wishes that are in my heart, it seems as much out of place to ask her to be my wife, as it would be to ask an angel from heaven." mary could not help laughing outright, in spite of her depression, at the idea of margaret as an angel; it was so difficult (even to her dress-making imagination) to fancy where, and how, the wings would be fastened to the brown stuff gown, or the blue and yellow print. will laughed, too, a little, out of sympathy with mary's pretty merry laugh. then he said-- "ay, you may laugh, mary; it only shows you've never been in love." in an instant mary was carnation colour, and the tears sprang to her soft gray eyes; she was suffering so much from the doubts arising from love! it was unkind of him. he did not notice her change of look and of complexion. he only noticed that she was silent, so he continued: "i thought--i think, that when i come back from this voyage, i will speak. it's my fourth voyage in the same ship, and with the same captain, and he's promised he'll make me second mate after this trip; then i shall have something to offer margaret; and her grandfather, and aunt alice, shall live with her, to keep her from being lonesome while i'm at sea. i'm speaking as if she cared for me, and would marry me; d'ye think she does care at all for me, mary?" asked he, anxiously. mary had a very decided opinion of her own on the subject, but she did not feel as if she had any right to give it. so she said-- "you must ask margaret, not me, will; she's never named your name to me." his countenance fell. "but i should say that was a good sign from a girl like her. i've no right to say what i think; but, if i was you, i would not leave her now without speaking." "no! i cannot speak! i have tried. i've been in to wish them good-bye, and my voice stuck in my throat. i could say nought of what i'd planned to say; and i never thought of being so bold as to offer her marriage till i'd been my next trip, and been made mate. i could not even offer her this box," said he, undoing his paper parcel and displaying a gaudily ornamented accordion; "i longed to buy her something, and i thought, if it were something in the music line, she would may-be fancy it more. so, will you give it to her, mary, when i'm gone? and, if you can slip in something tender,--something, you know, of what i feel,--may-be she would listen to you, mary." mary promised that she would do all that he asked. "i shall be thinking on her many and many a night, when i'm keeping my watch in mid-sea; i wonder if she will ever think on me when the wind is whistling, and the gale rising. you'll often speak of me to her, mary? and if i should meet with any mischance, tell her how dear, how very dear, she was to me, and bid her, for the sake of one who loved her well, try and comfort my poor aunt alice. dear old aunt! you and margaret will often go and see her, won't you? she's sadly failed since i was last ashore. and so good as she has been! when i lived with her, a little wee chap, i used to be wakened by the neighbours knocking her up; this one was ill, or that body's child was restless; and, for as tired as ever she might be, she would be up and dressed in a twinkling, never thinking of the hard day's wash afore her next morning. them were happy times! how pleased i used to be when she would take me into the fields with her to gather herbs! i've tasted tea in china since then, but it wasn't half so good as the herb tea she used to make for me o' sunday nights. and she knew such a deal about plants and birds, and their ways! she used to tell me long stories about her childhood, and we used to plan how we would go sometime, please god (that was always her word), and live near her old home beyond lancaster; in the very cottage where she was born if we could get it. dear! and how different it is! here is she still in a back street o' manchester, never likely to see her own home again; and i, a sailor, off for america next week. i wish she had been able to go to burton once afore she died." "she would may be have found all sadly changed," said mary, though her heart echoed will's feeling. "ay! ay! i dare say it's best. one thing i do wish though, and i have often wished it when out alone on the deep sea, when even the most thoughtless can't choose but think on th' past and th' future; and that is, that i'd never grieved her. oh mary! many a hasty word comes sorely back on the heart, when one thinks one shall never see the person whom one has grieved again!" they both stood thinking. suddenly mary started. "that's father's step. and his shirt's not ready!" she hurried to her irons, and tried to make up for lost time. john barton came in. such a haggard and wildly anxious looking man, will thought he had never seen. he looked at will, but spoke no word of greeting or welcome. "i'm come to bid you good bye," said the sailor, and would in his sociable friendly humour have gone on speaking. but john answered abruptly, "good bye to ye, then." there was that in his manner which left no doubt of his desire to get rid of the visitor, and will accordingly shook hands with mary, and looked at john, as if doubting how far to offer to shake hands with him. but he met with no answering glance or gesture, so he went his way, stopping for an instant at the door to say, "you'll think on me on tuesday, mary. that's the day we shall hoist our blue peter, jack harris says." mary was heartily sorry when the door closed; it seemed like shutting out a friendly sunbeam. and her father! what could be the matter with him? he was so restless; not speaking (she wished he would), but starting up and then sitting down, and meddling with her irons; he seemed so fierce, too, to judge from his face. she wondered if he disliked will being there; or if he were vexed to find that she had not got further on with her work. at last she could bear his nervous way no longer, it made her equally nervous and fidgetty. she would speak. "when are you going, father? i don't know the time o' the trains." "and why shouldst thou know?" replied he, gruffly. "meddle with thy ironing, but donnot be asking questions about what doesn't concern thee." "i wanted to get you something to eat first," answered she, gently. "thou dost not know that i'm larning to do without food," said he. mary looked at him to see if he spoke jestingly. no! he looked savagely grave. she finished her bit of ironing, and began preparing the food she was sure her father needed; for by this time her experience in the degrees of hunger had taught her that his present irritability was increased, if not caused, by want of food. he had had a sovereign given him to pay his expenses as delegate to glasgow, and out of this he had given mary a few shillings in the morning; so she had been able to buy a sufficient meal, and now her care was to cook it so as most to tempt him. "if thou'rt doing that for me, mary, thou may'st spare thy labour. i telled thee i were not for eating." "just a little bit, father, before starting," coaxed mary, perseveringly. at that instant, who should come in but job legh. it was not often he came, but when he did pay visits, mary knew from past experience they were any thing but short. her father's countenance fell back into the deep gloom from which it was but just emerging at the sound of mary's sweet voice, and pretty pleading. he became again restless and fidgetty, scarcely giving job legh the greeting necessary for a host in his own house. job, however, did not stand upon ceremony. he had come to pay a visit, and was not to be daunted from his purpose. he was interested in john barton's mission to glasgow, and wanted to hear all about it; so he sat down, and made himself comfortable, in a manner that mary saw was meant to be stationary. "so thou'rt off to glasgow, art thou?" he began his catechism. "ay." "when art starting?" "to-night." "that i knowed. but by what train?" that was just what mary wanted to know; but what apparently her father was in no mood to tell. he got up without speaking, and went up-stairs. mary knew from his step, and his way, how much he was put out, and feared job would see it, too. but no! job seemed imperturbable. so much the better, and perhaps she could cover her father's rudeness by her own civility to so kind a friend. so half listening to her father's movements up-stairs, (passionate, violent, restless motions they were) and half attending to job legh, she tried to pay him all due regard. "when does thy father start, mary?" that plaguing question again. "oh! very soon. i'm just getting him a bit of supper. is margaret very well?" "yes, she's well enough. she's meaning to go and keep alice wilson company for an hour or so this evening; as soon as she thinks her nephew will have started for liverpool; for she fancies the old woman will feel a bit lonesome. th' union is paying for your father, i suppose?" "yes, they've given him a sovereign. you're one of th' union, job?" "ay! i'm one, sure enough; but i'm but a sleeping partner in the concern. i were obliged to become a member for peace, else i don't go along with 'em. yo see they think themselves wise, and me silly, for differing with them; well! there's no harm in that. but then they won't let me be silly in peace and quietness, but will force me to be as wise as they are; now that's not british liberty, i say. i'm forced to be wise according to their notions, else they parsecute me, and sarve me out." what could her father be doing up-stairs? tramping and banging about. why did he not come down? or why did not job go? the supper would be spoilt. but job had no notion of going. "you see my folly is this, mary. i would take what i could get; i think half a loaf is better than no bread. i would work for low wages rather than sit idle and starve. but, comes the trades' union, and says, 'well, if you take the half-loaf, we'll worry you out of your life. will you be clemmed, or will you be worried?' now clemming is a quiet death, and worrying isn't, so i choose clemming, and come into th' union. but i wish they'd leave me free, if i am a fool." creak, creak, went the stairs. her father was coming down at last. yes, he came down, but more doggedly fierce than before, and made up for his journey, too; with his little bundle on his arm. he went up to job, and, more civilly than mary expected, wished him good-bye. he then turned to her, and in a short cold manner, bade her farewell. "oh! father, don't go yet. your supper is all ready. stay one moment!" but he pushed her away, and was gone. she followed him to the door, her eyes blinded by sudden tears; she stood there looking after him. he was so strange, so cold, so hard. suddenly, at the end of the court, he turned, and saw her standing there; he came back quickly, and took her in his arms. "god bless thee, mary!--god in heaven bless thee, poor child!" she threw her arms round his neck. "don't go yet, father; i can't bear you to go yet. come in, and eat some supper; you look so ghastly; dear father, do!" "no," he said, faintly and mournfully. "it's best as it is. i couldn't eat, and it's best to be off. i cannot be still at home. i must be moving." so saying, he unlaced her soft twining arms, and kissing her once more, set off on his fierce errand. and he was out of sight! she did not know why, but she had never before felt so depressed, so desolate. she turned in to job, who sat there still. her father, as soon as he was out of sight, slackened his pace, and fell into that heavy listless step, which told as well as words could do, of hopelessness and weakness. it was getting dark, but he loitered on, returning no greeting to any one. a child's cry caught his ear. his thoughts were running on little tom; on the dead and buried child of happier years. he followed the sound of the wail, that might have been _his_, and found a poor little mortal, who had lost his way, and whose grief had choked up his thoughts to the single want, "mammy, mammy." with tender address, john barton soothed the little laddie, and with beautiful patience he gathered fragments of meaning from the half spoken words which came mingled with sobs from the terrified little heart. so, aided by inquiries here and there from a passer-by, he led and carried the little fellow home, where his mother had been too busy to miss him, but now received him with thankfulness, and with an eloquent irish blessing. when john heard the words of blessing, he shook his head mournfully, and turned away to retrace his steps. let us leave him. mary took her sewing after he had gone, and sat on, and sat on, trying to listen to job, who was more inclined to talk than usual. she had conquered her feeling of impatience towards him so far as to be able to offer him her father's rejected supper; and she even tried to eat herself. but her heart failed her. a leaden weight seemed to hang over her; a sort of presentiment of evil, or perhaps only an excess of low-spirited feeling in consequence of the two departures which had taken place that afternoon. she wondered how long job legh would sit. she did not like putting down her work, and crying before him, and yet she had never in her life longed so much to be alone in order to indulge in a good hearty burst of tears. "well, mary," she suddenly caught him saying, "i thought you'd be a bit lonely to-night; and as margaret were going to cheer th' old woman, i said i'd go and keep th' young un company; and a very pleasant, chatty evening we've had; very. only i wonder as margaret is not come back." "but perhaps she is," suggested mary. "no, no, i took care o' that. look ye here!" and he pulled out the great house-key. "she'll have to stand waiting i' th' street, and that i'm sure she wouldn't do, when she knew where to find me." "will she come back by hersel?" asked mary. "ay. at first i were afraid o' trusting her, and i used to follow her a bit behind; never letting on, of course. but, bless you! she goes along as steadily as can be; rather slow, to be sure, and her head a bit on one side as if she were listening. and it's real beautiful to see her cross the road. she'll wait above a bit to hear that all is still; not that she's so dark as not to see a coach or a cart like a big black thing, but she can't rightly judge how far off it is by sight, so she listens. hark! that's her!" yes; in she came with her usually calm face all tear-stained and sorrow-marked. "what's the matter, my wench?" said job, hastily. "oh! grandfather! alice wilson's so bad!" she could say no more, for her breathless agitation. the afternoon, and the parting with will, had weakened her nerves for any after-shock. "what is it? do tell us, margaret!" said mary, placing her in a chair, and loosening her bonnet-strings. "i think it's a stroke o' the palsy. any rate she has lost the use of one side." "was it afore will had set off?" asked mary. "no; he were gone before i got there," said margaret; "and she were much about as well as she has been this many a day. she spoke a bit, but not much; but that were only natural, for mrs. wilson likes to have the talk to hersel, you know. she got up to go across the room, and then i heard a drag wi' her leg, and presently a fall, and mrs. wilson came running, and set up such a cry! i stopped wi' alice, while she fetched a doctor; but she could not speak, to answer me, though she tried, i think." "where was jem? why didn't he go for the doctor?" "he were out when i got there, and he never came home while i stopped." "thou'st never left mrs. wilson alone wi' poor alice?" asked job, hastily. "no, no," said margaret. "but, oh! grandfather; it's now i feel how hard it is to have lost my sight. i should have so loved to nurse her; and i did try, until i found i did more harm than good. oh! grandfather; if i could but see!" she sobbed a little; and they let her give that ease to her heart. then she went on-- "no! i went round by mrs. davenport's, and she were hard at work; but, the minute i told my errand, she were ready and willing to go to jane wilson, and stop up all night with alice." "and what does the doctor say?" asked mary. "oh! much what all doctors say: he puts a fence on this side, and a fence on that, for fear he should be caught tripping in his judgment. one moment he does not think there's much hope--but while there is life there is hope; th' next he says he should think she might recover partial, but her age is again her. he's ordered her leeches to her head." margaret, having told her tale, leant back with weariness, both of body and mind. mary hastened to make her a cup of tea; while job, lately so talkative, sat quiet and mournfully silent. "i'll go first thing to-morrow morning, and learn how she is; and i'll bring word back before i go to work," said mary. "it's a bad job will's gone," said job. "jane does not think she knows any one," replied margaret. "it's perhaps as well he shouldn't see her now, for they say her face is sadly drawn. he'll remember her with her own face better, if he does not see her again." with a few more sorrowful remarks they separated for the night, and mary was left alone in her house, to meditate on the heavy day that had passed over her head. everything seemed going wrong. will gone; her father gone--and so strangely too! and to a place so mysteriously distant as glasgow seemed to be to her! she had felt his presence as a protection against harry carson and his threats; and now she dreaded lest he should learn she was alone. her heart began to despair, too, about jem. she feared he had ceased to love her; and she--she only loved him more and more for his seeming neglect. and, as if all this aggregate of sorrowful thoughts was not enough, here was this new woe, of poor alice's paralytic stroke. chapter xviii. murder. "but in his pulse there was no throb, nor on his lips one dying sob; sigh, nor word, nor struggling breath heralded his way to death." siege of corinth. "my brain runs this way and that way; 'twill not fix on aught but vengeance." duke of guise. i must now go back to an hour or two before mary and her friends parted for the night. it might be about eight o'clock that evening, and the three miss carsons were sitting in their father's drawing-room. he was asleep in the dining-room, in his own comfortable chair. mrs. carson was (as was usual with her, when no particular excitement was going on) very poorly, and sitting up-stairs in her dressing-room, indulging in the luxury of a head-ache. she was not well, certainly. "wind in the head," the servants called it. but it was but the natural consequence of the state of mental and bodily idleness in which she was placed. without education enough to value the resources of wealth and leisure, she was so circumstanced as to command both. it would have done her more good than all the æther and sal-volatile she was daily in the habit of swallowing, if she might have taken the work of one of her own housemaids for a week; made beds, rubbed tables, shaken carpets, and gone out into the fresh morning air, without all the paraphernalia of shawl, cloak, boa, fur boots, bonnet, and veil, in which she was equipped before setting out for an "airing," in the closely shut-up carriage. so the three girls were by themselves in the comfortable, elegant, well-lighted drawing-room; and, like many similarly-situated young ladies, they did not exactly know what to do to while away the time until the tea-hour. the elder two had been at a dancing-party the night before, and were listless and sleepy in consequence. one tried to read "emerson's essays," and fell asleep in the attempt; the other was turning over a parcel of new music, in order to select what she liked. amy, the youngest, was copying some manuscript music. the air was heavy with the fragrance of strongly-scented flowers, which sent out their night odours from an adjoining conservatory. the clock on the chimney-piece chimed eight. sophy (the sleeping sister) started up at the sound. "what o'clock is that?" she asked. "eight," said amy. "oh dear! how tired i am! is harry come in? tea would rouse one up a little. are not you worn out, helen?" "yes; i am tired enough. one is good for nothing the day after a dance. yet i don't feel weary at the time; i suppose it is the lateness of the hours." "and yet, how could it be managed otherwise? so many don't dine till five or six, that one cannot begin before eight or nine; and then it takes a long time to get into the spirit of the evening. it is always more pleasant after supper than before." "well, i'm too tired to-night to reform the world in the matter of dances or balls. what are you copying, amy?" "only that little spanish air you sing--'quien quiera.'" "what are you copying it for?" asked helen. "harry asked me to do it for him this morning at breakfast-time,--for miss richardson, he said." "for jane richardson!" said sophy, as if a new idea were receiving strength in her mind. "do you think harry means any thing by his attention to her?" asked helen. "nay, i do not know any thing more than you do; i can only observe and conjecture. what do you think, helen?" "harry always likes to be of consequence to the belle of the room. if one girl is more admired than another, he likes to flutter about her, and seem to be on intimate terms with her. that is his way, and i have not noticed any thing beyond that in his manner to jane richardson." "but i don't think she knows it's only his way. just watch her the next time we meet her when harry is there, and see how she crimsons, and looks another way when she feels he is coming up to her. i think he sees it, too, and i think he is pleased with it." "i dare say harry would like well enough to turn the head of such a lovely girl as jane richardson. but i'm not convinced that he is in love, whatever she may be." "well, then!" said sophy, indignantly, "though it is our own brother, i do think he is behaving very wrongly. the more i think of it the more sure i am that she thinks he means something, and that he intends her to think so. and then, when he leaves off paying her attention--" "which will be as soon as a prettier girl makes her appearance," interrupted helen. "as soon as he leaves off paying her attention," resumed sophy, "she will have many and many a heart-ache, and then she will harden herself into being a flirt, a feminine flirt, as he is a masculine flirt. poor girl!" "i don't like to hear you speak so of harry," said amy, looking up at sophy. "and i don't like to have to speak so, amy, for i love him dearly. he is a good, kind brother, but i do think him vain, and i think he hardly knows the misery, the crimes, to which indulged vanity may lead him." helen yawned. "oh! do you think we may ring for tea? sleeping after dinner always makes me so feverish." "yes, surely. why should not we?" said the more energetic sophy, pulling the bell with some determination. "tea directly, parker," said she, authoritatively, as the man entered the room. she was too little in the habit of reading expressions on the faces of others to notice parker's countenance. yet it was striking. it was blanched to a dead whiteness; the lips compressed as if to keep within some tale of horror; the eyes distended and unnatural. it was a terror-stricken face. the girls began to put away their music and books, in preparation for tea. the door slowly opened again, and this time it was the nurse who entered. i call her nurse, for such had been her office in by-gone days, though now she held rather an anomalous situation in the family. seamstress, attendant on the young ladies, keeper of the stores; only "nurse" was still her name. she had lived longer with them than any other servant, and to her their manner was far less haughty than to the other domestics. she occasionally came into the drawing-room to look for things belonging to their father or mother, so it did not excite any surprise when she advanced into the room. they went on arranging their various articles of employment. she wanted them to look up. she wanted them to read something in her face--her face so full of woe, of horror. but they went on without taking any notice. she coughed; not a natural cough; but one of those coughs which ask so plainly for remark. "dear nurse, what is the matter?" asked amy. "are not you well?" "is mamma ill?" asked sophy, quickly. "speak, speak, nurse!" said they all, as they saw her efforts to articulate, choked by the convulsive rising in her throat. they clustered round her with eager faces, catching a glimpse of some terrible truth to be revealed. "my dear young ladies! my dear girls," she gasped out at length, and then she burst into tears. "oh! do tell us what it is, nurse," said one. "any thing is better than this. speak!" "my children! i don't know how to break it to you. my dears, poor mr. harry is brought home--" "brought home--_brought_ home--how?" instinctively they sank their voices to a whisper; but a fearful whisper it was. in the same low tone, as if afraid lest the walls, the furniture, the inanimate things which told of preparation for life and comfort, should hear, she answered, "dead!" amy clutched her nurse's arm, and fixed her eyes on her as if to know if such a tale could be true; and when she read its confirmation in those sad, mournful, unflinching eyes, she sank, without word or sound, down in a faint upon the floor. one sister sat down on an ottoman, and covered her face, to try and realise it. that was sophy. helen threw herself on the sofa, and burying her head in the pillows, tried to stifle the screams and moans which shook her frame. the nurse stood silent. she had not told _all_. "tell me," said sophy, looking up, and speaking in a hoarse voice, which told of the inward pain, "tell me, nurse! is he _dead_, did you say? have you sent for a doctor? oh! send for one, send for one," continued she, her voice rising to shrillness, and starting to her feet. helen lifted herself up, and looked, with breathless waiting, towards nurse. "my dears, he is dead! but i have sent for a doctor. i have done all i could." "when did he--when did they bring him home?" asked sophy. "perhaps ten minutes ago. before you rang for parker." "how did he die? where did they find him? he looked so well. he always seemed so strong. oh! are you sure he is dead?" she went towards the door. nurse laid her hand on her arm. "miss sophy, i have not told you all. can you bear to hear it? remember, master is in the next room, and he knows nothing yet. come, you must help me to tell him. now be quiet, dear! it was no common death he died!" she looked in her face as if trying to convey her meaning by her eyes. sophy's lips moved, but nurse could hear no sound. "he has been shot as he was coming home along turner street, to-night." sophy went on with the motion of her lips, twitching them almost convulsively. "my dear, you must rouse yourself, and remember your father and mother have yet to be told. speak! miss sophy!" but she could not; her whole face worked involuntarily. the nurse left the room, and almost immediately brought back some sal-volatile and water. sophy drank it eagerly, and gave one or two deep gasps. then she spoke in a calm unnatural voice. "what do you want me to do, nurse? go to helen and poor amy. see, they want help." "poor creatures! we must let them alone for a bit. you must go to master; that's what i want you to do, miss sophy. you must break it to him, poor old gentleman. come, he's asleep in the dining-room, and the men are waiting to speak to him." sophy went mechanically to the dining-room door. "oh! i cannot go in. i cannot tell him. what must i say?" "i'll come with you, miss sophy. break it to him by degrees." "i can't, nurse. my head throbs so, i shall be sure to say the wrong thing." however, she opened the door. there sat her father, the shaded light of the candle-lamp falling upon, and softening his marked features, while his snowy hair contrasted well with the deep crimson morocco of the chair. the newspaper he had been reading had dropped on the carpet by his side. he breathed regularly and deeply. at that instant the words of mrs. hemans's song came full into sophy's mind. "ye know not what ye do, that call the slumberer back from the realms unseen by you, to life's dim, weary track." but this life's track would be to the bereaved father something more than dim and weary, hereafter. "papa," said she, softly. he did not stir. "papa!" she exclaimed, somewhat louder. he started up, half awake. "tea is ready, is it?" and he yawned. "no! papa, but something very dreadful--very sad, has happened!" he was gaping so loud that he did not catch the words she uttered, and did not see the expression of her face. "master henry is not come back," said nurse. her voice, heard in unusual speech to him, arrested his attention, and rubbing his eyes, he looked at the servant. "harry! oh no! he had to attend a meeting of the masters about these cursed turn-outs. i don't expect him yet. what are you looking at me so strangely for, sophy?" "oh, papa, harry is come back," said she, bursting into tears. "what do you mean?" said he, startled into an impatient consciousness that something was wrong. "one of you says he is not come home, and the other says he is. now that's nonsense! tell me at once what's the matter. did he go on horseback to town? is he thrown? speak, child, can't you?" "no! he's not been thrown, papa," said sophy, sadly. "but he's badly hurt," put in the nurse, desirous to be drawing his anxiety to a point. "hurt? where? how? have you sent for a doctor?" said he, hastily rising, as if to leave the room. "yes, papa, we've sent for a doctor--but i'm afraid--i believe it's of no use." he looked at her for a moment, and in her face he read the truth. his son, his only son, was dead. he sank back in his chair, and hid his face in his hands, and bowed his head upon the table. the strong mahogany dining-table shook and rattled under his agony. sophy went and put her arms round his bowed neck. "go! you are not harry," said he; but the action roused him. "where is he? where is the--" said he, with his strong face set into the lines of anguish, by two minutes of such intense woe. "in the servants' hall," said nurse. "two policemen and another man brought him home. they would be glad to speak to you when you are able, sir." "i am able now," replied he. at first when he stood up, he tottered. but steadying himself, he walked, as firmly as a soldier on drill, to the door. then he turned back and poured out a glass of wine from the decanter which yet remained on the table. his eye caught the wine-glass which harry had used but two or three hours before. he sighed a long quivering sigh. and then mastering himself again, he left the room. "you had better go back to your sisters, miss sophy," said nurse. miss carson went. she could not face death yet. the nurse followed mr. carson to the servants' hall. there, on their dinner-table, lay the poor dead body. the men who had brought it were sitting near the fire, while several of the servants stood round the table, gazing at the remains. _the remains!_ one or two were crying; one or two were whispering; awed into a strange stillness of voice and action by the presence of the dead. when mr. carson came in they all drew back and looked at him with the reverence due to sorrow. he went forward and gazed long and fondly on the calm, dead face; then he bent down and kissed the lips yet crimson with life. the policemen had advanced and stood ready to be questioned. but at first the old man's mind could only take in the idea of death; slowly, slowly came the conception of violence, of murder. "how did he die?" he groaned forth. the policemen looked at each other. then one began, and stated that having heard the report of a gun in turner street, he had turned down that way (a lonely, unfrequented way mr. carson knew, but a short cut to his garden-door, of which harry had a key); that as he (the policeman) came nearer, he had heard footsteps as of a man running away; but the evening was so dark (the moon not having yet risen) that he could see no one twenty yards off. that he had even been startled when close to the body by seeing it lying across the path at his feet. that he had sprung his rattle; and when another policeman came up, by the light of the lantern they had discovered who it was that had been killed. that they believed him to be dead when they first took him up, as he had never moved, spoken, or breathed. that intelligence of the murder had been sent to the superintendent, who would probably soon be here. that two or three policemen were still about the place where the murder was committed, seeking out for some trace of the murderer. having said this, they stopped speaking. mr. carson had listened attentively, never taking his eyes off the dead body. when they had ended, he said, "where was he shot?" they lifted up some of the thick chestnut curls, and showed a blue spot (you could hardly call it a hole, the flesh had closed so much over it) in the left temple. a deadly aim! and yet it was so dark a night! "he must have been close upon him," said one policeman. "and have had him between him and the sky," added the other. there was a little commotion at the door of the room, and there stood poor mrs. carson, the mother. she had heard unusual noises in the house, and had sent down her maid (much more a companion to her than her highly-educated daughters) to discover what was going on. but the maid either forgot, or dreaded, to return; and with nervous impatience mrs. carson came down herself, and had traced the hum and buzz of voices to the servants' hall. mr. carson turned round. but he could not leave the dead for any one living. "take her away, nurse. it is no sight for her. tell miss sophy to go to her mother." his eyes were again fixed on the dead face of his son. presently mrs. carson's hysterical cries were heard all over the house. her husband shuddered at the outward expression of the agony which was rending his heart. then the police superintendent came, and after him the doctor. the latter went through all the forms of ascertaining death, without uttering a word, and when at the conclusion of the operation of opening a vein, from which no blood flowed, he shook his head, all present understood the confirmation of their previous belief. the superintendent asked to speak to mr. carson in private. "it was just what i was going to request of you," answered he; so he led the way into the dining-room, with the wine-glass still on the table. the door was carefully shut, and both sat down, each apparently waiting for the other to begin. at last mr. carson spoke. "you probably have heard that i am a rich man." the superintendent bowed in assent. "well, sir, half--nay, if necessary, the whole of my fortune i will give to have the murderer brought to the gallows." "every exertion, you may be sure, sir, shall be used on our part; but probably offering a handsome reward might accelerate the discovery of the murderer. but what i wanted particularly to tell you, sir, is that one of my men has already got some clue, and that another (who accompanied me here) has within this quarter of an hour found a gun in the field which the murderer crossed, and which he probably threw away when pursued, as encumbering his flight. i have not the smallest doubt of discovering the murderer." "what do you call a handsome reward?" said mr. carson. "well, sir, three, or five hundred pounds is a munificent reward: more than will probably be required as a temptation to any accomplice." "make it a thousand," said mr. carson, decisively. "it's the doing of those damned turn-outs." "i imagine not," said the superintendent. "some days ago the man i was naming to you before, reported to the inspector when he came on his beat, that he had had to separate your son from a young man, who by his dress he believed to be employed in a foundry; that the man had thrown mr. carson down, and seemed inclined to proceed to more violence, when the policeman came up and interfered. indeed, my man wished to give him in charge for an assault, but mr. carson would not allow that to be done." "just like him!--noble fellow!" murmured the father. "but after your son had left, the man made use of some pretty strong threats. and it's rather a curious coincidence that this scuffle took place in the very same spot where the murder was committed; in turner street." there was some one knocking at the door of the room. it was sophy, who beckoned her father out, and then asked him, in an awe-struck whisper, to come up-stairs and speak to her mother. "she will not leave harry, and talks so strangely. indeed--indeed--papa, i think she has lost her senses." and the poor girl sobbed bitterly. "where is she?" asked mr. carson. "in his room." they went up stairs rapidly and silently. it was a large, comfortable bedroom; too large to be well lighted by the flaring, flickering kitchen-candle which had been hastily snatched up, and now stood on the dressing-table. on the bed, surrounded by its heavy, pall-like green curtains, lay the dead son. they had carried him up, and laid him down, as tenderly as though they feared to waken him; and, indeed, it looked more like sleep than death, so very calm and full of repose was the face. you saw, too, the chiselled beauty of the features much more perfectly than when the brilliant colouring of life had distracted your attention. there was a peace about him which told that death had come too instantaneously to give any previous pain. in a chair, at the head of the bed, sat the mother,--smiling. she held one of the hands (rapidly stiffening, even in her warm grasp), and gently stroked the back of it, with the endearing caress she had used to all her children when young. "i am glad you are come," said she, looking up at her husband, and still smiling. "harry is so full of fun, he always has something new to amuse us with; and now he pretends he is asleep, and that we can't waken him. look! he is smiling now; he hears i have found him out. look!" and, in truth, the lips, in the rest of death, did look as though they wore a smile, and the waving light of the unsnuffed candle almost made them seem to move. "look, amy," said she to her youngest child, who knelt at her feet, trying to soothe her, by kissing her garments. "oh, he was always a rogue! you remember, don't you, love? how full of play he was as a baby; hiding his face under my arm, when you wanted to play with him. always a rogue, harry!" "we must get her away, sir," said nurse; "you know there is much to be done before--" "i understand, nurse," said the father, hastily interrupting her in dread of the distinct words which would tell of the changes of mortality. "come, love," said he to his wife. "i want you to come with me. i want to speak to you down-stairs." "i'm coming," said she, rising; "perhaps, after all, nurse, he's really tired, and would be glad to sleep. don't let him get cold, though,--he feels rather chilly," continued she, after she had bent down, and kissed the pale lips. her husband put his arm round her waist, and they left the room. then the three sisters burst into unrestrained wailings. they were startled into the reality of life and death. and yet, in the midst of shrieks and moans, of shivering, and chattering of teeth, sophy's eye caught the calm beauty of the dead; so calm amidst such violence, and she hushed her emotion. "come," said she to her sisters, "nurse wants us to go; and besides, we ought to be with mamma. papa told the man he was talking to, when i went for him, to wait, and she must not be left." meanwhile, the superintendent had taken a candle, and was examining the engravings that hung round the dining-room. it was so common to him to be acquainted with crime, that he was far from feeling all his interest absorbed in the present case of violence, although he could not help having much anxiety to detect the murderer. he was busy looking at the only oil-painting in the room (a youth of eighteen or so, in a fancy dress), and conjecturing its identity with the young man so mysteriously dead, when the door opened, and mr. carson returned. stern as he had looked before leaving the room, he looked far sterner now. his face was hardened into deep-purposed wrath. "i beg your pardon, sir, for leaving you." the superintendent bowed. they sat down, and spoke long together. one by one the policemen were called in, and questioned. all through the night there was bustle and commotion in the house. nobody thought of going to bed. it seemed strange to sophy to hear nurse summoned from her mother's side to supper, in the middle of the night, and still stranger that she could go. the necessity of eating and drinking seemed out of place in the house of death. when night was passing into morning, the dining-room door opened, and two persons' steps were heard along the hall. the superintendent was leaving at last. mr. carson stood on the front door-step, feeling the refreshment of the cooler morning air, and seeing the starlight fade away into dawn. "you will not forget," said he. "i trust to you." the policeman bowed. "spare no money. the only purpose for which i now value wealth is to have the murderer arrested, and brought to justice. my hope in life now is to see him sentenced to death. offer any rewards. name a thousand pounds in the placards. come to me at any hour, night or day, if that be required. all i ask of you is, to get the murderer hanged. next week, if possible--to-day is friday. surely, with the clues you already possess, you can muster up evidence sufficient to have him tried next week." "he may easily request an adjournment of his trial, on the ground of the shortness of the notice," said the superintendent. "oppose it, if possible. i will see that the first lawyers are employed. i shall know no rest while he lives." "every thing shall be done, sir." "you will arrange with the coroner. ten o'clock, if convenient." the superintendent took leave. mr. carson stood on the step, dreading to shut out the light and air, and return into the haunted, gloomy house. "my son! my son!" he said, at last. "but you shall be avenged, my poor murdered boy." ay! to avenge his wrongs the murderer had singled out his victim, and with one fell action had taken away the life that god had given. to avenge his child's death, the old man lived on; with the single purpose in his heart of vengeance on the murderer. true, his vengeance was sanctioned by law, but was it the less revenge? are we worshippers of christ? or of alecto? oh! orestes! you would have made a very tolerable christian of the nineteenth century! chapter xix. jem wilson arrested on suspicion. "deeds to be hid which were not hid, which, all confused, i could not know, whether i suffered or i did, for all seemed guilt, remorse, or woe." coleridge. i left mary, on that same thursday night which left its burden of woe at mr. carson's threshold, haunted with depressing thoughts. all through the night she tossed restlessly about, trying to get quit of the ideas that harassed her, and longing for the light when she could rise, and find some employment. but just as dawn began to appear, she became more quiet, and fell into a sound heavy sleep, which lasted till she was sure it was late in the morning by the full light that shone in. she dressed hastily, and heard the neighbouring church-clock strike eight. it was far too late to do as she had planned (after inquiring how alice was, to return and tell margaret), and she accordingly went in to inform the latter of her change of purpose, and the cause of it; but on entering the house she found job sitting alone, looking sad enough. she told him what she came for. "margaret, wench! why she's been gone to wilson's these two hours. ay! sure, you did say last night you would go; but she could na rest in her bed, so was off betimes this morning." mary could do nothing but feel guilty of her long morning nap, and hasten to follow margaret's steps; for late as it was, she felt she could not settle well to her work, unless she learnt how kind good alice wilson was going on. so, eating her crust-of-bread breakfast, she passed rapidly along the streets. she remembered afterwards the little groups of people she had seen, eagerly hearing, and imparting news; but at the time her only care was to hasten on her way, in dread of a reprimand from miss simmonds. she went into the house at jane wilson's, her heart at the instant giving a strange knock, and sending the rosy flush into her face, at the thought that jem might possibly be inside the door. but i do assure you, she had not thought of it before. impatient and loving as she was, her solicitude about alice on that hurried morning had not been mingled with any thought of him. her heart need not have leaped, her colour need not have rushed so painfully to her cheeks, for he was not there. there was the round table, with a cup and saucer, which had evidently been used, and there was jane wilson sitting on the other side, crying quietly, while she ate her breakfast with a sort of unconscious appetite. and there was mrs. davenport washing away at a night-cap or so, which, by their simple, old-world make, mary knew at a glance were alice's. but nothing--no one else. alice was much the same, or rather better of the two, they told her; at any rate she could speak, though it was sad rambling talk. would mary like to see her? of course she would. many are interested by seeing their friends under the new aspect of illness; and among the poor there is no wholesome fear of injury or excitement to restrain this wish. so mary went up-stairs, accompanied by mrs. davenport, wringing the suds off her hands, and speaking in a loud whisper far more audible than her usual voice. "i mun be hastening home, but i'll come again to-night, time enough to iron her cap; 'twould be a sin and a shame if we let her go dirty now she's ill, when she's been so rare and clean all her life-long. but she's sadly forsaken, poor thing! she'll not know you, mary; she knows none on us." the room up-stairs held two beds, one superior in the grandeur of four posts and checked curtains to the other, which had been occupied by the twins in their brief life-time. the smaller had been alice's bed since she had lived there; but with the natural reverence to one "stricken of god and afflicted," she had been installed since her paralytic stroke the evening before in the larger and grander bed, while jane wilson had taken her short broken rest on the little pallet. margaret came forwards to meet her friend, whom she half expected, and whose step she knew. mrs. davenport returned to her washing. the two girls did not speak; the presence of alice awed them into silence. there she lay with the rosy colour, absent from her face since the days of childhood, flushed once more into it by her sickness nigh unto death. she lay on the affected side, and with her other arm she was constantly sawing the air, not exactly in a restless manner, but in a monotonous, incessant way, very trying to a watcher. she was talking away, too, almost as constantly, in a low, indistinct tone. but her face, her profiled countenance, looked calm and smiling, even interested by the ideas that were passing through her clouded mind. "listen!" said margaret, as she stooped her head down to catch the muttered words more distinctly. "what will mother say? the bees are turning homeward for th' last time, and we've a terrible long bit to go yet. see! here's a linnet's nest in this gorse-bush. th' hen-bird is on it. look at her bright eyes, she won't stir! ay! we mun hurry home. won't mother be pleased with the bonny lot of heather we've got! make haste, sally, may be we shall have cockles for supper. i saw th' cockle-man's donkey turn up our way fra' arnside." margaret touched mary's hand, and the pressure in return told her that they understood each other; that they knew how in this illness to the old, world-weary woman, god had sent her a veiled blessing: she was once more in the scenes of her childhood, unchanged and bright as in those long departed days; once more with the sister of her youth, the playmate of fifty years ago, who had for nearly as many years slept in a grassy grave in the little church-yard beyond burton. alice's face changed; she looked sorrowful, almost penitent. "oh, sally! i wish we'd told her. she thinks we were in church all morning, and we've gone on deceiving her. if we'd told her at first how it was--how sweet th' hawthorn smelt through the open church-door, and how we were on th' last bench in the aisle, and how it were the first butterfly we'd seen this spring, and how it flew into th' very church itself; oh! mother is so gentle, i wish we'd told her. i'll go to her next time she comes in sight, and say, 'mother, we were naughty last sabbath.'" she stopped, and a few tears came stealing down the old withered cheek, at the thought of the temptation and deceit of her childhood. surely, many sins could not have darkened that innocent child-like spirit since. mary found a red-spotted pocket-handkerchief, and put it into the hand which sought about for something to wipe away the trickling tears. she took it with a gentle murmur. "thank you, mother." mary pulled margaret away from the bed. "don't you think she's happy, margaret?" "ay! that i do, bless her. she feels no pain, and knows nought of her present state. oh! that i could see, mary! i try and be patient with her afore me, but i'd give aught i have to see her, and see what she wants. i am so useless! i mean to stay here as long as jane wilson is alone; and i would fain be here all to-night, but--" "i'll come," said mary, decidedly. "mrs. davenport said she'd come again, but she's hard-worked all day--" "i'll come," repeated mary. "do!" said margaret, "and i'll be here till you come. may be, jem and you could take th' night between you, and jane wilson might get a bit of sound sleep in his bed; for she were up and down the better part of last night, and just when she were in a sound sleep this morning, between two and three, jem came home, and th' sound o' his voice roused her in a minute." "where had he been till that time o' night?" asked mary. "nay! it were none of my business; and, indeed, i never saw him till he came in here to see alice. he were in again this morning, and seemed sadly downcast. but you'll, may be, manage to comfort him to-night, mary," said margaret, smiling, while a ray of hope glimmered in mary's heart, and she almost felt glad, for an instant, of the occasion which would at last bring them together. oh! happy night! when would it come? many hours had yet to pass. then she saw alice, and repented, with a bitter self-reproach. but she could not help having gladness in the depths of her heart, blame herself as she would. so she tried not to think, as she hurried along to miss simmonds', with a dancing step of lightness. she was late--that she knew she should be. miss simmonds was vexed and cross. that also she had anticipated, but she had intended to smooth her raven down by extraordinary diligence and attention. but there was something about the girls she did not understand--had not anticipated. they stopped talking when she came in; or rather, i should say, stopped listening, for sally leadbitter was the talker to whom they were hearkening with intense attention. at first they eyed mary, as if she had acquired some new interest to them, since the day before. then they began to whisper; and, absorbed as mary had been in her own thoughts, she could not help becoming aware that it was of her they spoke. at last sally leadbitter asked mary if she had heard the news? "no! what news?" answered she. the girls looked at each other with gloomy mystery. sally went on. "have you not heard that young mr. carson was murdered last night?" mary's lips could not utter a negative, but no one who looked at her pale and terror-stricken face could have doubted that she had not heard before of the fearful occurrence. oh, it is terrible, that sudden information, that one you have known has met with a bloody death! you seem to shrink from the world where such deeds can be committed, and to grow sick with the idea of the violent and wicked men of earth. much as mary had learned to dread him lately, now he was dead (and dead in such a manner) her feeling was that of oppressive sorrow for him. the room went round and round, and she felt as though she should faint; but miss simmonds came in, bringing a waft of fresher air as she opened the door, to refresh the body, and the certainty of a scolding for inattention to brace the sinking mind. she, too, was full of the morning's news. "have you heard any more of this horrid affair, miss barton?" asked she, as she settled to her work. mary tried to speak; at first she could not, and when she succeeded in uttering a sentence, it seemed as though it were not her own voice that spoke. "no, ma'am, i never heard of it till this minute." "dear! that's strange, for every one is up about it. i hope the murderer will be found out, that i do. such a handsome young man to be killed as he was. i hope the wretch that did it may be hanged as high as haman." one of the girls reminded them that the assizes came on next week. "ay," replied miss simmonds, "and the milk-man told me they will catch the wretch, and have him tried and hung in less than a week. serve him right, whoever he is. such a handsome young man as he was." then each began to communicate to miss simmonds the various reports they had heard. suddenly she burst out-- "miss barton! as i live, dropping tears on that new silk gown of mrs. hawkes'! don't you know they will stain, and make it shabby for ever? crying like a baby, because a handsome young man meets with an untimely end. for shame of yourself, miss. mind your character and your work if you please. or, if you must cry" (seeing her scolding rather increased the flow of mary's tears, than otherwise), "take this print to cry over. that won't be marked like this beautiful silk," rubbing it, as if she loved it, with a clean pocket-handkerchief, in order to soften the edges of the hard round drops. mary took the print, and naturally enough, having had leave given her to cry over it, rather checked the inclination to weep. every body was full of the one subject. the girl sent out to match silk, came back with the account gathered at the shop, of the coroner's inquest then sitting; the ladies who called to speak about gowns first began about the murder, and mingled details of that, with directions for their dresses. mary felt as though the haunting horror were a nightmare, a fearful dream, from which awakening would relieve her. the picture of the murdered body, far more ghastly than the reality, seemed to swim in the air before her eyes. sally leadbitter looked and spoke of her, almost accusingly, and made no secret now of mary's conduct, more blameable to her fellow-workwomen for its latter changeableness, than for its former giddy flirting. "poor young gentleman," said one, as sally recounted mary's last interview with mr. carson. "what a shame!" exclaimed another, looking indignantly at mary. "that's what i call regular jilting," said a third. "and he lying cold and bloody in his coffin now!" mary was more thankful than she could express, when miss simmonds returned, to put a stop to sally's communications, and to check the remarks of the girls. she longed for the peace of alice's sick room. no more thinking with infinite delight of her anticipated meeting with jem, she felt too much shocked for that now; but longing for peace and kindness, for the images of rest and beauty, and sinless times long ago, which the poor old woman's rambling presented, she wished to be as near death as alice; and to have struggled through this world, whose sufferings she had early learnt, and whose crimes now seemed pressing close upon her. old texts from the bible that her mother used to read (or rather spell out) aloud, in the days of childhood, came up to her memory. "where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest." "the tears shall be wiped away from all eyes," &c. and it was to that world alice was hastening! oh! that she were alice! i must return to the wilsons' house, which was far from being the abode of peace that mary was picturing it to herself. you remember the reward mr. carson offered for the apprehension of the murderer of his son? it was in itself a temptation, and to aid its efficacy came the natural sympathy for the aged parents mourning for their child, for the young man cut off in the flower of his days; and besides this, there is always a pleasure in unravelling a mystery, in catching at the gossamer clue which will guide to certainty. this feeling, i am sure, gives much impetus to the police. their senses are ever and always on the qui-vive, and they enjoy the collecting and collating evidence, and the life of adventure they experience: a continual unwinding of jack sheppard romances, always interesting to the vulgar and uneducated mind, to which the outward signs and tokens of crime are ever exciting. there was no lack of clue or evidence at the coroner's inquest that morning. the shot, the finding of the body, the subsequent discovery of the gun, were rapidly deposed to; and then the policeman who had interrupted the quarrel between jem wilson and the murdered young man was brought forward, and gave his evidence, clear, simple, and straightforward. the coroner had no hesitation, the jury had none, but the verdict was cautiously worded. "wilful murder against some person unknown." this very cautiousness, when he deemed the thing so sure as to require no caution, irritated mr. carson. it did not soothe him that the superintendent called the verdict a mere form,--exhibited a warrant empowering him to seize the body of jem wilson, committed on suspicion,--declared his intention of employing a well-known officer in the detective service to ascertain the ownership of the gun, and to collect other evidence, especially as regarded the young woman, about whom the policeman deposed that the quarrel had taken place: mr. carson was still excited and irritable; restless in body and mind. he made every preparation for the accusation of jem the following morning before the magistrates: he engaged attorneys skilled in criminal practice to watch the case and prepare briefs; he wrote to celebrated barristers coming the northern circuit, to bespeak their services. a speedy conviction, a speedy execution, seemed to be the only things that would satisfy his craving thirst for blood. he would have fain been policeman, magistrate, accusing speaker, all; but most of all, the judge, rising with full sentence of death on his lips. that afternoon, as jane wilson had begun to feel the effect of a night's disturbed rest, evinced in frequent droppings off to sleep while she sat by her sister-in-law's bed-side, lulled by the incessant crooning of the invalid's feeble voice, she was startled by a man speaking in the house-place below, who, wearied of knocking at the door, without obtaining any answer, had entered and was calling lustily for "missis! missis!" when mrs. wilson caught a glimpse of the intruder through the stair-rails, she at once saw he was a stranger, a working-man, it might be a fellow-labourer with her son, for his dress was grimy enough for the supposition. he held a gun in his hand. "may i make bold to ask if this gun belongs to your son?" she first looked at the man, and then, weary and half asleep, not seeing any reason for refusing to answer the inquiry, she moved forward to examine it, talking while she looked for certain old-fashioned ornaments on the stock. "it looks like his; ay, it's his, sure enough. i could speak to it anywhere by these marks. you see it were his grandfather's, as were gamekeeper to some one up in th' north; and they don't make guns so smart now-a-days. but, how comed you by it? he sets great store on it. is he bound for th' shooting gallery? he is not, for sure, now his aunt is so ill, and me left all alone;" and the immediate cause for her anxiety being thus recalled to her mind, she entered on a long story of alice's illness, interspersed with recollections of her husband's and her children's deaths. the disguised policeman listened for a minute or two, to glean any further information he could; and then, saying he was in a hurry, he turned to go away. she followed him to the door, still telling him her troubles, and was never struck, until it was too late to ask the reason, with the unaccountableness of his conduct, in carrying the gun away with him. then, as she heavily climbed the stairs, she put away the wonder and the thought about his conduct, by determining to believe he was some workman with whom her son had made some arrangement about shooting at the gallery; or mending the old weapon; or something or other. she had enough to fret her, without moidering herself about old guns. jem had given it him to bring to her; so it was safe enough; or, if it was not, why she should be glad never to set eyes on it again, for she could not abide fire-arms, they were so apt to shoot people. so, comforting herself for her want of thought in not making further inquiry, she fell off into another doze, feverish, dream-haunted, and unrefreshing. meanwhile, the policeman walked off with his prize, with an odd mixture of feelings; a little contempt, a little disappointment, and a good deal of pity. the contempt and the disappointment were caused by the widow's easy admission of the gun being her son's property, and her manner of identifying it by the ornaments. he liked an attempt to baffle him; he was accustomed to it; it gave some exercise to his wits and his shrewdness. there would be no fun in fox-hunting, if reynard yielded himself up without any effort to escape. then, again, his mother's milk was yet in him, policeman, officer of the detective service though he was; and he felt sorry for the old woman, whose "softness" had given such material assistance in identifying her son as the murderer. however, he conveyed the gun, and the intelligence he had gained, to the superintendent; and the result was, that, in a short time afterwards, three policemen went to the works at which jem was foreman, and announced their errand to the astonished overseer, who directed them to the part of the foundry where jem was then superintending a casting. dark, black were the walls, the ground, the faces around them, as they crossed the yard. but, in the furnace-house a deep and lurid red glared over all; the furnace roared with mighty flame. the men, like demons, in their fire-and-soot colouring, stood swart around, awaiting the moment when the tons of solid iron should have melted down into fiery liquid, fit to be poured, with still, heavy sound, into the delicate moulding of fine black sand, prepared to receive it. the heat was intense, and the red glare grew every instant more fierce; the policemen stood awed with the novel sight. then, black figures, holding strange-shaped bucket shovels, came athwart the deep-red furnace light, and clear and brilliant flowed forth the iron into the appropriate mould. the buzz of voices rose again; there was time to speak, and gasp, and wipe the brows; and then, one by one, the men dispersed to some other branch of their employment. no. b. pointed out jem as the man he had seen engaged in a scuffle with mr. carson, and then the other two stepped forward and arrested him, stating of what he was accused, and the grounds of the accusation. he offered no resistance, though he seemed surprised; but calling a fellow-workman to him, he briefly requested him to tell his mother he had got into trouble, and could not return home at present. he did not wish her to hear more at first. so mrs. wilson's sleep was next interrupted in almost an exactly similar way to the last, like a recurring nightmare. "missis! missis!" some one called out from below. again it was a workman, but this time a blacker-looking one than before. "what don ye want?" said she, peevishly. "only nothing but--" stammered the man, a kind-hearted matter-of-fact person, with no invention, but a great deal of sympathy. "well! speak out, can't ye, and ha' done with it?" "jem's in trouble," said he, repeating jem's very words, as he could think of no others. "trouble!" said the mother, in a high-pitched voice of distress. "trouble! god help me, trouble will never end, i think. what d'ye mean by trouble? speak out, man, can't ye? is he ill? my boy! tell me, is he ill?" in a hurried voice of terror. "na, na, that's not it. he's well enough. all he bade me say was, 'tell mother i'm in trouble, and can't come home to-night.'" "not come home to-night! and what am i to do with alice? i can't go on, wearing my life out wi' watching. he might come and help me." "i tell you he can't," said the man. "can't; and he is well, you say? stuff! it's just that he's getten like other young men, and wants to go a-larking. but i'll give it him when he comes back." the man turned to go; he durst not trust himself to speak in jem's justification. but she would not let him off. she stood between him and the door, as she said, "yo shall not go, till yo've told me what he's after. i can see plain enough you know, and i'll know too, before i've done." "you'll know soon enough, missis!" "i'll know now, i tell ye. what's up that he can't come home and help me nurse? me, as never got a wink o' sleep last night wi' watching." "well, if you will have it out," said the poor badgered man, "the police have got hold on him." "on my jem!" said the enraged mother. "you're a downright liar, and that's what you are. my jem, as never did harm to any one in his life. you're a liar, that's what you are." "he's done harm enough now," said the man, angry in his turn, "for there's good evidence he murdered young carson, as was shot last night." she staggered forward to strike the man for telling the terrible truth; but the weakness of old age, of motherly agony, overcame her, and she sank down on a chair, and covered her face. he could not leave her. when next she spoke, it was in an imploring, feeble, child-like voice. "oh, master, say you're only joking. i ax your pardon if i have vexed ye, but please say you're only joking. you don't know what jem is to me." she looked humbly, anxiously up at him. "i wish i were only joking, missis; but it's true as i say. they've taken him up on charge o' murder. it were his gun as were found near th' place; and one o' the police heard him quarrelling with mr. carson a few days back, about a girl." "about a girl!" broke in the mother, once more indignant, though too feeble to show it as before. "my jem was as steady as--" she hesitated for a comparison wherewith to finish, and then repeated, "as steady as lucifer, and he were an angel, you know. my jem was not one to quarrel about a girl." "ay, but it was that, though. they'd got her name quite pat. the man had heard all they said. mary barton was her name, whoever she may be." "mary barton! the dirty hussey! to bring my jem into trouble of this kind. i'll give it her well when i see her: that i will. oh! my poor jem!" rocking herself to and fro. "and what about the gun? what did ye say about that?" "his gun were found on th' spot where the murder were done." "that's a lie for one, then. a man has got the gun now, safe and sound; i saw it not an hour ago." the man shook his head. "yes, he has indeed. a friend o' jem's, as he'd lent it to." "did you know the chap?" asked the man, who was really anxious for jem's exculpation, and caught a gleam of hope from her last speech. "no! i can't say as i did. but he were put on as a workman." "it's may be only one of them policemen, disguised." "nay; they'd never go for to do that, and trick me into telling on my own son. it would be like seething a kid in its mother's milk; and that th' bible forbids." "i don't know," replied the man. soon afterwards he went away, feeling unable to comfort, yet distressed at the sight of sorrow; she would fain have detained him, but go he would. and she was alone. she never for an instant believed jem guilty; she would have doubted if the sun were fire, first: but sorrow, desolation, and, at times, anger took possession of her mind. she told the unconscious alice, hoping to rouse her to sympathy; and then was disappointed, because, still smiling and calm, she murmured of her mother, and the happy days of infancy. chapter xx. mary's dream--and the awakening. "i saw where stark and cold he lay, beneath the gallows-tree, and every one did point and say, ''twas there he died for thee!' * * * * * * "oh! weeping heart! oh, bleeding heart! what boots thy pity now? bid from his eyes that shade depart, that death-damp from his brow!" "the birtle tragedy." so there was no more peace in the house of sickness, except to alice, the dying alice. but mary knew nothing of the afternoon's occurrences; and gladly did she breathe in the fresh air, as she left miss simmonds' house, to hasten to the wilsons'. the very change, from the in-door to the out-door atmosphere, seemed to alter the current of her thoughts. she thought less of the dreadful subject which had so haunted her all day; she cared less for the upbraiding speeches of her fellow work-women; the old association of comfort and sympathy received from alice gave her the idea that, even now, her bodily presence would soothe and compose those who were in trouble, changed, unconscious, and absent though her spirit might be. then, again, she reproached herself a little for the feeling of pleasure she experienced, in thinking that he whom she dreaded could never more beset her path; in the security with which she could pass each street corner--each shop, where he used to lie in ambush. oh! beating heart! was there no other little thought of joy lurking within, to gladden the very air without? was she not going to meet, to see, to hear jem; and could they fail at last to understand each other's loving hearts! she softly lifted the latch, with the privilege of friendship. _he_ was not there, but his mother was standing by the fire, stirring some little mess or other. never mind! he would come soon: and with an unmixed desire to do her grateful duty to all belonging to him, she stepped lightly forwards, unheard by the old lady, who was partly occupied by the simmering, bubbling sound of her bit of cookery; but more with her own sad thoughts, and wailing, half-uttered murmurings. mary took off bonnet and shawl with speed, and advancing, made mrs. wilson conscious of her presence, by saying, "let me do that for you. i'm sure you mun be tired." mrs. wilson slowly turned round, and her eyes gleamed like those of a pent-up wild beast, as she recognised her visitor. "and is it thee that dares set foot in this house, after what has come to pass? is it not enough to have robbed me of my boy with thy arts and thy profligacy, but thou must come here to crow over me--me--his mother? dost thou know where he is, thou bad hussy, with thy great blue eyes and yellow hair, to lead men on to ruin? out upon thee, with thy angel's face, thou whited sepulchre! dost thou know where jem is, all through thee?" "no!" quivered out poor mary, scarcely conscious that she spoke, so daunted, so terrified was she by the indignant mother's greeting. "he's lying in th' new bailey," slowly and distinctly spoke the mother, watching the effect of her words, as if believing in their infinite power to pain. "there he lies, waiting to take his trial for murdering young mr. carson." there was no answer; but such a blanched face, such wild, distended eyes, such trembling limbs, instinctively seeking support! "did you know mr. carson as now lies dead?" continued the merciless woman. "folk say you did, and knew him but too well. and that for the sake of such as you, my precious child shot yon chap. but he did not. i know he did not. they may hang him, but his mother will speak to his innocence with her last dying breath." she stopped more from exhaustion than want of words. mary spoke, but in so changed and choked a voice that the old woman almost started. it seemed as if some third person must be in the room, the voice was so hoarse and strange. "please, say it again. i don't quite understand you. what has jem done? please to tell me." "i never said he had done it. i said, and i'll swear that he never did do it. i don't care who heard 'em quarrel, or if it is his gun as were found near the body. it's not my own jem as would go for to kill any man, choose how a girl had jilted him. my own good jem, as was a blessing sent upon the house where he was born." tears came into the mother's burning eyes as her heart recurred to the days when she had rocked the cradle of her "first-born;" and then, rapidly passing over events, till the full consciousness of his present situation came upon her, and perhaps annoyed at having shown any softness of character in the presence of the dalilah who had lured him to his danger, she spoke again, and in a sharper tone. "i told him, and told him to leave off thinking on thee; but he wouldn't be led by me. thee! wench! thou were not good enough to wipe the dust off his feet. a vile, flirting quean as thou art. it's well thy mother does not know (poor body) what a good-for-nothing thou art." "mother! oh mother!" said mary, as if appealing to the merciful dead. "but i was not good enough for him! i know i was not," added she, in a voice of touching humility. for through her heart went tolling the ominous, prophetic words he had used when he had last spoken to her-- "mary! you'll may be hear of me as a drunkard, and may be as a thief, and may be as a murderer. remember! when all are speaking ill of me, yo will have no right to blame me, for it's your cruelty that will have made me what i feel i shall become." and she did not blame him, though she doubted not his guilt; she felt how madly she might act if once jealous of him, and how much cause had she not given him for jealousy, miserable guilty wretch that she was! speak on, desolate mother! abuse her as you will. her broken spirit feels to have merited all. but her last humble, self-abased words had touched mrs. wilson's heart, sore as it was; and she looked at the snow-pale girl with those piteous eyes, so hopeless of comfort, and she relented in spite of herself. "thou seest what comes of light conduct, mary! it's thy doing that suspicion has lighted on him, who is as innocent as the babe unborn. thou'lt have much to answer for if he's hung. thou'lt have my death too at thy door!" harsh as these words seem, she spoke them in a milder tone of voice than she had yet used. but the idea of jem on the gallows, jem dead, took possession of mary, and she covered her eyes with her wan hands, as if indeed to shut out the fearful sight. she murmured some words, which, though spoken low, as if choked up from the depths of agony, jane wilson caught. "my heart is breaking," said she, feebly. "my heart is breaking." "nonsense!" said mrs. wilson. "don't talk in that silly way. my heart has a better right to break than yours, and yet i hold up, you see. but, oh dear! oh dear!" with a sudden revulsion of feeling, as the reality of the danger in which her son was placed pressed upon her. "what am i saying? how could i hold up if thou wert gone, jem? though i'm as sure as i stand here of thy innocence, if they hang thee, my lad, i will lie down and die!" she sobbed aloud with bitter consciousness of the fearful chance awaiting her child. she cried more passionately still. mary roused herself up. "oh, let me stay with you, at any rate, till we know the end. dearest mrs. wilson, mayn't i stay?" the more obstinately and upbraidingly mrs. wilson refused, the more mary pleaded, with ever the same soft, entreating cry, "let me stay with you." her stunned soul seemed to bound its wishes, for the hour at least, to remaining with one who loved and sorrowed for the same human being that she did. but no. mrs. wilson was inflexible. "i've may be been a bit hard on you, mary, i'll own that. but i cannot abide you yet with me. i cannot but remember it's your giddiness as has wrought this woe. i'll stay wi' alice, and perhaps mrs. davenport may come help a bit. i cannot put up with you about me. good-night. to-morrow i may look on you different, may be. good-night." and mary turned out of the house, which had been _his_ home, where _he_ was loved, and mourned for, into the busy, desolate, crowded street, where they were crying halfpenny broadsides, giving an account of the bloody murder, the coroner's inquest, and a raw-head-and-bloody-bones picture of the suspected murderer, james wilson. but mary heard not, she heeded not. she staggered on like one in a dream. with hung head and tottering steps, she instinctively chose the shortest cut to that home, which was to her, in her present state of mind, only the hiding place of four walls, where she might vent her agony, unseen and unnoticed by the keen, unkind world without, but where no welcome, no love, no sympathising tears awaited her. as she neared that home, within two minutes' walk of it, her impetuous course was arrested by a light touch on her arm, and turning hastily, she saw a little italian boy with his humble show-box,--a white mouse, or some such thing. the setting sun cast its red glow on his face, otherwise the olive complexion would have been very pale; and the glittering tear-drops hung on the long curled eye-lashes. with his soft voice and pleading looks, he uttered, in his pretty broken english, the words "hungry! so hungry." and, as if to aid by gesture the effect of the solitary word, he pointed to his mouth, with its white quivering lips. mary answered him impatiently, "oh, lad, hunger is nothing--nothing!" and she rapidly passed on. but her heart upbraided her the next minute with her unrelenting speech, and she hastily entered her door and seized the scanty remnant of food which the cupboard contained, and retraced her steps to the place where the little hopeless stranger had sunk down by his mute companion in loneliness and starvation, and was raining down tears as he spoke in some foreign tongue, with low cries for the far distant "mamma mia!" with the elasticity of heart belonging to childhood he sprang up as he saw the food the girl brought; she whose face, lovely in its woe, had tempted him first to address her; and, with the graceful courtesy of his country, he looked up and smiled while he kissed her hand, and then poured forth his thanks, and shared her bounty with his little pet companion. she stood an instant, diverted from the thought of her own grief by the sight of his infantine gladness; and then bending down and kissing his smooth forehead, she left him, and sought to be alone with her agony once more. she re-entered the house, locked the door, and tore off her bonnet, as if greedy of every moment which took her from the full indulgence of painful, despairing thought. then she threw herself on the ground, yes, on the hard flags she threw her soft limbs down; and the comb fell out of her hair, and those bright tresses swept the dusty floor, while she pillowed and hid her face on her arms, and burst forth into hard, suffocating sobs. oh, earth! thou didst seem but a dreary dwelling-place for thy poor child that night. none to comfort, none to pity! and self-reproach gnawing at her heart. oh, why did she ever listen to the tempter? why did she ever give ear to her own suggestions, and cravings after wealth and grandeur? why had she thought it a fine thing to have a rich lover? she--she had deserved it all; but he was the victim,--he, the beloved. she could not conjecture, she could not even pause to think who had revealed, or how he had discovered her acquaintance with harry carson. it was but too clear, some way or another, he had learnt all; and what would he think of her? no hope of his love,--oh, that she would give up, and be content; it was his life, his precious life, that was threatened. then she tried to recall the particulars, which, when mrs. wilson had given them, had fallen but upon a deafened ear,--something about a gun, a quarrel, which she could not remember clearly. oh, how terrible to think of his crime, his blood-guiltiness; he who had hitherto been so good, so noble, and now an assassin! and then she shrank from him in thought; and then, with bitter remorse, clung more closely to his image with passionate self-upbraiding. was it not she who had led him to the pit into which he had fallen? was she to blame him? she to judge him? who could tell how maddened he might have been by jealousy; how one moment's uncontrollable passion might have led him to become a murderer? and she had blamed him in her heart after his last deprecating, imploring, prophetic speech! then she burst out crying afresh; and when weary of crying, fell to thinking again. the gallows! the gallows! black it stood against the burning light which dazzled her shut eyes, press on them as she would. oh! she was going mad; and for awhile she lay outwardly still, but with the pulses careering through her head with wild vehemence. and then came a strange forgetfulness of the present, in thought of the long-past times;--of those days when she hid her face on her mother's pitying, loving bosom, and heard tender words of comfort, be her grief or her error what it might;--of those days when she had felt as if her mother's love was too mighty not to last for ever;--of those days when hunger had been to her (as to the little stranger she had that evening relieved) something to be thought about, and mourned over;--when jem and she had played together; he, with the condescension of an older child, and she, with unconscious earnestness, believing that he was as much gratified with important trifles as she was;--when her father was a cheery-hearted man, rich in the love of his wife, and the companionship of his friend;--when (for it still worked round to that), when mother was alive, and _he_ was not a murderer. and then heaven blessed her unaware, and she sank from remembering, to wandering, unconnected thought, and thence to sleep. yes! it was sleep, though in that strange posture, on that hard cold bed; and she dreamt of the happy times of long ago, and her mother came to her, and kissed her as she lay, and once more the dead were alive again in that happy world of dreams. all was restored to the gladness of childhood, even to the little kitten which had been her playmate and bosom friend then, and which had been long forgotten in her waking hours. all the loved ones were there! she suddenly wakened! clear and wide awake! some noise had startled her from sleep. she sat up, and put her hair (still wet with tears) back from her flushed cheeks, and listened. at first she could only hear her beating heart. all was still without, for it was after midnight, such hours of agony had passed away; but the moon shone clearly in at the unshuttered window, making the room almost as light as day, in its cold ghastly radiance. there was a low knock at the door! a strange feeling crept over mary's heart, as if something spiritual were near; as if the dead, so lately present in her dreams, were yet gliding and hovering round her, with their dim, dread forms. and yet, why dread? had they not loved her?--and who loved her now? was she not lonely enough to welcome the spirits of the dead, who had loved her while here? if her mother had conscious being, her love for her child endured. so she quieted her fears, and listened--listened still. "mary! mary! open the door!" as a little movement on her part seemed to tell the being outside of her wakeful, watchful state. they were the accents of her mother's voice; the very south-country pronunciation, that mary so well remembered; and which she had sometimes tried to imitate when alone, with the fond mimicry of affection. so, without fear, without hesitation, she rose and unbarred the door. there, against the moonlight, stood a form, so closely resembling her dead mother, that mary never doubted the identity, but exclaiming (as if she were a terrified child, secure of safety when near the protecting care of its parent)-- "oh! mother! mother! you are come at last!" she threw herself, or rather fell, into the trembling arms of her long-lost, unrecognised aunt esther. chapter xxi. esther's motive in seeking mary. "my rest is gone, my heart is sore, peace find i never, and never more." margaret's song in "faust." i must go back a little to explain the motives which caused esther to seek an interview with her niece. the murder had been committed early on thursday night, and between then and the dawn of the following day there was ample time for the news to spread far and wide among all those whose duty, or whose want, or whose errors, caused them to be abroad in the streets of manchester. among those who listened to the tale of violence was esther. a craving desire to know more took possession of her mind. far away as she was from turner street, she immediately set off to the scene of the murder, which was faintly lighted by the gray dawn as she reached the spot. it was so quiet and still that she could hardly believe it to be the place. the only vestige of any scuffle or violence was a trail on the dust, as if somebody had been lying there, and then been raised by extraneous force. the little birds were beginning to hop and twitter in the leafless hedge, making the only sound that was near and distinct. she crossed into the field where she guessed the murderer to have stood; it was easy of access, for the worn, stunted hawthorn-hedge had many gaps in it. the night-smell of bruised grass came up from under her feet, as she went towards the saw-pit and carpenter's shed, which, as i have said before, were in a corner of the field near the road, and where one of her informants had told her it was supposed by the police that the murderer had lurked while waiting for his victim. there was no sign, however, that any one had been about the place. if the grass had been bruised or bent where he had trod, it had had enough of the elasticity of life to raise itself under the dewy influences of night. she hushed her breath with involuntary awe, but nothing else told of the violent deed by which a fellow-creature had passed away. she stood still for a minute, imagining to herself the position of the parties, guided by the only circumstance which afforded any evidence, the trailing mark on the dust in the road. suddenly (it was before the sun had risen above the horizon) she became aware of something white in the hedge. all other colours wore the same murky hue, though the forms of objects were perfectly distinct. what was it? it could not be a flower;--that, the time of year made clear. a frozen lump of snow, lingering late in one of the gnarled tufts of the hedge? she stepped forward to examine. it proved to be a little piece of stiff writing-paper compressed into a round shape. she understood it instantly; it was the paper that had served as wadding for the murderer's gun. then she had been standing just where the murderer must have been but a few hours before; probably (as the rumour had spread through the town, reaching her ears) one of the poor maddened turn-outs, who hung about everywhere, with black, fierce looks, as if contemplating some deed of violence. her sympathy was all with them, for she had known what they suffered; and besides this there was her own individual dislike of mr. carson, and dread of him for mary's sake. yet, poor mary! death was a terrible, though sure, remedy for the evil esther had dreaded for her; and how would she stand the shock, loving as her aunt believed her to do? poor mary! who would comfort her? esther's thoughts began to picture her sorrow, her despair, when the news of her lover's death should reach her; and she longed to tell her there might have been a keener grief yet had he lived. bright, beautiful came the slanting rays of the morning sun. it was time for such as she to hide themselves, with the other obscene things of night, from the glorious light of day, which was only for the happy. so she turned her steps towards town, still holding the paper. but in getting over the hedge it encumbered her to hold it in her clasped hand, and she threw it down. she passed on a few steps, her thoughts still of mary, till the idea crossed her mind, could it (blank as it appeared to be) give any clue to the murderer? as i said before, her sympathies were all on that side, so she turned back and picked it up; and then feeling as if in some measure an accessory, she hid it unexamined in her hand, and hastily passed out of the street at the opposite end to that by which she had entered it. and what do you think she felt, when, having walked some distance from the spot, she dared to open the crushed paper, and saw written on it mary barton's name, and not only that, but the street in which she lived! true, a letter or two was torn off, but, nevertheless, there was the name clear to be recognised. and oh! what terrible thought flashed into her mind; or was it only fancy? but it looked very like the writing which she had once known well--the writing of jem wilson, who, when she lived at her brother-in-law's, and he was a near neighbour, had often been employed by her to write her letters to people, to whom she was ashamed of sending her own misspelt scrawl. she remembered the wonderful flourishes she had so much admired in those days, while she sat by dictating, and jem, in all the pride of newly-acquired penmanship, used to dazzle her eyes by extraordinary graces and twirls. if it were his! oh! perhaps it was merely that her head was running so on mary, that she was associating every trifle with her. as if only one person wrote in that flourishing, meandering style! it was enough to fill her mind to think from what she might have saved mary by securing the paper. she would look at it just once more, and see if some very dense and stupid policeman could have mistaken the name, or if mary would certainly have been dragged into notice in the affair. no! no one could have mistaken the "ry barton," and it _was_ jem's handwriting! oh! if it was so, she understood it all, and she had been the cause! with her violent and unregulated nature, rendered morbid by the course of life she led, and her consciousness of her degradation, she cursed herself for the interference which she believed had led to this; for the information and the warning she had given to jem, which had roused him to this murderous action. how could she, the abandoned and polluted outcast, ever have dared to hope for a blessing, even on her efforts to do good? the black curse of heaven rested on all her doings, were they for good or for evil. poor, diseased mind! and there were none to minister to thee! so she wandered about, too restless to take her usual heavy morning's sleep, up and down the streets, greedily listening to every word of the passers by, and loitering near each group of talkers, anxious to scrape together every morsel of information, or conjecture, or suspicion, though without possessing any definite purpose in all this. and ever and always she clenched the scrap of paper which might betray so much, until her nails had deeply indented the palm of her hand; so fearful was she in her nervous dread, lest unawares she should let it drop. towards the middle of the day she could no longer evade the body's craving want of rest and refreshment; but the rest was taken in a spirit vault, and the refreshment was a glass of gin. then she started up from the stupor she had taken for repose; and suddenly driven before the gusty impulses of her mind, she pushed her way to the place where at that very time the police were bringing the information they had gathered with regard to the all-engrossing murder. she listened with painful acuteness of comprehension to dropped words and unconnected sentences, the meaning of which became clearer, and yet more clear to her. jem was suspected. jem was ascertained to be the murderer. she saw him (although he, absorbed in deep sad thought, saw her not), she saw him brought hand-cuffed and guarded out of the coach. she saw him enter the station,--she gasped for breath till he came out, still hand-cuffed, and still guarded, to be conveyed to the new bailey. he was the only one who had spoken to her with hope, that she might yet win her way back to virtue. his words had lingered in her heart with a sort of call to heaven, like distant sabbath bells, although in her despair she had turned away from his voice. he was the only one who had spoken to her kindly. the murder, shocking though it was, was an absent, abstract thing, on which her thoughts could not, and would not dwell; all that was present in her mind was jem's danger, and his kindness. then mary came to remembrance. esther wondered till she was sick of wondering, in what way she was taking the affair. in some manner it would be a terrible blow for the poor, motherless girl; with her dreadful father, too, who was to esther a sort of accusing angel. she set off towards the court where mary lived, to pick up what she could there of information. but she was ashamed to enter in where once she had been innocent, and hung about the neighbouring streets, not daring to question, so she learnt but little; nothing in fact but the knowledge of john barton's absence from home. she went up a dark entry to rest her weary limbs on a door-step and think. her elbows on her knees, her face hidden in her hands, she tried to gather together and arrange her thoughts. but still every now and then she opened her hand to see if the paper were yet there. she got up at last. she had formed a plan, and had a course of action to look forward to that would satisfy one craving desire at least. the time was long gone by when there was much wisdom or consistency in her projects. it was getting late, and that was so much the better. she went to a pawn-shop, and took off her finery in a back room. she was known by the people, and had a character for honesty, so she had no very great difficulty in inducing them to let her have a suit of outer clothes, befitting the wife of a working-man, a black silk bonnet, a printed gown, a plaid shawl, dirty and rather worn to be sure, but which had a sort of sanctity to the eyes of the street-walker as being the appropriate garb of that happy class to which she could never, never more belong. she looked at herself in the little glass which hung against the wall, and sadly shaking her head, thought how easy were the duties of that eden of innocence from which she was shut out; how she would work, and toil, and starve, and die, if necessary, for a husband, a home,--for children,--but that thought she could not bear; a little form rose up, stern in its innocence, from the witches' cauldron of her imagination, and she rushed into action again. you know now how she came to stand by the threshold of mary's door, waiting, trembling, until the latch was lifted, and her niece, with words that spoke of such desolation among the living, fell into her arms. she had felt as if some holy spell would prevent her (even as the unholy lady geraldine was prevented, in the abode of christabel) from crossing the threshold of that home of her early innocence; and she had meant to wait for an invitation. but mary's helpless action did away with all reluctant feeling, and she bore or dragged her to a seat, and looked on her bewildered eyes, as, puzzled with the likeness, which was not identity, she gazed on her aunt's features. in pursuance of her plan, esther meant to assume the manners and character, as she had done the dress, of a mechanic's wife; but then, to account for her long absence, and her long silence towards all that ought to have been dear to her, it was necessary that she should put on an indifference far distant from her heart, which was loving and yearning, in spite of all its faults. and, perhaps, she overacted her part, for certainly mary felt a kind of repugnance to the changed and altered aunt, who so suddenly re-appeared on the scene; and it would have cut esther to the very core, could she have known how her little darling of former days was feeling towards her. "you don't remember me i see, mary!" she began. "it's a long while since i left you all, to be sure; and i, many a time, thought of coming to see you, and--and your father. but i live so far off, and am always so busy, i cannot do just what i wish. you recollect aunt esther, don't you, mary?" "are you aunt hetty?" asked mary, faintly, still looking at the face which was so different from the old recollections of her aunt's fresh dazzling beauty. "yes! i am aunt hetty. oh! it's so long since i heard that name," sighing forth the thoughts it suggested; then recovering herself, and striving after the hard character she wished to assume, she continued: "and to-day i heard a friend of yours, and of mine too, long ago, was in trouble, and i guessed you would be in sorrow, so i thought i would just step this far and see you." mary's tears flowed afresh, but she had no desire to open her heart to her strangely-found aunt, who had, by her own confession, kept aloof from and neglected them for so many years. yet she tried to feel grateful for kindness (however late) from any one, and wished to be civil. moreover, she had a strong disinclination to speak on the terrible subject uppermost in her mind. so, after a pause she said, "thank you. i dare say you mean very kind. have you had a long walk? i'm so sorry," said she, rising, with a sudden thought, which was as suddenly checked by recollection, "but i've nothing to eat in the house, and i'm sure you must be hungry, after your walk." for mary concluded that certainly her aunt's residence must be far away on the other side of the town, out of sight or hearing. but, after all, she did not think much about her; her heart was so aching-full of other things, that all besides seemed like a dream. she received feelings and impressions from her conversation with her aunt, but did not, could not, put them together, or think or argue about them. and esther! how scanty had been her food for days and weeks, her thinly-covered bones and pale lips might tell, but her words should never reveal! so, with a little unreal laugh, she replied, "oh! mary, my dear! don't talk about eating. we've the best of every thing, and plenty of it, for my husband is in good work. i'd such a supper before i came out. i couldn't touch a morsel if you had it." her words shot a strange pang through mary's heart. she had always remembered her aunt's loving and unselfish disposition; how was it changed, if, living in plenty, she had never thought it worth while to ask after her relations, who were all but starving! she shut up her heart instinctively against her aunt. and all the time poor esther was swallowing her sobs, and over-acting her part, and controlling herself more than she had done for many a long day, in order that her niece might not be shocked and revolted, by the knowledge of what her aunt had become:--a prostitute; an outcast. for she longed to open her wretched, wretched heart, so hopeless, so abandoned by all living things, to one who had loved her once; and yet she refrained, from dread of the averted eye, the altered voice, the internal loathing, which she feared such disclosure might create. she would go straight to the subject of the day. she could not tarry long, for she felt unable to support the character she had assumed for any length of time. they sat by the little round table, facing each other. the candle was placed right between them, and esther moved it in order to have a clearer view of mary's face, so that she might read her emotions, and ascertain her interests. then she began: "it's a bad business, i'm afraid, this of mr. carson's murder." mary winced a little. "i hear jem wilson is taken up for it." mary covered her eyes with her hands, as if to shade them from the light, and esther herself, less accustomed to self-command, was getting too much agitated for calm observation of another. "i was taking a walk near turner street, and i went to see the spot," continued esther, "and, as luck would have it, i spied this bit of paper in the hedge," producing the precious piece still folded in her hand. "it has been used as wadding for the gun, i reckon; indeed, that's clear enough, from the shape it's crammed into. i was sorry for the murderer, whoever he might be (i didn't then know of jem's being suspected), and i thought i would never leave a thing about as might help, if ever so little, to convict him; the police are so 'cute about straws. so i carried it a little way, and then i opened it and saw your name, mary." mary took her hands away from her eyes, and looked with surprise at her aunt's face, as she uttered these words. she _was_ kind after all, for was she not saving her from being summoned, and from being questioned and examined; a thing to be dreaded above all others: as she felt sure that her unwilling answers, frame them how she might, would add to the suspicions against jem; her aunt was indeed kind, to think of what would spare her this. esther went on, without noticing mary's look. the very action of speaking was so painful to her, and so much interrupted by the hard, raking little cough, which had been her constant annoyance for months, that she was too much engrossed by the physical difficulty of utterance, to be a very close observer. "there could be no mistake if they had found it. look at your name, together with the very name of this court! and in jem's hand-writing too, or i'm much mistaken. look, mary!" and now she did watch her. mary took the paper and flattened it; then suddenly stood stiff up, with irrepressible movement, as if petrified by some horror abruptly disclosed; her face, strung and rigid; her lips compressed tight, to keep down some rising exclamation. she dropped on her seat, as suddenly as if the braced muscles had in an instant given way. but she spoke no word. "it is his hand-writing--isn't it?" asked esther, though mary's manner was almost confirmation enough. "you will not tell. you never will tell," demanded mary, in a tone so sternly earnest, as almost to be threatening. "nay, mary," said esther, rather reproachfully, "i am not so bad as that. oh! mary, you cannot think i would do that, whatever i may be." the tears sprang to her eyes at the idea that she was suspected of being one who would help to inform against an old friend. mary caught her sad and upbraiding look. "no! i know you would not tell, aunt. i don't know what i say, i am so shocked. but say you will not tell. do." "no, indeed i will not tell, come what may." mary sat still, looking at the writing, and turning the paper round with careful examination, trying to hope, but her very fears belying her hopes. "i thought you cared for the young man that's murdered," observed esther, half aloud; but feeling that she could not mistake this strange interest in the suspected murderer, implied by mary's eagerness to screen him from any thing which might strengthen suspicion against him. she had come, desirous to know the extent of mary's grief for mr. carson, and glad of the excuse afforded her by the important scrap of paper. her remark about its being jem's hand-writing, she had, with this view of ascertaining mary's state of feeling, felt to be most imprudent the instant after she uttered it; but mary's anxiety that she should not tell was too great, and too decided, to leave a doubt as to her interest for jem. she grew more and more bewildered, and her dizzy head refused to reason. mary never spoke. she held the bit of paper firmly, determined to retain possession of it, come what might; and anxious, and impatient, for her aunt to go. as she sat, her face bore a likeness to esther's dead child. "you are so like my little girl, mary!" said esther, weary of the one subject on which she could get no satisfaction, and recurring, with full heart, to the thought of the dead. mary looked up. her aunt had children, then. that was all the idea she received. no faint imagination of the love and the woe of that poor creature crossed her mind, or she would have taken her, all guilty and erring, to her bosom, and tried to bind up the broken heart. no! it was not to be. her aunt had children, then; and she was on the point of putting some question about them, but before it could be spoken another thought turned it aside, and she went back to her task of unravelling the mystery of the paper, and the hand-writing. oh! how she wished her aunt would go. as if, according to the believers in mesmerism, the intenseness of her wish gave her power over another, although the wish was unexpressed, esther felt herself unwelcome, and that her absence was desired. she felt this some time before she could summon up resolution to go. she was so much disappointed in this longed-for, dreaded interview with mary; she had wished to impose upon her with her tale of married respectability, and yet she had yearned and craved for sympathy in her real lot. and she had imposed upon her well. she should perhaps be glad of it afterwards; but her desolation of hope seemed for the time redoubled. and she must leave the old dwelling-place, whose very walls, and flags, dingy and sordid as they were, had a charm for her. must leave the abode of poverty, for the more terrible abodes of vice. she must--she would go. "well, good-night, mary. that bit of paper is safe enough with you, i see. but you made me promise i would not tell about it, and you must promise me to destroy it before you sleep." "i promise," said mary, hoarsely, but firmly. "then you are going?" "yes. not if you wish me to stay. not if i could be of any comfort to you, mary;" catching at some glimmering hope. "oh, no," said mary, anxious to be alone. "your husband will be wondering where you are. some day you must tell me all about yourself. i forget what your name is?" "fergusson," said esther, sadly. "mrs. fergusson," repeated mary, half unconsciously. "and where did you say you lived?" "i never did say," muttered esther; then aloud, "in angel's meadow, , nicholas street." " , nicholas street, angel meadow. i shall remember." as esther drew her shawl around her, and prepared to depart, a thought crossed mary's mind that she had been cold and hard in her manner towards one, who had certainly meant to act kindly in bringing her the paper (that dread, terrible piece of paper) and thus saving her from--she could not rightly think how much, or how little she was spared. so, desirous of making up for her previous indifferent manner, she advanced to kiss her aunt before her departure. but, to her surprise, her aunt pushed her off with a frantic kind of gesture, and saying the words, "not me. you must never kiss me. you!" she rushed into the outer darkness of the street, and there wept long and bitterly. chapter xxii. mary's efforts to prove an alibi. "there was a listening fear in her regard, as if calamity had but begun; as if the vanward clouds of evil days had spent their malice, and the sullen rear was, with its stored thunder, labouring up." keats' "hyperion." no sooner was mary alone than she fastened the door, and put the shutters up against the window, which had all this time remained shaded only by the curtains hastily drawn together on esther's entrance, and the lighting of the candle. she did all this with the same compressed lips, and the same stony look that her face had assumed on the first examination of the paper. then she sat down for an instant to think; and rising directly, went, with a step rendered firm by inward resolution of purpose, up the stairs;--passed her own door, two steps, into her father's room. what did she want there? i must tell you; i must put into words the dreadful secret which she believed that bit of paper had revealed to her. her father was the murderer! that corner of stiff, shining, thick writing-paper, she recognised as part of the sheet on which she had copied samuel bamford's beautiful lines so many months ago--copied (as you perhaps remember) on the blank part of a valentine sent to her by jem wilson, in those days when she did not treasure and hoard up every thing he had touched, as she would do now. that copy had been given to her father, for whom it was made, and she had occasionally seen him reading it over, not a fortnight ago she was sure. but she resolved to ascertain if the other part still remained in his possession. he might, it was just possible he _might_, have given it away to some friend; and if so, that person was the guilty one, for she could swear to the paper anywhere. first of all she pulled out every article from the little old chest of drawers. amongst them were some things which had belonged to her mother, but she had no time now to examine and try and remember them. all the reverence she could pay them was to carry them and lay them on the bed carefully, while the other things were tossed impatiently out upon the floor. the copy of bamford's lines was not there. oh! perhaps he might have given it away; but then must it not have been to jem? it was his gun. and she set to with redoubled vigour to examine the deal-box which served as chair, and which had once contained her father's sunday clothes, in the days when he could afford to have sunday clothes. he had redeemed his better coat from the pawn-shop before he left, that she had noticed. here was his old one. what rustled under her hand in the pocket? the paper! "oh! father!" yes, it fitted; jagged end to jagged end, letter to letter; and even the part which esther had considered blank had its tallying mark with the larger piece, its tails of _y_s and _g_s. and then, as if that were not damning evidence enough, she felt again, and found some bullets or shot (i don't know which you would call them) in that same pocket, along with a small paper parcel of gunpowder. as she was going to replace the jacket, having abstracted the paper, and bullets, &c., she saw a woollen gun-case made of that sort of striped horse-cloth you must have seen a thousand times appropriated to such a purpose. the sight of it made her examine still further, but there was nothing else that could afford any evidence, so she locked the box, and sat down on the floor to contemplate the articles; now with a sickening despair, now with a kind of wondering curiosity, how her father had managed to evade observation. after all it was easy enough. he had evidently got possession of some gun (was it really jem's; was he an accomplice? no! she did not believe it; he never, never would deliberately plan a murder with another, however he might be wrought up to it by passionate feeling at the time. least of all would he accuse her to her father, without previously warning her; it was out of his nature). then having obtained possession of the gun, her father had loaded it at home, and might have carried it away with him some time when the neighbours were not noticing, and she was out, or asleep; and then he might have hidden it somewhere to be in readiness when he should want it. she was sure he had no such thing with him when he went away the last time. she felt it was of no use to conjecture his motives. his actions had become so wild and irregular of late, that she could not reason upon them. besides, was it not enough to know that he was guilty of this terrible offence? her love for her father seemed to return with painful force, mixed up as it was with horror at his crime. that dear father, who was once so kind, so warm-hearted, so ready to help either man or beast in distress, to murder! but, in the desert of misery with which these thoughts surrounded her, the arid depths of whose gloom she dared not venture to contemplate, a little spring of comfort was gushing up at her feet, unnoticed at first, but soon to give her strength and hope. and _that_ was the necessity for exertion on her part which this discovery enforced. oh! i do think that the necessity for exertion, for some kind of action (bodily or mental) in time of distress, is a most infinite blessing, although the first efforts at such seasons are painful. something to be done implies that there is yet hope of some good thing to be accomplished, or some additional evil that may be avoided; and by degrees the hope absorbs much of the sorrow. it is the woes that cannot in any earthly way be escaped that admit least earthly comforting. of all trite, worn-out, hollow mockeries of comfort that were ever uttered by people who will not take the trouble of sympathising with others, the one i dislike the most is the exhortation not to grieve over an event, "for it cannot be helped." do you think if i could help it, i would sit still with folded hands, content to mourn? do you not believe that as long as hope remained i would be up and doing? i mourn because what has occurred cannot be helped. the reason you give me for not grieving, is the very and sole reason of my grief. give me nobler and higher reasons for enduring meekly what my father sees fit to send, and i will try earnestly and faithfully to be patient; but mock me not, or any other mourner, with the speech, "do not grieve, for it cannot be helped. it is past remedy." but some remedy to mary's sorrow came with thinking. if her father was guilty, jem was innocent. if innocent, there was a possibility of saving him. he must be saved. and she must do it; for was not she the sole depository of the terrible secret? her father was not suspected; and never should be, if by any foresight or any exertions of her own she could prevent it. she did not yet know how jem was to be saved, while her father was also to be considered innocent. it would require much thought and much prudence. but with the call upon her exertions, and her various qualities of judgment and discretion, came the answering consciousness of innate power to meet the emergency. every step now, nay, the employment of every minute, was of consequence; for you must remember she had learnt at miss simmonds' the probability that the murderer would be brought to trial the next week. and you must remember, too, that never was so young a girl so friendless, or so penniless, as mary was at this time. but the lion accompanied una through the wilderness and the danger; and so will a high, resolved purpose of right-doing ever guard and accompany the helpless. it struck two; deep, mirk, night. it was of no use bewildering herself with plans this weary, endless night. nothing could be done before morning: and, at first in her impatience, she began to long for day; but then she felt in how unfit a state her body was for any plan of exertion, and she resolutely made up her mind to husband her physical strength. first of all she must burn the tell-tale paper. the powder, bullets, and gun-case, she tied into a bundle, and hid in the sacking of the bed for the present, although there was no likelihood of their affording evidence against any one. then she carried the paper down stairs, and burnt it on the hearth, powdering the very ashes with her fingers, and dispersing the fragments of fluttering black films among the cinders of the grate. then she breathed again. her head ached with dizzying violence; she must get quit of the pain or it would incapacitate her for thinking and planning. she looked for food, but there was nothing but a little raw oatmeal in the house: still, although it almost choked her, she ate some of this, knowing from experience, how often headaches were caused by long fasting. then she sought for some water to bathe her throbbing temples, and quench her feverish thirst. there was none in the house, so she took the jug and went out to the pump at the other end of the court, whose echoes resounded her light footsteps in the quiet stillness of the night. the hard, square outlines of the houses cut sharply against the cold bright sky, from which myriads of stars were shining down in eternal repose. there was little sympathy in the outward scene, with the internal trouble. all was so still, so motionless, so hard! very different to this lovely night in the country in which i am now writing, where the distant horizon is soft and undulating in the moonlight, and the nearer trees sway gently to and fro in the night-wind with something of almost human motion; and the rustling air makes music among their branches, as if speaking soothingly to the weary ones who lie awake in heaviness of heart. the sights and sounds of such a night lull pain and grief to rest. but mary re-entered her home after she had filled her pitcher, with a still stronger sense of anxiety, and a still clearer conviction of how much rested upon her unassisted and friendless self, alone with her terrible knowledge, in the hard, cold, populous world. she bathed her forehead, and quenched her thirst, and then, with wise deliberation of purpose, went upstairs, and undressed herself, as if for a long night's slumber, although so few hours intervened before day-dawn. she believed she never could sleep, but she lay down, and shut her eyes; and before many minutes she was in as deep and sound a slumber as if there was no sin nor sorrow in the world. she awakened, as it was natural, much refreshed in body; but with a consciousness of some great impending calamity. she sat up in bed to recollect, and when she did remember, she sank down again with all the helplessness of despair. but it was only the weakness of an instant; for were not the very minutes precious, for deliberation if not for action? before she had finished the necessary morning business of dressing, and setting her house in some kind of order, she had disentangled her ravelled ideas, and arranged some kind of a plan for action. if jem was innocent (and now, of his guilt, even his slightest participation in, or knowledge of, the murder, she acquitted him with all her heart and soul), he must have been somewhere else when the crime was committed; probably with some others, who might bear witness to the fact, if she only knew where to find them. every thing rested on her. she had heard of an alibi, and believed it might mean the deliverance she wished to accomplish; but she was not quite sure, and determined to apply to job, as one of the few among her acquaintance gifted with the knowledge of hard words, for to her, all terms of law, or natural history, were alike many-syllabled mysteries. no time was to be lost. she went straight to job legh's house, and found the old man and his grand-daughter sitting at breakfast; as she opened the door she heard their voices speaking in a grave, hushed, subdued tone, as if something grieved their hearts. they stopped talking on her entrance, and then she knew they had been conversing about the murder; about jem's probable guilt; and (it flashed upon her for the first time) on the new light they would have obtained regarding herself: for until now they had never heard of her giddy flirting with mr. carson; not in all her confidential talk with margaret had she ever spoken of him. and now margaret would hear her conduct talked of by all, as that of a bold, bad girl; and even if she did not believe every thing that was said, she could hardly help feeling wounded, and disappointed in mary. so it was in a timid voice that mary wished her usual good-morrow, and her heart sank within her a little, when job, with a form of civility, bade her welcome in that dwelling, where, until now, she had been too well assured to require to be asked to sit down. she took a chair. margaret continued silent. "i'm come to speak to you about this--about jem wilson." "it's a bad business, i'm afeared," replied job, sadly. "ay, it's bad enough anyhow. but jem's innocent. indeed he is; i'm as sure as sure can be." "how can you know, wench? facts bear strong again him, poor fellow, though he'd a deal to put him up, and aggravate him, they say. ay, poor lad, he's done for himself, i'm afeared." "job!" said mary, rising from her chair in her eagerness, "you must not say he did it. he didn't; i'm sure and certain he didn't. oh! why do you shake your head? who is to believe me,--who is to think him innocent, if you, who know'd him so well, stick to it he's guilty?" "i'm loth enough to do it, lass," replied job; "but i think he's been ill used, and--jilted (that's plain truth, mary, hard as it may seem), and his blood has been up--many a man has done the like afore, from like causes." "oh, god! then you won't help me, job, to prove him innocent? oh! job, job; believe me, jem never did harm to no one." "not afore;--and mind, wench! i don't over-blame him for this." job relapsed into silence. mary thought a moment. "well, job, you'll not refuse me this, i know. i won't mind what you think, if you'll help me as if he was innocent. now suppose i know--i knew he was innocent,--it's only supposing, job,--what must i do to prove it? tell me, job! isn't it called an _alibi_, the getting folk to swear to where he really was at the time?" "best way, if you know'd him innocent, would be to find out the real murderer. some one did it, that's clear enough. if it wasn't jem, who was it?" "how can i tell?" answered mary, in an agony of terror, lest job's question was prompted by any suspicion of the truth. but he was far enough from any such thought. indeed, he had no doubt in his own mind that jem had, in some passionate moment, urged on by slighted love and jealousy, been the murderer. and he was strongly inclined to believe, that mary was aware of this, only that, too late repentant of her light conduct which had led to such fatal consequences, she was now most anxious to save her old play-fellow, her early friend, from the doom awaiting the shedder of blood. "if jem's not done it, i don't see as any on us can tell who did. we might find out something if we'd time; but they say he's to be tried on tuesday. it's no use hiding it, mary; things looks strong against him." "i know they do! i know they do! but, oh! job! isn't an _alibi_ a proving where he really was at th' time of the murder; and how must i set about an _alibi_?" "an _alibi_ is that, sure enough." he thought a little. "you mun ask his mother his doings, and his whereabouts that night; the knowledge of that will guide you a bit." for he was anxious that on another should fall the task of enlightening mary on the hopelessness of the case, and he felt that her own sense would be more convinced by inquiry and examination than any mere assertion of his. margaret had sat silent and grave all this time. to tell the truth, she was surprised and disappointed by the disclosure of mary's conduct, with regard to mr. henry carson. gentle, reserved, and prudent herself, never exposed to the trial of being admired for her personal appearance, and unsusceptible enough to be in doubt even yet, whether the fluttering, tender, infinitely-joyous feeling she was for the first time experiencing, at sight, or sound, or thought of will wilson, was love or not,--margaret had no sympathy with the temptations to which loveliness, vanity, ambition, or the desire of being admired, exposes so many; no sympathy with flirting girls, in short. then, she had no idea of the strength of the conflict between will and principle in some who were differently constituted from herself. with her, to be convinced that an action was wrong, was tantamount to a determination not to do so again; and she had little or no difficulty in carrying out her determination. so she could not understand how it was that mary had acted wrongly, and had felt too much ashamed, in spite of all internal sophistry, to speak of her actions. margaret considered herself deceived; felt aggrieved; and, at the time of which i am now telling you, was strongly inclined to give mary up altogether, as a girl devoid of the modest proprieties of her sex, and capable of gross duplicity, in speaking of one lover as she had done of jem, while she was encouraging another in attentions, at best of a very doubtful character. but now margaret was drawn into the conversation. suddenly it flashed across mary's mind, that the night of the murder was the very night, or rather the same early morning, that margaret had been with alice. she turned sharp round, with-- "oh! margaret, you can tell me; you were there when he came back that night; were you not? no! you were not; but you were there not many hours after. did not you hear where he'd been? he was away the night before, too, when alice was first taken; when you were there for your tea. oh! where was he, margaret?" "i don't know," she answered. "stay! i do remember something about his keeping will company, in his walk to liverpool. i can't justly say what it was, so much happened that night." "i'll go to his mother's," said mary, resolutely. they neither of them spoke, either to advise or dissuade. mary felt she had no sympathy from them, and braced up her soul to act without such loving aid of friendship. she knew that their advice would be willingly given at her demand, and that was all she really required for jem's sake. still her courage failed a little as she walked to jane wilson's, alone in the world with her secret. jane wilson's eyes were swelled with crying; and it was sad to see the ravages which intense anxiety and sorrow had made on her appearance in four-and-twenty hours. all night long she and mrs. davenport had crooned over their sorrows, always recurring, like the burden of an old song, to the dreadest sorrow of all, which was now impending over mrs. wilson. she had grown--i hardly know what word to use--but, something like proud of her martyrdom; she had grown to hug her grief; to feel an excitement in her agony of anxiety about her boy. "so, mary, you're here! oh! mary, lass! he's to be tried on tuesday." she fell to sobbing, in the convulsive breath-catching manner which tells so of much previous weeping. "oh! mrs. wilson, don't take on so! we'll get him off, you'll see. don't fret; they can't prove him guilty!" "but i tell thee they will," interrupted mrs. wilson, half-irritated at the light way, as she considered it, in which mary spoke; and a little displeased that another could hope when she had almost brought herself to find pleasure in despair. "it may suit thee well," continued she, "to make light o' the misery thou hast caused; but i shall lay his death at thy door, as long as i live, and die i know he will; and all for what he never did--no, he never did; my own blessed boy!" she was too weak to be angry long; her wrath sank away to feeble sobbing and worn-out moans. mary was most anxious to soothe her from any violence of either grief or anger; she did so want her to be clear in her recollection; and, besides, her tenderness was great towards jem's mother. so she spoke in a low gentle tone the loving sentences, which sound so broken and powerless in repetition, and which yet have so much power when accompanied with caressing looks and actions, fresh from the heart; and the old woman insensibly gave herself up to the influence of those sweet, loving blue eyes, those tears of sympathy, those words of love and hope, and was lulled into a less morbid state of mind. "and now, dear mrs. wilson, can you remember where he said he was going on thursday night? he was out when alice was taken ill; and he did not come home till early in the morning, or, to speak true, in the night: did he?" "ay! he went out near upon five; he went out with will; he said he were going to set [ ] him a part of the way, for will were hot upon walking to liverpool, and wouldn't hearken to jem's offer of lending him five shilling for his fare. so the two lads set off together. i mind it all now; but, thou seest, alice's illness, and this business of poor jem's, drove it out of my head; they went off together, to walk to liverpool; that's to say, jem were to go a part o' th' way. but, who knows" (falling back into the old desponding tone) "if he really went? he might be led off on the road. oh! mary, wench! they'll hang him for what he's never done." [footnote : "to set," to accompany.] "no, they won't--they shan't! i see my way a bit now. we mun get will to help; there'll be time. he can swear that jem were with him. where is jem?" "folk said he were taken to kirkdale, i' th' prison-van, this morning; without my seeing him, poor chap! oh! wench! but they've hurried on the business at a cruel rate." "ay! they've not let grass grow under their feet, in hunting out the man that did it," said mary, sorrowfully and bitterly. "but keep up your heart. they got on the wrong scent when they took to suspecting jem. don't be afeard. you'll see it will end right for jem." "i should mind it less if i could do aught," said jane wilson; "but i'm such a poor weak old body, and my head's so gone, and i'm so dazed-like, what with alice and all, that i think and think, and can do nought to help my child. i might ha' gone and seen him last night, they tell me now, and then i missed it. oh! mary, i missed it; and i may never see the lad again." she looked so piteously in mary's face with her miserable eyes, that mary felt her heart giving way, and, dreading the weakening of her powers, which the burst of crying she longed for would occasion, hastily changed the subject to alice; and jane, in her heart, feeling that there was no sorrow like a mother's sorrow, replied, "she keeps on much the same, thank you. she's happy, for she knows nought of what's going on; but th' doctor says she grows weaker and weaker. thou'lt may be like to see her?" mary went up-stairs: partly because it is the etiquette in humble life to offer to friends a last opportunity of seeing the dying or the dead, while the same etiquette forbids a refusal of the invitation; and partly because she longed to breathe, for an instant, the atmosphere of holy calm, which seemed ever to surround the pious good old woman. alice lay, as before, without pain, or at least any outward expression of it; but totally unconscious of all present circumstances, and absorbed in recollections of the days of her girlhood, which were vivid enough to take the place of realities to her. still she talked of green fields, and still she spoke to the long-dead mother and sister, low-lying in their graves this many a year, as if they were with her and about her, in the pleasant places where her youth had passed. but the voice was fainter, the motions were more languid; she was evidently passing away; but _how_ happily! mary stood for a time in silence, watching and listening. then she bent down and reverently kissed alice's cheek; and drawing jane wilson away from the bed, as if the spirit of her who lay there were yet cognisant of present realities, she whispered a few words of hope to the poor mother, and kissing her over and over again in a warm, loving manner, she bade her good-bye, went a few steps, and then once more came back to bid her keep up her heart. and when she had fairly left the house, jane wilson felt as if a sun-beam had ceased shining into the room. yet oh! how sorely mary's heart ached; for more and more the fell certainty came on her that her father was the murderer! she struggled hard not to dwell on this conviction; to think alone on the means of proving jem's innocence; that was her first duty, and that should be done. chapter xxiii. the sub-poena. "and must it then depend on this poor eye and this unsteady hand, whether the bark, that bears my all of treasured hope and love, shall find a passage through these frowning rocks to some fair port where peace and safety smile,-- or whether it shall blindly dash against them, and miserably sink? heaven be my help; and clear my eye, and nerve my trembling hand!" "the constant woman." her heart beating, her head full of ideas, which required time and solitude to be reduced into order, mary hurried home. she was like one who finds a jewel of which he cannot all at once ascertain the value, but who hides his treasure until some quiet hour when he may ponder over the capabilities its possession unfolds. she was like one who discovers the silken clue which guides to some bower of bliss, and secure of the power within his grasp, has to wait for a time before he may tread the labyrinth. but no jewel, no bower of bliss was ever so precious to miser or lover as was the belief which now pervaded mary's mind, that jem's innocence might be proved, without involving any suspicion of that other--that dear one, so dear, although so criminal--on whose part in this cruel business she dared not dwell even in thought. for if she did, there arose the awful question,--if all went against jem the innocent, if judge and jury gave the verdict forth which had the looming gallows in the rear, what ought she to do, possessed of her terrible knowledge? surely not to inculpate her father--and yet--and yet--she almost prayed for the blessed unconsciousness of death or madness, rather than that awful question should have to be answered by her. but now a way seemed opening, opening yet more clear. she was thankful she had thought of the _alibi_, and yet more thankful to have so easily obtained the clue to jem's whereabouts that miserable night. the bright light that her new hope threw over all seemed also to make her thankful for the early time appointed for the trial. it would be easy to catch will wilson on his return from the isle of man, which he had planned should be on the monday; and on the tuesday all would be made clear--all that she dared to wish to be made clear. she had still to collect her thoughts and freshen her memory enough to arrange how to meet with will--for to the chances of a letter she would not trust; to find out his lodgings when in liverpool; to try and remember the name of the ship in which he was to sail: and the more she considered these points the more difficulty she found there would be in ascertaining these minor but important facts. for you are aware that alice, whose memory was clear and strong on all points in which her heart was interested, was lying in a manner senseless: that jane wilson was (to use her own word, so expressive to a lancashire ear) "dazed," that is to say, bewildered, lost in the confusion of terrifying and distressing thoughts; incapable of concentrating her mind; and at the best of times will's proceedings were a matter of little importance to her (or so she pretended), she was so jealous of aught which distracted attention from her pearl of price, her only son jem. so mary felt hopeless of obtaining any intelligence of the sailor's arrangements from her. then, should she apply to jem himself? no! she knew him too well. she felt how thoroughly he must ere now have had it in his power to exculpate himself at another's expense. and his tacit refusal so to do had assured her of what she had never doubted, that the murderer was safe from any impeachment of his. but then neither would he consent, she feared, to any steps which might tend to prove himself innocent. at any rate, she could not consult him. he was removed to kirkdale, and time pressed. already it was saturday at noon. and even if she could have gone to him, i believe she would not. she longed to do all herself; to be his liberator, his deliverer; to win him life, though she might never regain his lost love, by her own exertions. and oh! how could she see him to discuss a subject in which both knew who was the blood-stained man; and yet whose name might not be breathed by either, so dearly with all his faults, his sins, was he loved by both. all at once, when she had ceased to try and remember, the name of will's ship flashed across her mind. the _john cropper_. he had named it, she had been sure, all along. he had named it in his conversation with her that last, that fatal thursday evening. she repeated it over and over again, through a nervous dread of again forgetting it. the _john cropper_. and then, as if she were rousing herself out of some strange stupor, she bethought her of margaret. who so likely as margaret to treasure every little particular respecting will, now alice was dead to all the stirring purposes of life? she had gone thus far in her process of thought, when a neighbour stepped in; she with whom they had usually deposited the house-key, when both mary and her father were absent from home, and who consequently took upon herself to answer all inquiries, and receive all messages which any friends might make, or leave, on finding the house shut up. "here's somewhat for you, mary! a policeman left it." a bit of parchment. many people have a dread of those mysterious pieces of parchment. i am one. mary was another. her heart misgave her as she took it, and looked at the unusual appearance of the writing, which, though legible enough, conveyed no idea to her, or rather her mind shut itself up against receiving any idea, which after all was rather a proof she had some suspicion of the meaning that awaited her. "what is it?" asked she, in a voice from which all the pith and marrow of strength seemed extracted. "nay! how should i know? policeman said he'd call again towards evening, and see if you'd getten it. he were loth to leave it, though i telled him who i was, and all about my keeping th' key, and taking messages." "what is it about?" asked mary again, in the same hoarse, feeble voice, and turning it over in her fingers, as if she dreaded to inform herself of its meaning. "well! yo can read word of writing and i cannot, so it's queer i should have to tell you. but my master says it's a summons for yo to bear witness again jem wilson, at th' trial at liverpool assize." "god pity me!" said mary, faintly, as white as a sheet. "nay, wench, never take on so. what yo can say will go little way either to help or to hinder, for folk say he's certain to be hung; and sure enough it was t'other one as was your sweetheart." but mary was beyond any pang this speech would have given at another time. her thoughts were all busy picturing to herself the terrible occasion of their next meeting--not as lovers meet should they meet! "well!" said the neighbour, seeing no use in remaining with one who noticed her words or her presence so little; "thou'lt tell policeman thou'st getten his precious bit of paper. he seemed to think i should be keeping it for mysel; he's th' first as has ever misdoubted me about giving messages, or notes. good day." she left the house, but mary did not know it. she sat still with the parchment in her hand. all at once she started up. she would take it to job legh and ask him to tell her the true meaning, for it could not be _that_. so she went, and choked out her words of inquiry. "it's a sub-poena," he replied, turning the parchment over with the air of a connoisseur; for job loved hard words, and lawyer-like forms, and even esteemed himself slightly qualified for a lawyer, from the smattering of knowledge he had picked up from an odd volume of blackstone that he had once purchased at a book-stall. "a sub-poena--what is that?" gasped mary, still in suspense. job was struck with her voice, her changed, miserable voice, and peered at her countenance from over his spectacles. "a sub-poena is neither more nor less than this, my dear. it's a summonsing you to attend, and answer such questions as may be asked of you regarding the trial of james wilson, for the murder of henry carson; that's the long and short of it, only more elegantly put, for the benefit of them who knows how to value the gift of language. i've been a witness before-time myself; there's nothing much to be afeared on; if they are impudent, why, just you be impudent, and give 'em tit for tat." "nothing much to be afeared on!" echoed mary, but in such a different tone. "ay, poor wench, i see how it is. it'll go hard with thee a bit, i dare say; but keep up thy heart. yo cannot have much to tell 'em, that can go either one way or th' other. nay! may be thou may do him a bit o' good, for when they set eyes on thee, they'll see fast enough how he came to be so led away by jealousy; for thou'rt a pretty creature, mary, and one look at thy face will let 'em into th' secret of a young man's madness, and make 'em more ready to pass it over." "oh! job, and won't you ever believe me when i tell you he's innocent? indeed, and indeed i can prove it; he was with will all that night; he was, indeed, job!" "my wench! whose word hast thou for that?" said job, pityingly. "why! his mother told me, and i'll get will to bear witness to it. but, oh! job" (bursting into tears), "it is hard if you won't believe me. how shall i clear him to strangers, when those who know him, and ought to love him, are so set against his being innocent?" "god knows, i'm not against his being innocent," said job, solemnly. "i'd give half my remaining days on earth,--i'd give them all, mary (and but for the love i bear to my poor blind girl, they'd be no great gift), if i could save him. you've thought me hard, mary, but i'm not hard at bottom, and i'll help you if i can; that i will, right or wrong," he added; but in a low voice, and coughed the uncertain words away the moment afterwards. "oh, job! if you will help me," exclaimed mary, brightening up (though it was but a wintry gleam after all), "tell me what to say, when they question me; i shall be so gloppened, [ ] i shan't know what to answer." [footnote : "gloppened," terrified.] "thou canst do nought better than tell the truth. truth's best at all times, they say; and for sure it is when folk have to do with lawyers; for they're 'cute and cunning enough to get it out sooner or later, and it makes folk look like tom noddies, when truth follows falsehood, against their will." "but i don't know the truth; i mean--i can't say rightly what i mean; but i'm sure, if i were pent up, and stared at by hundreds of folk, and asked ever so simple a question, i should be for answering it wrong; if they asked me if i had seen you on a saturday, or a tuesday, or any day, i should have clean forgotten all about it, and say the very thing i should not." "well, well, don't go for to get such notions into your head; they're what they call 'narvous,' and talking on 'em does no good. here's margaret! bless the wench! look, mary, how well she guides hersel." job fell to watching his grand-daughter, as with balancing, measured steps, timed almost as if to music, she made her way across the street. mary shrank as if from a cold blast--shrank from margaret! the blind girl, with her reserve, her silence, seemed to be a severe judge; she, listening, would be such a check to the trusting earnestness of confidence, which was beginning to unlock the sympathy of job. mary knew herself to blame; felt her errors in every fibre of her heart; but yet she would rather have had them spoken about, even in terms of severest censure, than have been treated in the icy manner in which margaret had received her that morning. "here's mary," said job, almost as if he wished to propitiate his grand-daughter, "come to take a bit of dinner with us, for i'll warrant she's never thought of cooking any for herself to-day; and she looks as wan and pale as a ghost." it was calling out the feeling of hospitality, so strong and warm in most of those who have little to offer, but whose heart goes eagerly and kindly with that little. margaret came towards mary with a welcoming gesture, and a kinder manner by far than she had used in the morning. "nay, mary, thou know'st thou'st getten nought at home," urged job. and mary, faint and weary, and with a heart too aching-full of other matters to be pertinacious in this, withdrew her refusal. they ate their dinner quietly; for to all it was an effort to speak, and after one or two attempts they had subsided into silence. when the meal was ended job began again on the subject they all had at heart. "yon poor lad at kirkdale will want a lawyer to see they don't put on him, but do him justice. hast thought of that?" mary had not, and felt sure his mother had not. margaret confirmed this last supposition. "i've but just been there, and poor jane is like one dateless; so many griefs come on her at once. one time she seems to make sure he'll be hung; and if i took her in that way, she flew out (poor body!) and said, that in spite of what folk said, there were them as could, and would prove him guiltless. so i never knew where to have her. the only thing she was constant in, was declaring him innocent." "mother-like!" said job. "she meant will, when she spoke of them that could prove him innocent. he was with will on thursday night, walking a part of the way with him to liverpool; now the thing is to lay hold on will and get him to prove this." so spoke mary, calm, from the earnestness of her purpose. "don't build too much on it, my dear," said job. "i do build on it," replied mary, "because i know it's the truth, and i mean to try and prove it, come what may. nothing you can say will daunt me, job, so don't you go and try. you may help, but you cannot hinder me doing what i'm resolved on." they respected her firmness of determination, and job almost gave in to her belief, when he saw how steadfastly she was acting upon it. oh! surest way of conversion to our faith, whatever it may be,--regarding either small things, or great,--when it is beheld as the actuating principle, from which we never swerve! when it is seen that, instead of over-much profession, it is worked into the life, and moves every action! mary gained courage as she instinctively felt she had made way with one at least of her companions. "now i'm clear about this much," she continued, "he was with will when the--shot was fired (she could not bring herself to say, when the murder was committed, when she remembered _who_ it was that, she had every reason to believe, was the taker-away of life). will can prove this. i must find will. he wasn't to sail till tuesday. there's time enough. he was to come back from his uncle's, in the isle of man, on monday. i must meet him in liverpool, on that day, and tell him what has happened, and how poor jem is in trouble, and that he must prove an _alibi_, come tuesday. all this i can and will do, though perhaps i don't clearly know how, just at present. but surely god will help me. when i know i'm doing right, i will have no fear, but put my trust in him; for i'm acting for the innocent and good, and not for my own self, who have done so wrong. i have no fear when i think of jem, who is so good." she stopped, oppressed with the fulness of her heart. margaret began to love her again; to see in her the same sweet, faulty, impulsive, lovable creature she had known in the former mary barton, but with more of dignity, self-reliance, and purpose. mary spoke again. "now i know the name of will's vessel--the _john cropper_; and i know that she is bound to america. that is something to know. but i forget, if i ever heard, where he lodges in liverpool. he spoke of his landlady, as a good, trustworthy woman; but if he named her name, it has slipped my memory. can you help me, margaret?" she appealed to her friend calmly and openly, as if perfectly aware of, and recognising the unspoken tie which bound her and will together; she asked her in the same manner in which she would have asked a wife where her husband dwelt. and margaret replied in the like calm tone, two spots of crimson on her cheeks alone bearing witness to any internal agitation. "he lodges at a mrs. jones's, milk-house yard, out of nicholas street. he has lodged there ever since he began to go to sea; she is a very decent kind of woman, i believe." "well, mary! i'll give you my prayers," said job. "it's not often i pray regular, though i often speak a word to god, when i'm either very happy or very sorry; i've catched myself thanking him at odd hours when i've found a rare insect, or had a fine day for an out; but i cannot help it, no more than i can talking to a friend. but this time i'll pray regular for jem, and for you. and so will margaret, i'll be bound. still, wench! what think yo of a lawyer? i know one, mr. cheshire, who's rather given to th' insect line--and a good kind o' chap. he and i have swopped specimens many's the time, when either of us had a duplicate. he'll do me a kind turn, i'm sure. i'll just take my hat, and pay him a visit." no sooner said, than done. margaret and mary were left alone. and this seemed to bring back the feeling of awkwardness, not to say estrangement. but mary, excited to an unusual pitch of courage, was the first to break silence. "oh, margaret!" said she, "i see--i feel how wrong you think i have acted; you cannot think me worse than i think myself, now my eyes are opened." here her sobs came choking up her voice. "nay," margaret began, "i have no right to--" "yes, margaret, you have a right to judge; you cannot help it; only in your judgment remember mercy, as the bible says. you, who have been always good, cannot tell how easy it is at first to go a little wrong, and then how hard it is to go back. oh! i little thought when i was first pleased with mr. carson's speeches, how it would all end; perhaps in the death of him i love better than life." she burst into a passion of tears. the feelings pent up through the day would have vent. but checking herself with a strong effort, and looking up at margaret as piteously as if those calm, stony eyes could see her imploring face, she added, "i must not cry; i must not give way; there will be time enough for that hereafter, if--i only wanted you to speak kindly to me, margaret, for i am very, very wretched; more wretched than any one can ever know; more wretched, i sometimes fancy, than i have deserved,--but that's wrong, isn't it, margaret? oh! i have done wrong, and i am punished; you cannot tell how much." who could resist her voice, her tones of misery, of humility? who would refuse the kindness for which she begged so penitently? not margaret. the old friendly manner came back. with it, may be, more of tenderness. "oh! margaret, do you think he can be saved; do you think they can find him guilty if will comes forward as a witness? won't that be a good _alibi_?" margaret did not answer for a moment. "oh, speak! margaret," said mary, with anxious impatience. "i know nought about law, or _alibis_," replied margaret, meekly; "but, mary, as grandfather says, aren't you building too much on what jane wilson has told you about his going with will? poor soul, she's gone dateless, i think, with care, and watching, and over-much trouble; and who can wonder? or jem may have told her he was going, by way of a blind." "you don't know jem," said mary, starting from her seat in a hurried manner, "or you would not say so." "i hope i may be wrong; but think, mary, how much there is against him. the shot was fired with his gun; he it was as threatened mr. carson not many days before; he was absent from home at that very time, as we know, and, as i'm much afeared, some one will be called on to prove; and there's no one else to share suspicion with him." mary heaved a deep sigh. "but, margaret, he did not do it," mary again asserted. margaret looked unconvinced. "i can do no good, i see, by saying so, for none on you believe me, and i won't say so again till i can prove it. monday morning i'll go to liverpool. i shall be at hand for the trial. oh dear! dear! and i will find will; and then, margaret, i think you'll be sorry for being so stubborn about jem." "don't fly off, dear mary; i'd give a deal to be wrong. and now i'm going to be plain spoken. you'll want money. them lawyers is no better than a spunge for sucking up money; let alone your hunting out will, and your keep in liverpool, and what not. you must take some of the mint i've got laid by in the old tea-pot. you have no right to refuse, for i offer it to jem, not to you; it's for his purposes you're to use it." "i know--i see. thank you, margaret; you're a kind one, at any rate. i take it for jem; and i'll do my very best with it for him. not all, though; don't think i'll take all. they'll pay me for my keep. i'll take this," accepting a sovereign from the hoard which margaret produced out of its accustomed place in the cupboard. "your grandfather will pay the lawyer. i'll have nought to do with him," shuddering as she remembered job's words, about lawyers' skill in always discovering the truth, sooner or later; and knowing what was the secret she had to hide. "bless you! don't make such ado about it," said margaret, cutting short mary's thanks. "i sometimes think there's two sides to the commandment; and that we may say, 'let others do unto you, as you would do unto them,' for pride often prevents our giving others a great deal of pleasure, in not letting them be kind, when their hearts are longing to help; and when we ourselves should wish to do just the same, if we were in their place. oh! how often i've been hurt, by being coldly told by persons not to trouble myself about their care, or sorrow, when i saw them in great grief, and wanted to be of comfort. our lord jesus was not above letting folk minister to him, for he knew how happy it makes one to do aught for another. it's the happiest work on earth." mary had been too much engrossed by watching what was passing in the street to attend very closely to that which margaret was saying. from her seat she could see out of the window pretty plainly, and she caught sight of a gentleman walking alongside of job, evidently in earnest conversation with him, and looking keen and penetrating enough to be a lawyer. job was laying down something to be attended to she could see, by his up-lifted fore-finger, and his whole gesture; then he pointed and nodded across the street to his own house, as if inducing his companion to come in. mary dreaded lest he should, and she be subjected to a closer cross-examination than she had hitherto undergone, as to why she was so certain that jem was innocent. she feared he was coming; he stepped a little towards the spot. no! it was only to make way for a child, tottering along, whom mary had overlooked. now job took him by the button, so earnestly familiar had he grown. the gentleman looked "fidging fain" to be gone, but submitted in a manner that made mary like him in spite of his profession. then came a volley of last words, answered by briefest nods, and monosyllables; and then the stranger went off with redoubled quickness of pace, and job crossed the street with a little satisfied air of importance on his kindly face. "well! mary," said he on entering, "i've seen the lawyer, not mr. cheshire though; trials for murder, it seems, are not his line o' business. but he gived me a note to another 'torney; a fine fellow enough, only too much of a talker; i could hardly get a word in, he cut me so short. however, i've just been going over the principal points again to him; may be you saw us? i wanted him just to come over and speak to you himsel, mary, but he was pressed for time; and he said your evidence would not be much either here or there. he's going to the 'sizes first train on monday morning, and will see jem, and hear the ins and outs from him, and he's gived me his address, mary, and you and will are to call on him (will 'special) on monday at two o'clock. thou'rt taking it in, mary; thou'rt to call on him in liverpool at two, monday afternoon?" job had reason to doubt if she fully understood him; for all this minuteness of detail, these satisfactory arrangements, as he considered them, only seemed to bring the circumstances in which she was placed more vividly home to mary. they convinced her that it was real, and not all a dream, as she had sunk into fancying it for a few minutes, while sitting in the old accustomed place, her body enjoying the rest, and her frame sustained by food, and listening to margaret's calm voice. the gentleman she had just beheld would see and question jem in a few hours, and what would be the result? monday: that was the day after to-morrow, and on tuesday, life and death would be tremendous realities to her lover; or else death would be an awful certainty to her father. no wonder job went over his main points again:-- "monday; at two o'clock, mind; and here's his card. 'mr. bridgenorth, , renshaw street, liverpool.' he'll be lodging there." job ceased talking, and the silence roused mary up to thank him. "you're very kind, job; very. you and margaret won't desert me, come what will." "pooh! pooh! wench; don't lose heart, just as i'm beginning to get it. he seems to think a deal on will's evidence. you're sure, girls, you're under no mistake about will?" "i'm sure," said mary, "he went straight from here, purposing to go see his uncle at the isle of man, and be back sunday night, ready for the ship sailing on tuesday." "so am i," said margaret. "and the ship's name was the _john cropper_, and he lodged where i told mary before. have you got it down, mary?" mary wrote it on the back of mr. bridgenorth's card. "he was not over-willing to go," said she, as she wrote, "for he knew little about his uncle, and said he didn't care if he never knowed more. but he said kinsfolk was kinsfolk, and promises was promises, so he'd go for a day or so, and then it would be over." margaret had to go and practise some singing in town; so, though loth to depart and be alone, mary bade her friends good-bye. chapter xxiv. with the dying. "o sad and solemn is the trembling watch of those who sit and count the heavy hours, beside the fevered sleep of one they love! o awful is it in the hushed mid night, while gazing on the pallid, moveless form, to start and ask, 'is it now sleep--or death?'" anonymous. mary could not be patient in her loneliness; so much painful thought weighed on her mind; the very house was haunted with memories and foreshadowings. having performed all duties to jem, as far as her weak powers, yet loving heart could act; and a black veil being drawn over her father's past, present, and future life, beyond which she could not penetrate to judge of any filial service she ought to render; her mind unconsciously sought after some course of action in which she might engage. any thing, any thing, rather than leisure for reflection. and then came up the old feeling which first bound ruth to naomi; the love they both held towards one object; and mary felt that her cares would be most lightened by being of use, or of comfort to his mother. so she once more locked up the house, and set off towards ancoats; rushing along with down-cast head, for fear lest any one should recognise her and arrest her progress. jane wilson sat quietly in her chair as mary entered; so quietly, as to strike one by the contrast it presented to her usual bustling and nervous manner. she looked very pale and wan; but the quietness was the thing that struck mary most. she did not rise as mary came in, but sat still and said something in so gentle, so feeble a voice, that mary did not catch it. mrs. davenport, who was there, plucked mary by the gown, and whispered, "never heed her; she's worn out, and best let alone. i'll tell you all about it, up-stairs." but mary, touched by the anxious look with which mrs. wilson gazed at her, as if awaiting the answer to some question, went forward to listen to the speech she was again repeating. "what is this? will you tell me?" then mary looked and saw another ominous slip of parchment in the mother's hand, which she was rolling up and down in a tremulous manner between her fingers. mary's heart sickened within her, and she could not speak. "what is it?" she repeated. "will you tell me?" she still looked at mary, with the same child-like gaze of wonder and patient entreaty. what could she answer? "i telled ye not to heed her," said mrs. davenport, a little angrily. "she knows well enough what it is,--too well, belike. i was not in when they sarved it; but mrs. heming (her as lives next door) was, and she spelled out the meaning, and made it all clear to mrs. wilson. it's a summons to be a witness on jem's trial--mrs. heming thinks, to swear to the gun; for, yo see, there's nobbut [ ] her as can testify to its being his, and she let on so easily to the policeman that it was his, that there's no getting off her word now. poor body; she takes it very hard, i dare say!" [footnote : "nobbut," none-but. "no man sigh evere god _no but_ the oon bigetun sone."--_wiclif's version._] mrs. wilson had waited patiently while this whispered speech was being uttered, imagining, perhaps, that it would end in some explanation addressed to her. but when both were silent, though their eyes, without speech or language, told their hearts' pity, she spoke again in the same unaltered gentle voice (so different from the irritable impatience she had been ever apt to show to every one except her husband,--he who had wedded her, broken-down and injured)--in a voice so different, i say, from the old, hasty manner, she spoke now the same anxious words, "what is this? will you tell me?" "yo'd better give it me at once, mrs. wilson, and let me put it out of your sight.--speak to her, mary, wench, and ask for a sight on it; i've tried, and better-tried to get it from her, and she takes no heed of words, and i'm loth to pull it by force out of her hands." mary drew the little "cricket" [ ] out from under the dresser, and sat down at mrs. wilson's knee, and, coaxing one of her tremulous, ever-moving hands into hers, began to rub it soothingly; there was a little resistance--a very little, but that was all; and presently, in the nervous movement of the imprisoned hand, the parchment fell to the ground. [footnote "cricket," a stool.] mary calmly and openly picked it up without any attempt at concealment, and quietly placing it in sight of the anxious eyes that followed it with a kind of spell-bound dread, went on with her soothing caresses. "she has had no sleep for many nights," said the girl to mrs. davenport, "and all this woe and sorrow,--it's no wonder." "no, indeed!" mrs. davenport answered. "we must get her fairly to bed; we must get her undressed, and all; and trust to god, in his mercy, to send her to sleep, or else,--" for, you see, they spoke before her as if she were not there; her heart was so far away. accordingly they almost lifted her from the chair in which she sat motionless, and taking her up as gently as a mother carries her sleeping baby, they undressed her poor, worn form, and laid her in the little bed up-stairs. they had once thought of placing her in jem's bed, to be out of sight or sound of any disturbance of alice's, but then again they remembered the shock she might receive in awakening in so unusual a place, and also that mary, who intended to keep vigil that night in the house of mourning, would find it difficult to divide her attention in the possible cases that might ensue. so they laid her, as i said before, on that little pallet-bed; and, as they were slowly withdrawing from the bed-side, hoping and praying that she might sleep, and forget for a time her heavy burden, she looked wistfully after mary, and whispered, "you haven't told me what it is. what is it?" and gazing in her face for the expected answer, her eye-lids slowly closed, and she fell into a deep, heavy sleep, almost as profound a rest as death. mrs. davenport went her way, and mary was alone,--for i cannot call those who sleep allies against the agony of thought which solitude sometimes brings up. she dreaded the night before her. alice might die; the doctor had that day declared her case hopeless, and not far from death; and at times the terror, so natural to the young, not of death, but of the remains of the dead, came over mary; and she bent and listened anxiously for the long-drawn, pausing breath of the sleeping alice. or mrs. wilson might awake in a state which mary dreaded to anticipate, and anticipated while she dreaded;--in a state of complete delirium. already her senses had been severely stunned by the full explanation of what was required of her,--of what she had to prove against her son, her jem, her only child,--which mary could not doubt the officious mrs. heming had given; and what if in dreams (that land into which no sympathy or love can penetrate with another, either to share its bliss or its agony,--that land whose scenes are unspeakable terrors, are hidden mysteries, are priceless treasures to one alone,--that land where alone i may see, while yet i tarry here, the sweet looks of my dead child),--what if, in the horrors of her dreams, her brain should go still more astray, and she should waken crazy with her visions, and the terrible reality that begot them? how much worse is anticipation sometimes than reality! how mary dreaded that night, and how calmly it passed by! even more so than if mary had not had such claims upon her care! anxiety about them deadened her own peculiar anxieties. she thought of the sleepers whom she was watching, till overpowered herself by the want of rest, she fell off into short slumbers in which the night wore imperceptibly away. to be sure alice spoke, and sang, during her waking moments, like the child she deemed herself; but so happily with the dearly-loved ones around her, with the scent of the heather, and the song of the wild bird hovering about her in imagination--with old scraps of ballads, or old snatches of primitive versions of the psalms (such as are sung in country churches half draperied over with ivy, and where the running brook, or the murmuring wind among the trees makes fit accompaniment to the chorus of human voices uttering praise and thanksgiving to their god)--that the speech and the song gave comfort and good cheer to the listener's heart, and the gray dawn began to dim the light of the rush-candle, before mary thought it possible that day was already trembling on the horizon. then she got up from the chair where she had been dozing, and went, half-asleep, to the window to assure herself that morning was at hand. the streets were unusually quiet with a sabbath stillness. no factory bells that morning; no early workmen going to their labours; no slip-shod girls cleaning the windows of the little shops which broke the monotony of the street; instead, you might see here and there some operative sallying forth for a breath of country air, or some father leading out his wee toddling bairns for the unwonted pleasure of a walk with "daddy," in the clear frosty morning. men with more leisure on week-days would perhaps have walked quicker than they did through the fresh sharp air of this sunday morning; but to them there was a pleasure, an absolute refreshment in the dawdling gait they, one and all of them, had. to be sure, there were one or two passengers on that morning whose objects were less innocent and less praiseworthy than those of the people i have already mentioned, and whose animal state of mind and body clashed jarringly on the peacefulness of the day; but upon them i will not dwell: as you and i, and almost every one, i think, may send up our individual cry of self-reproach that we have not done all that we could for the stray and wandering ones of our brethren. when mary turned from the window, she went to the bed of each sleeper, to look and listen. alice looked perfectly quiet and happy in her slumber, and her face seemed to have become much more youthful during her painless approach to death. mrs. wilson's countenance was stamped with the anxiety of the last few days, although she, too, appeared sleeping soundly; but as mary gazed on her, trying to trace a likeness to her son in her face, she awoke and looked up into mary's eyes, while the expression of consciousness came back into her own. both were silent for a minute or two. mary's eyes had fallen beneath that penetrating gaze, in which the agony of memory seemed every moment to find fuller vent. "is it a dream?" the mother asked at last in a low voice. "no!" replied mary, in the same tone. mrs. wilson hid her face in the pillow. she was fully conscious of every thing this morning; it was evident that the stunning effect of the subpoena, which had affected her so much last night in her weak, worn-out state, had passed away. mary offered no opposition when she indicated by languid gesture and action that she wished to rise. a sleepless bed is a haunted place. when she was dressed with mary's help, she stood by alice for a minute or two, looking at the slumberer. "how happy she is!" said she, quietly and sadly. all the time that mary was getting breakfast ready, and performing every other little domestic office she could think of, to add to the comfort of jem's mother, mrs. wilson sat still in the arm-chair, watching her silently. her old irritation of temper and manner seemed to have suddenly disappeared, or perhaps she was too depressed in body and mind to show it. mary told her all that had been done with regard to mr. bridgenorth; all her own plans for seeking out will; all her hopes; and concealed as well as she could all the doubts and fears that would arise unbidden. to this mrs. wilson listened without much remark, but with deep interest and perfect comprehension. when mary ceased she sighed and said, "oh wench! i am his mother, and yet i do so little, i can do so little! that's what frets me! i seem like a child as sees its mammy ill, and moans and cries its little heart out, yet does nought to help. i think my sense has left me all at once, and i can't even find strength to cry like the little child." hereupon she broke into a feeble wail of self-reproach, that her outward show of misery was not greater; as if any cries, or tears, or loud-spoken words could have told of such pangs at the heart as that look, and that thin, piping, altered voice! but think of mary and what she was enduring! picture to yourself (for i cannot tell you) the armies of thoughts that met and clashed in her brain; and then imagine the effort it cost her to be calm, and quiet, and even, in a faint way, cheerful and smiling at times. after a while she began to stir about in her own mind for some means of sparing the poor mother the trial of appearing as a witness in the matter of the gun. she had made no allusion to her summons this morning, and mary almost thought she must have forgotten it; and surely some means might be found to prevent that additional sorrow. she must see job about it; nay, if necessary, she must see mr. bridgenorth, with all his truth-compelling powers; for, indeed, she had so struggled and triumphed (though a sadly-bleeding victor at heart) over herself these two last days, had so concealed agony, and hidden her inward woe and bewilderment, that she began to take confidence, and to have faith in her own powers of meeting any one with a passably fair show, whatever might be rending her life beneath the cloak of her deception. accordingly, as soon as mrs. davenport came in after morning church, to ask after the two lone women, and she had heard the report mary had to give (so much better as regarded mrs. wilson than what they had feared the night before it would have been)--as soon as this kind-hearted, grateful woman came in, mary, telling her her purpose, went off to fetch the doctor who attended alice. he was shaking himself after his morning's round, and happy in the anticipation of his sunday's dinner; but he was a good-tempered man, who found it difficult to keep down his jovial easiness even by the bed of sickness or death. he had mischosen his profession; for it was his delight to see every one around him in full enjoyment of life. however, he subdued his face to the proper expression of sympathy, befitting a doctor listening to a patient, or a patient's friend (and mary's sad, pale, anxious face might be taken for either the one or the other). "well, my girl! and what brings you here?" said he, as he entered his surgery. "not on your own account, i hope." "i wanted you to come and see alice wilson,--and then i thought you would may be take a look at mrs. wilson." he bustled on his hat and coat, and followed mary instantly. after shaking his head over alice (as if it was a mournful thing for one so pure and good, so true, although so humble a christian, to be nearing her desired haven), and muttering the accustomed words intended to destroy hope, and prepare anticipation, he went in compliance with mary's look to ask the usual questions of mrs. wilson, who sat passively in her arm-chair. she answered his questions, and submitted to his examination. "how do you think her?" asked mary, eagerly. "why--a," began he, perceiving that he was desired to take one side in his answer, and unable to find out whether his listener was anxious for a favourable verdict or otherwise; but thinking it most probable that she would desire the former, he continued, "she is weak, certainly; the natural result of such a shock as the arrest of her son would be,--for i understand this james wilson, who murdered mr. carson, was her son. sad thing to have such a reprobate in the family." "you say '_who murdered_,' sir!" said mary, indignantly. "he is only taken up on suspicion, and many have no doubt of his innocence--those who know him, sir." "ah, well, well! doctors have seldom time to read newspapers, and i dare say i'm not very correct in my story. i dare say he's innocent; i'm sure i had no right to say otherwise,--only words slip out.--no! indeed, young woman, i see no cause for apprehension about this poor creature in the next room;--weak--certainly; but a day or two's good nursing will set her up, and i'm sure you're a good nurse, my dear, from your pretty, kind-hearted face,--i'll send a couple of pills and a draught, but don't alarm yourself,--there's no occasion, i assure you." "but you don't think her fit to go to liverpool?" asked mary, still in the anxious tone of one who wishes earnestly for some particular decision. "to liverpool--yes," replied he. "a short journey like that could not fatigue, and might distract her thoughts. let her go by all means,--it would be the very thing for her." "oh, sir!" burst out mary, almost sobbing; "i did so hope you would say she was too ill to go." "whew--" said he, with a prolonged whistle, trying to understand the case, but being, as he said, no reader of newspapers, utterly unaware of the peculiar reasons there might be for so apparently unfeeling a wish,--"why did you not tell me so sooner? it might certainly do her harm in her weak state; there is always some risk attending journeys--draughts, and what not. to her, they might prove very injurious,--very. i disapprove of journeys, or excitement, in all cases where the patient is in the low, fluttered state in which mrs. wilson is. if you take _my_ advice, you will certainly put a stop to all thoughts of going to liverpool." he really had completely changed his opinion, though quite unconsciously; so desirous was he to comply with the wishes of others. "oh, sir, thank you! and will you give me a certificate of her being unable to go, if the lawyer says we must have one? the lawyer, you know," continued she, seeing him look puzzled, "who is to defend jem,--it was as a witness against him--" "my dear girl!" said he, almost angrily, "why did you not state the case fully at first? one minute would have done it,--and my dinner waiting all this time. to be sure she can't go,--it would be madness to think of it; if her evidence could have done good, it would have been a different thing. come to me for the certificate any time; that is to say, if the lawyer advises you. i second the lawyer; take counsel with both the learned professions--ha, ha, ha,--" and laughing at his own joke, he departed, leaving mary accusing herself of stupidity in having imagined that every one was as well acquainted with the facts concerning the trial as she was herself; for indeed she had never doubted that the doctor would have been aware of the purpose of poor mrs. wilson's journey to liverpool. presently she went to job (the ever-ready mrs. davenport keeping watch over the two old women), and told him her fears, her plans, and her proceedings. to her surprise he shook his head doubtfully. "it may have an awkward look, if we keep her back. lawyers is up to tricks." "but it's no trick," said mary. "she is so poorly, she was last night, at least; and to-day she's so faded and weak." "poor soul! i dare say. i only mean for jem's sake; as so much is known, it won't do now to hang back. but i'll ask mr. bridgenorth. i'll e'en take your doctor's advice. yo tarry at home, and i'll come to yo in an hour's time. go thy ways, wench." chapter xxv. mrs. wilson's determination. "something there was, what, none presumed to say, clouds lightly passing on a smiling day,-- whispers and hints which went from ear to ear, and mixed reports no judge on earth could clear." crabbe. "curious conjectures he may always make, and either side of dubious questions take." ib. mary went home. oh! how her head did ache, and how dizzy her brain was growing! but there would be time enough she felt for giving way, hereafter. so she sat quiet and still by an effort; sitting near the window, and looking out of it, but seeing nothing, when all at once she caught sight of something which roused her up, and made her draw back. but it was too late. she had been seen. sally leadbitter flaunted into the little dingy room, making it gaudy with the sunday excess of colouring in her dress. she was really curious to see mary; her connexion with a murderer seemed to have made her into a sort of _lusus naturæ_, and was almost, by some, expected to have made a change in her personal appearance, so earnestly did they stare at her. but mary had been too much absorbed this last day or two to notice this. now sally had a grand view, and looked her over and over (a very different thing from looking her through and through), and almost learnt her off by heart;--"her every-day gown (hoyle's print you know, that lilac thing with the high body) she was so fond of; a little black silk handkerchief just knotted round her neck, like a boy; her hair all taken back from her face, as if she wanted to keep her head cool--she would always keep that hair of hers so long; and her hands twitching continually about." such particulars would make sally into a gazette extraordinary the next morning at the work-room, and were worth coming for, even if little else could be extracted from mary. "why, mary!" she began. "where have you hidden yourself? you never showed your face all yesterday at miss simmonds'. you don't fancy we think any the worse of you for what's come and gone. some on us, indeed, were a bit sorry for the poor young man, as lies stiff and cold for your sake, mary; but we shall ne'er cast it up against you. miss simmonds, too, will be mighty put out if you don't come, for there's a deal of mourning, agait." "i can't," mary said, in a low voice. "i don't mean ever to come again." "why, mary!" said sally, in unfeigned surprise. "to be sure you'll have to be in liverpool, tuesday, and may be wednesday; but after that you'll surely come, and tell us all about it. miss simmonds knows you'll have to be off those two days. but between you and me, she's a bit of a gossip, and will like hearing all how and about the trial, well enough to let you off very easy for your being absent a day or two. besides, betsy morgan was saying yesterday, she shouldn't wonder but you'd prove quite an attraction to customers. many a one would come and have their gowns made by miss simmonds just to catch a glimpse at you, at after the trial's over. really, mary, you'll turn out quite a heroine." the little fingers twitched worse than ever; the large soft eyes looked up pleadingly into sally's face; but she went on in the same strain, not from any unkind or cruel feeling towards mary, but solely because she was incapable of comprehending her suffering. she had been shocked, of course, at mr. carson's death, though at the same time the excitement was rather pleasant than otherwise; and dearly now would she have enjoyed the conspicuous notice which mary was sure to receive. "how shall you like being cross-examined, mary?" "not at all," answered mary, when she found she must answer. "la! what impudent fellows those lawyers are! and their clerks, too, not a bit better. i shouldn't wonder" (in a comforting tone, and really believing she was giving comfort) "if you picked up a new sweetheart in liverpool. what gown are you going in, mary?" "oh, i don't know and don't care," exclaimed mary, sick and weary of her visitor. "well, then! take my advice, and go in that blue merino. it's old to be sure, and a bit worn at elbows, but folk won't notice that, and th' colour suits you. now mind, mary. and i'll lend you my black watered scarf," added she, really good-naturedly, according to her sense of things, and withal, a little bit pleased at the idea of her pet article of dress figuring away on the person of a witness at a trial for murder. "i'll bring it to-morrow before you start." "no, don't!" said mary; "thank you, but i don't want it." "why, what can you wear? i know all your clothes as well as i do my own, and what is there you can wear? not your old plaid shawl, i do hope? you would not fancy this i have on, more nor the scarf, would you?" said she, brightening up at the thought, and willing to lend it, or any thing else. "oh sally! don't go on talking a-that-ns; how can i think on dress at such a time? when it's a matter of life and death to jem?" "bless the girl! it's jem, is it? well now, i thought there was some sweetheart in the back-ground, when you flew off so with mr. carson. then what in the name of goodness made him shoot mr. harry? after you had given up going with him, i mean? was he afraid you'd be on again?" "how dare you say he shot mr. harry?" asked mary, firing up from the state of languid indifference into which she had sunk while sally had been settling about her dress. "but it's no matter what you think as did not know him. what grieves me is, that people should go on thinking him guilty as did know him," she said, sinking back into her former depressed tone and manner. "and don't you think he did it?" asked sally. mary paused; she was going on too fast with one so curious and so unscrupulous. besides she remembered how even she herself had, at first, believed him guilty; and she felt it was not for her to cast stones at those who, on similar evidence, inclined to the same belief. none had given him much benefit of a doubt. none had faith in his innocence. none but his mother; and there the heart loved more than the head reasoned, and her yearning affection had never for an instant entertained the idea that her jem was a murderer. but mary disliked the whole conversation; the subject, the manner in which it was treated, were all painful, and she had a repugnance to the person with whom she spoke. she was thankful, therefore, when job legh's voice was heard at the door, as he stood with the latch in his hand, talking to a neighbour, and when sally jumped up in vexation and said, "there's that old fogey coming in here, as i'm alive! did your father set him to look after you while he was away? or what brings the old chap here? however, i'm off; i never could abide either him or his prim grand-daughter. goodbye, mary." so far in a whisper, then louder, "if you think better of my offer about the scarf, mary, just step in to-morrow before nine, and you're quite welcome to it." she and job passed each other at the door, with mutual looks of dislike, which neither took any pains to conceal. "yon's a bold, bad girl," said job to mary. "she's very good-natured," replied mary, too honourable to abuse a visitor who had only that instant crossed her threshold, and gladly dwelling on the good quality most apparent in sally's character. "ay, ay! good-natured, generous, jolly, full of fun; there are a number of other names for the good qualities the devil leaves his childer, as baits to catch gudgeons with. d'ye think folk could be led astray by one who was every way bad? howe'er, that's not what i came to talk about. i've seen mr. bridgenorth, and he is in a manner of the same mind as me; he thinks it would have an awkward look, and might tell against the poor lad on his trial; still if she's ill she's ill, and it can't be helped." "i don't know if she's so bad as all that," said mary, who began to dread her part in doing any thing which might tell against her poor lover. "will you come and see her, job? the doctor seemed to say as i liked, not as he thought." "that's because he had no great thought on the subject, either one way or t'other," replied job, whose contempt for medical men pretty nearly equalled his respect for lawyers. "but i'll go and welcome. i han not seen th' oud ladies since their sorrows, and it's but manners to go and ax after them. come along." the room at mrs. wilson's had that still, changeless look you must have often observed in the house of sickness or mourning. no particular employment going on; people watching and waiting rather than acting, unless in the more sudden and violent attacks; what little movement is going on, so noiseless and hushed; the furniture all arranged and stationary, with a view to the comfort of the afflicted; the window-blinds drawn down to keep out the disturbing variety of a sun-beam; the same saddened, serious look on the faces of the in-dwellers; you fall back into the same train of thought with all these associations, and forget the street, the outer world, in the contemplation of the one stationary, absorbing interest within. mrs. wilson sat quietly in her chair, with just the same look mary had left on her face; mrs. davenport went about with creaking shoes, which made all the more noise from her careful and lengthened tread, annoying the ears of those who were well, in this instance, far more than the dulled senses of the sick and the sorrowful. alice's voice still was going on cheerfully in the upper room with incessant talking and little laughs to herself, or perhaps in sympathy with her unseen companions; "unseen," i say, in preference to "fancied," for who knows whether god does not permit the forms of those who were dearest when living, to hover round the bed of the dying? job spoke, and mrs. wilson answered. so quietly, that it was unnatural under the circumstances. it made a deeper impression on the old man than any token of mere bodily illness could have done. if she had raved in delirium, or moaned in fever, he could have spoken after his wont, and given his opinion, his advice, and his consolation; now he was awed into silence. at length he pulled mary aside into a corner of the house-place where mrs. wilson was sitting, and began to talk to her. "yo're right, mary! she's no ways fit to go to liverpool, poor soul. now i've seen her, i only wonder the doctor could ha' been unsettled in his mind at th' first. choose how it goes wi' poor jem, she cannot go. one way or another it will soon be over, and best to leave her in the state she is till then." "i was sure you would think so," said mary. but they were reckoning without their host. they esteemed her senses gone, while, in fact, they were only inert, and could not convey impressions rapidly to the over-burdened, troubled brain. they had not noticed that her eyes had followed them (mechanically it seemed at first) as they had moved away to the corner of the room; that her face, hitherto so changeless, had begun to work with one or two of the old symptoms of impatience. but when they were silent she stood up, and startled them almost as if a dead person had spoken, by saying clearly and decidedly--"i go to liverpool. i hear you and your plans; and i tell you i shall go to liverpool. if my words are to kill my son, they have already gone forth out of my mouth, and nought can bring them back. but i will have faith. alice (up above) has often telled me i wanted faith, and now i will have it. they cannot--they will not kill my child, my only child. i will not be afeared. yet, oh! i am so sick with terror. but if he is to die, think ye not that i will see him again; ay! see him at his trial? when all are hating him, he shall have his poor mother near him, to give him all the comfort, eyes, and looks, and tears, and a heart that is dead to all but him, can give; his poor old mother, who knows how free he is from sin--in the sight of man at least. they'll let me go to him, maybe, the very minute it's over; and i know many scripture texts (though you would not think it), that may keep up his heart. i missed seeing him ere he went to yon prison, but nought shall keep me away again one minute when i can see his face; for maybe the minutes are numbered, and the count but small. i know i can be a comfort to him, poor lad. you would not think it, now, but he'd alway speak as kind and soft to me as if he were courting me, like. he loved me above a bit; and am i to leave him now to dree all the cruel slander they'll put upon him? i can pray for him at each hard word they say against him, if i can do nought else; and he'll know what his mother is doing for him, poor lad, by the look on my face." still they made some look, or gesture of opposition to her wishes. she turned sharp round on mary, the old object of her pettish attacks, and said, "now, wench! once for all! i tell yo this. _he_ could never guide me; and he'd sense enough not to try. what he could na do, don't you try. i shall go to liverpool to-morrow, and find my lad, and stay with him through thick and thin; and if he dies, why, perhaps, god of his mercy will take me too. the grave is a sure cure for an aching heart." she sank back in her chair, quite exhausted by the sudden effort she had made; but if they even offered to speak, she cut them short (whatever the subject might be), with the repetition of the same words, "i shall go to liverpool." no more could be said, the doctor's opinion had been so undecided; mr. bridgenorth had given his legal voice in favour of her going, and mary was obliged to relinquish the idea of persuading her to remain at home, if indeed under all the circumstances it could be thought desirable. "best way will be," said job, "for me to hunt out will, early to-morrow morning, and yo, mary, come at after with jane wilson. i know a decent woman where yo two can have a bed, and where we may meet together when i've found will, afore going to mr. bridgenorth's at two o'clock; for, i can tell him, i'll not trust none of his clerks for hunting up will, if jem's life is to depend on it." now mary disliked this plan inexpressibly; her dislike was partly grounded on reason, and partly on feeling. she could not bear the idea of deputing to any one the active measures necessary to be taken in order to save jem. she felt as if they were her duty, her right. she durst not trust to any one the completion of her plan; they might not have energy, or perseverance, or desperation enough to follow out the slightest chance; and her love would endow her with all these qualities, independently of the terrible alternative which awaited her in case all failed and jem was condemned. no one could have her motives; and consequently no one could have her sharpened brain, her despairing determination. besides (only that was purely selfish), she could not endure the suspense of remaining quiet, and only knowing the result when all was accomplished. so with vehemence and impatience she rebutted every reason job adduced for his plan; and of course, thus opposed, by what appeared to him wilfulness, he became more resolute, and angry words were exchanged, and a feeling of estrangement rose up between them, for a time, as they walked homewards. but then came in margaret with her gentleness, like an angel of peace, so calm and reasonable, that both felt ashamed of their irritation, and tacitly left the decision to her (only, by the way, i think mary could never have submitted if it had gone against her, penitent and tearful as was her manner now to job, the good old man who was helping her to work for jem, although they differed as to the manner). "mary had better go," said margaret to her grandfather, in a low tone, "i know what she's feeling, and it will be a comfort to her soon, may be, to think she did all she could herself. she would perhaps fancy it might have been different; do, grandfather, let her." margaret had still, you see, little or no belief in jem's innocence; and besides, she thought if mary saw will, and heard herself from him that jem had not been with him that thursday night, it would in a measure break the force of the blow which was impending. "let me lock up house, grandfather, for a couple of days, and go and stay with alice. it's but little one like me can do, i know" (she added softly); "but, by the blessing o' god, i'll do it and welcome; and here comes one kindly use o' money, i can hire them as will do for her what i cannot. mrs. davenport is a willing body, and one who knows sorrow and sickness, and i can pay her for her time, and keep her there pretty near altogether. so let that be settled. and you take mrs. wilson, dear grandad, and let mary go find will, and you can all meet together at after, and i'm sure i wish you luck." job consented with only a few dissenting grunts; but on the whole, with a very good grace for an old man who had been so positive only a few minutes before. mary was thankful for margaret's interference. she did not speak, but threw her arms round margaret's neck, and put up her rosy-red mouth to be kissed; and even job was attracted by the pretty, child-like gesture; and when she drew near him, afterwards, like a little creature sidling up to some person whom it feels to have offended, he bent down and blessed her, as if she had been a child of his own. to mary the old man's blessing came like words of power. chapter xxvi. the journey to liverpool. "like a bark upon the sea, life is floating over death; above, below, encircling thee, danger lurks in every breath. parted art thou from the grave only by a plank most frail; tossed upon the restless wave, sport of every fickle gale. let the skies be e'er so clear, and so calm and still the sea, shipwreck yet has he to fear, who life's voyager will be." r�ckert. the early trains for liverpool, on monday morning, were crowded by attorneys, attorneys' clerks, plaintiffs, defendants, and witnesses, all going to the assizes. they were a motley assembly, each with some cause for anxiety stirring at his heart; though, after all, that is saying little or nothing, for we are all of us in the same predicament through life; each with a fear and a hope from childhood to death. among the passengers there was mary barton, dressed in the blue gown and obnoxious plaid shawl. common as railroads are now in all places as a means of transit, and especially in manchester, mary had never been on one before; and she felt bewildered by the hurry, the noise of people, and bells, and horns; the whiz and the scream of the arriving trains. the very journey itself seemed to her a matter of wonder. she had a back seat, and looked towards the factory-chimneys, and the cloud of smoke which hovers over manchester, with a feeling akin to the "heimweh." she was losing sight of the familiar objects of her childhood for the first time; and unpleasant as those objects are to most, she yearned after them with some of the same sentiment which gives pathos to the thoughts of the emigrant. the cloud-shadows which give beauty to chat-moss, the picturesque old houses of newton, what were they to mary, whose heart was full of many things? yet she seemed to look at them earnestly as they glided past; but she neither saw nor heard. she neither saw nor heard till some well-known names fell upon her ear. two lawyers' clerks were discussing the cases to come on that assizes; of course, "the murder-case," as it had come to be termed, held a conspicuous place in their conversation. they had no doubt of the result. "juries are always very unwilling to convict on circumstantial evidence, it is true," said one, "but here there can hardly be any doubt." "if it had not been so clear a case," replied the other, "i should have said they were injudicious in hurrying on the trial so much. still, more evidence might have been collected." "they tell me," said the first speaker,--"the people in gardener's office i mean,--that it was really feared the old gentleman would have gone out of his mind, if the trial had been delayed. he was with mr. gardener as many as seven times on saturday, and called him up at night to suggest that some letter should be written, or something done to secure the verdict." "poor old man," answered his companion, "who can wonder?--an only son,--such a death,--the disagreeable circumstances attending it; i had not time to read the _guardian_ on saturday, but i understand it was some dispute about a factory girl." "yes, some such person. of course she'll be examined, and williams will do it in style. i shall slip out from our court to hear him if i can hit the nick of time." "and if you can get a place, you mean, for depend upon it the court will be crowded." "ay, ay, the ladies (sweet souls) will come in shoals to hear a trial for murder, and see the murderer, and watch the judge put on his black cap." "and then go home and groan over the spanish ladies who take delight in bull-fights--'such unfeminine creatures!'" then they went on to other subjects. it was but another drop to mary's cup; but she was nearly in that state which crabbe describes, "for when so full the cup of sorrows flows add but a drop, it instantly o'erflows." and now they were in the tunnel!--and now they were in liverpool; and she must rouse herself from the torpor of mind and body which was creeping over her; the result of much anxiety and fatigue, and several sleepless nights. she asked a policeman the way to milk house yard, and following his directions with the _savoir faire_ of a town-bred girl, she reached a little court leading out of a busy, thronged street, not far from the docks. when she entered the quiet little yard she stopped to regain her breath, and to gather strength, for her limbs trembled, and her heart beat violently. all the unfavourable contingencies she had, until now, forbidden herself to dwell upon, came forward to her mind. the possibility, the bare possibility, of jem being an accomplice in the murder; the still greater possibility that he had not fulfilled his intention of going part of the way with will, but had been led off by some little accidental occurrence from his original intention; and that he had spent the evening with those, whom it was now too late to bring forward as witnesses. but sooner or later she must know the truth; so taking courage she knocked at the door of a house. "is this mrs. jones's?" she inquired. "next door but one," was the curt answer. and even this extra minute was a reprieve. mrs. jones was busy washing, and would have spoken angrily to the person who knocked so gently at the door, if anger had been in her nature; but she was a soft, helpless kind of woman, and only sighed over the many interruptions she had had to her business that unlucky monday morning. but the feeling which would have been anger in a more impatient temper, took the form of prejudice against the disturber, whoever he or she might be. mary's fluttered and excited appearance strengthened this prejudice in mrs. jones's mind, as she stood, stripping the soap-suds off her arms, while she eyed her visitor, and waited to be told what her business was. but no words would come. mary's voice seemed choked up in her throat. "pray what do you want, young woman?" coldly asked mrs. jones at last. "i want--oh! is will wilson here?" "no, he is not," replied mrs. jones, inclining to shut the door in her face. "is he not come back from the isle of man?" asked mary, sickening. "he never went; he stayed in manchester too long; as perhaps you know, already." and again the door seemed closing. but mary bent forwards with suppliant action (as some young tree bends, when blown by the rough, autumnal wind), and gasped out, "tell me--tell me--where is he?" mrs. jones suspected some love affair, and, perhaps, one of not the most creditable kind; but the distress of the pale young creature before her was so obvious and so pitiable, that were she ever so sinful, mrs. jones could no longer uphold her short, reserved manner. "he's gone this very morning, my poor girl. step in, and i'll tell you about it." "gone!" cried mary. "how gone? i must see him,--it's a matter of life and death: he can save the innocent from being hanged,--he cannot be gone,--how gone?" "sailed, my dear! sailed in the _john cropper_ this very blessed morning." "sailed!" chapter xxvii. in the liverpool docks. "yon is our quay! hark to the clamour in that miry road, bounded and narrowed by yon vessel's load; the lumbering wealth she empties round the place, package and parcel, hogshead, chest and case: while the loud seaman and the angry hind, mingling in business, bellow to the wind." crabbe. mary staggered into the house. mrs. jones placed her tenderly in a chair, and there stood bewildered by her side. "oh, father! father!" muttered she, "what have you done?--what must i do? must the innocent die?--or he--whom i fear--i fear--oh! what am i saying?" said she, looking round affrighted, and seemingly reassured by mrs. jones's countenance, "i am so helpless, so weak,--but a poor girl after all. how can i tell what is right? father! you have always been so kind to me,--and you to be--never mind--never mind, all will come right in the grave." "save us, and bless us!" exclaimed mrs. jones, "if i don't think she's gone out of her wits!" "no, i'm not!" said mary, catching at the words, and with a strong effort controlling the mind she felt to be wandering, while the red blood flushed to scarlet the heretofore white cheek, "i'm not out of my senses; there is so much to be done--so much--and no one but me to do it, you know,--though i can't rightly tell what it is," looking up with bewilderment into mrs. jones's face. "i must not go mad whatever comes--at least not yet. no!" (bracing herself up) "something may yet be done, and i must do it. sailed! did you say? the _john cropper_? sailed?" "ay! she went out of dock last night, to be ready for the morning's tide." "i thought she was not to sail till to-morrow," murmured mary. "so did will (he's lodged here long, so we all call him 'will')," replied mrs. jones. "the mate had told him so, i believe, and he never knew different till he got to liverpool on friday morning; but as soon as he heard, he gave up going to the isle o' man, and just ran over to rhyl with the mate, one john harris, as has friends a bit beyond abergele; you may have heard him speak on him, for they are great chums, though i've my own opinion of harris." "and he's sailed?" repeated mary, trying by repetition to realise the fact to herself. "ay, he went on board last night to be ready for the morning's tide, as i said afore, and my boy went to see the ship go down the river, and came back all agog with the sight. here, charley, charley!" she called out loudly for her son: but charley was one of those boys who are never "far to seek," as the lancashire people say, when any thing is going on; a mysterious conversation, an unusual event, a fire, or a riot, any thing, in short; such boys are the little omnipresent people of this world. charley had, in fact, been spectator and auditor all this time; though for a little while he had been engaged in "dollying" and a few other mischievous feats in the washing line, which had prevented his attention from being fully given to his mother's conversation with the strange girl who had entered. "oh, charley! there you are! did you not see the _john cropper_ sail down the river this morning? tell the young woman about it, for i think she hardly credits me." "i saw her tugged down the river by a steam-boat, which comes to same thing," replied he. "oh! if i had but come last night!" moaned mary. "but i never thought of it. i never thought but what he knew right when he said he would be back from the isle of man on monday morning, and not afore--and now some one must die for my negligence!" "die!" exclaimed the lad. "how?" "oh! will would have proved an _alibi_,--but he's gone,--and what am i to do?" "don't give it up yet," cried the energetic boy, interested at once in the case; "let's have a try for him. we are but where we were if we fail." mary roused herself. the sympathetic "we" gave her heart and hope. "but what can be done? you say he's sailed; what can be done?" but she spoke louder, and in a more life-like tone. "no! i did not say he'd sailed; mother said that, and women know nought about such matters. you see" (proud of his office of instructor, and insensibly influenced, as all about her were, by mary's sweet, earnest, lovely countenance) "there's sand-banks at the mouth of the river, and ships can't get over them but at high-water; especially ships of heavy burden, like the _john cropper_. now, she was tugged down the river at low water, or pretty near, and will have to lie some time before the water will be high enough to float her over the banks. so hold up your head,--you've a chance yet, though may be but a poor one." "but what must i do?" asked mary, to whom all this explanation had been a vague mystery. "do!" said the boy, impatiently, "why, have not i told you? only women (begging your pardon) are so stupid at understanding about any thing belonging to the sea;--you must get a boat, and make all haste, and sail after him,--after the _john cropper_. you may overtake her, or you may not. it's just a chance; but she's heavy laden, and that's in your favour. she'll draw many feet of water." mary had humbly and eagerly (oh, how eagerly!) listened to this young sir oracle's speech; but try as she would, she could only understand that she must make haste, and sail--somewhere-- "i beg your pardon," (and her little acknowledgment of inferiority in this speech pleased the lad, and made him her still more zealous friend). "i beg your pardon," said she, "but i don't know where to get a boat. are there boat-stands?" the lad laughed outright. "you're not long in liverpool, i guess. boat-stands! no; go down to the pier,--any pier will do, and hire a boat,--you'll be at no loss when once you are there. only make haste." "oh, you need not tell me that, if i but knew how," said mary, trembling with eagerness. "but you say right,--i never was here before, and i don't know my way to the place you speak on; only tell me, and i'll not lose a minute." "mother!" said the wilful lad, "i'm going to show her the way to the pier; i'll be back in an hour,--or so,--" he added in a lower tone. and before the gentle mrs. jones could collect her scattered wits sufficiently to understand half of the hastily formed plan, her son was scudding down the street, closely followed by mary's half-running steps. presently he slackened his pace sufficiently to enable him to enter into conversation with mary, for once escaped from the reach of his mother's recalling voice, he thought he might venture to indulge his curiosity. "ahem!--what's your name? it's so awkward to be calling you young woman." "my name is mary,--mary barton," answered she, anxious to propitiate one who seemed so willing to exert himself in her behalf, or else she grudged every word which caused the slightest relaxation in her speed, although her chest seemed tightened, and her head throbbing, from the rate at which they were walking. "and you want will wilson to prove an _alibi_--is that it?" "yes--oh, yes--can we not cross now?" "no, wait a minute; it's the teagle hoisting above your head i'm afraid of;--and who is it that's to be tried?" "jem; oh, lad! can't we get past?" they rushed under the great bales quivering in the air above their heads and pressed onwards for a few minutes, till master charley again saw fit to walk a little slower, and ask a few more questions. "mary, is jem your brother, or your sweetheart, that you're so set upon saving him?" "no--no," replied she, but with something of hesitation, that made the shrewd boy yet more anxious to clear up the mystery. "perhaps he's your cousin, then? many a girl has a cousin who has not a sweetheart." "no, he's neither kith nor kin to me. what's the matter? what are you stopping for?" said she, with nervous terror, as charley turned back a few steps, and peered up a side street. "oh, nothing to flurry you so, mary. i heard you say to mother you had never been in liverpool before, and if you'll only look up this street you may see the back windows of our exchange. such a building as yon is! with 'natomy hiding under a blanket, and lord admiral nelson, and a few more people in the middle of the court! no! come here," as mary, in her eagerness, was looking at any window that caught her eye first, to satisfy the boy. "here, then, now you can see it. you can say, now, you've seen liverpool exchange." "yes, to be sure--it's a beautiful window, i'm sure. but are we near the boats? i'll stop as i come back, you know; only i think we'd better get on now." "oh! if the wind's in your favour, you'll be down the river in no time, and catch will, i'll be bound; and if it's not, why, you know, the minute it took you to look at the exchange will be neither here nor there." another rush onwards, till one of the long crossings near the docks caused a stoppage, and gave mary time for breathing, and charley leisure to ask another question. "you've never said where you come from?" "manchester," replied she. "eh, then! you've a power of things to see. liverpool beats manchester hollow, they say. a nasty, smoky hole, bean't it? are you bound to live there?" "oh, yes! it's my home." "well, i don't think i could abide a home in the middle of smoke. look there! now you see the river! that's something now you'd give a deal for in manchester. look!" and mary did look, and saw down an opening made in the forest of masts belonging to the vessels in dock, the glorious river, along which white-sailed ships were gliding with the ensigns of all nations, not "braving the battle," but telling of the distant lands, spicy or frozen, that sent to that mighty mart for their comforts or their luxuries; she saw small boats passing to and fro on that glittering highway, but she also saw such puffs and clouds of smoke from the countless steamers, that she wondered at charley's intolerance of the smoke of manchester. across the swing-bridge, along the pier,--and they stood breathless by a magnificent dock, where hundreds of ships lay motionless during the process of loading and unloading. the cries of the sailors, the variety of languages used by the passers-by, and the entire novelty of the sight compared with any thing which mary had ever seen, made her feel most helpless and forlorn; and she clung to her young guide as to one who alone by his superior knowledge could interpret between her and the new race of men by whom she was surrounded,--for a new race sailors might reasonably be considered, to a girl who had hitherto seen none but inland dwellers, and those for the greater part factory people. in that new world of sight and sound, she still bore one prevailing thought, and though her eye glanced over the ships and the wide-spreading river, her mind was full of the thought of reaching will. "why are we here?" asked she of charley. "there are no little boats about, and i thought i was to go in a little boat; those ships are never meant for short distances, are they?" "to be sure not," replied he, rather contemptuously. "but the _john cropper_ lay in this dock, and i know many of the sailors; and if i could see one i knew, i'd ask him to run up the mast, and see if he could catch a sight of her in the offing. if she's weighed her anchor no use for your going, you know." mary assented quietly to this speech, as if she were as careless as charley seemed now to be about her overtaking will; but in truth her heart was sinking within her, and she no longer felt the energy which had hitherto upheld her. her bodily strength was giving way, and she stood cold and shivering, although the noon-day sun beat down with considerable power on the shadeless spot where she was standing. "here's tom bourne!" said charley; and altering his manner from the patronising key in which he had spoken to mary, he addressed a weather-beaten old sailor who came rolling along the pathway where they stood, his hands in his pockets, and his quid in his mouth, with very much the air of one who had nothing to do but look about him, and spit right and left; addressing this old tar, charley made known to him his wish in slang, which to mary was almost inaudible, and quite unintelligible, and which i am too much of a land-lubber to repeat correctly. mary watched looks and actions with a renovated keenness of perception. she saw the old man listen attentively to charley; she saw him eye her over from head to foot, and wind up his inspection with a little nod of approbation (for her very shabbiness and poverty of dress were creditable signs to the experienced old sailor); and then she watched him leisurely swing himself on to a ship in the basin, and, borrowing a glass, run up the mast with the speed of a monkey. "he'll fall!" said she, in affright, clutching at charley's arm, and judging the sailor, from his storm-marked face and unsteady walk on land, to be much older than he really was. "not he!" said charley. "he's at the mast-head now. see! he's looking through his glass, and using his arms as steady as if he were on dry land. why, i've been up the mast, many and many a time; only don't tell mother. she thinks i'm to be a shoemaker, but i've made up my mind to be a sailor; only there's no good arguing with a woman. you'll not tell her, mary?" "oh, see!" exclaimed she (his secret was very safe with her, for, in fact, she had not heard it). "see! he's coming down; he's down. speak to him, charley." but unable to wait another instant she called out herself, "can you see the _john cropper_? is she there yet?" "ay, ay," he answered, and coming quickly up to them, he hurried them away to seek for a boat, saying the bar was already covered, and in an hour the ship would hoist her sails and be off. "you've the wind right against you, and must use oars. no time to lose." they ran to some steps leading down to the water. they beckoned to some watermen, who, suspecting the real state of the case, appeared in no hurry for a fare, but leisurely brought their boat alongside the stairs, as if it were a matter of indifference to them whether they were engaged or not, while they conversed together in few words, and in an under-tone, respecting the charge they should make. "oh, pray make haste," called mary. "i want you to take me to the _john cropper_. where is she, charley? tell them--i don't rightly know the words,--only make haste!" "in the offing she is, sure enough, miss," answered one of the men, shoving charley on one side, regarding him as too young to be a principal in the bargain. "i don't think we can go, dick," said he, with a wink to his companion; "there's the gentleman over at new brighton as wants us." "but, mayhap, the young woman will pay us handsome for giving her a last look at her sweetheart," interposed the other. "oh, how much do you want? only make haste--i've enough to pay you, but every moment is precious," said mary. "ay, that it is. less than an hour won't take us to the mouth of the river, and she'll be off by two o'clock!" poor mary's ideas of "plenty of money," however, were different to those entertained by the boatmen. only fourteen or fifteen shillings remained out of the sovereign margaret had lent her, and the boatmen, imagining "plenty" to mean no less than several pounds, insisted upon receiving a sovereign (an exorbitant fare, by the bye, although reduced from their first demand of thirty shillings). while charley, with a boy's impatience of delay, and disregard of money, kept urging, "give it 'em, mary; they'll none of them take you for less. it's your only chance. there's st. nicholas ringing one!" "i've only got fourteen and ninepence," cried she, in despair, after counting over her money; "but i'll give you my shawl, and you can sell it for four or five shillings,--oh! won't that much do?" asked she, in such a tone of voice, that they must indeed have had hard hearts who could refuse such agonised entreaty. they took her on board. and in less than five minutes she was rocking and tossing in a boat for the first time in her life, alone with two rough, hard-looking men. chapter xxviii. "john cropper, ahoy!" "a wet sheet and a flowing sea, a wind that follows fast and fills the white and rustling sail, and bends the gallant mast! and bends the gallant mast, my boys, while, like the eagle free, away the good ship flies, and leaves old england on the lee." allan cunningham. mary had not understood that charley was not coming with her. in fact, she had not thought about it, till she perceived his absence, as they pushed off from the landing-place, and remembered that she had never thanked him for all his kind interest in her behalf; and now his absence made her feel most lonely--even his, the little mushroom friend of an hour's growth. the boat threaded her way through the maze of larger vessels which surrounded the shore, bumping against one, kept off by the oars from going right against another, overshadowed by a third, until at length they were fairly out on the broad river, away from either shore; the sights and sounds of land being lost in the distance. and then came a sort of pause. both wind and tide were against the two men, and labour as they would they made but little way. once mary in her impatience had risen up to obtain a better view of the progress they had made, but the men had roughly told her to sit down immediately, and she had dropped on her seat like a chidden child, although the impatience was still at her heart. but now she grew sure they were turning off from the straight course which they had hitherto kept on the cheshire side of the river, whither they had gone to avoid the force of the current, and after a short time she could not help naming her conviction, as a kind of nightmare dread and belief came over her, that every thing animate and inanimate was in league against her one sole aim and object of overtaking will. they answered gruffly. they saw a boatman whom they knew, and were desirous of obtaining his services as steersman, so that both might row with greater effect. they knew what they were about. so she sat silent with clenched hands while the parley went on, the explanation was given, the favour asked and granted. but she was sickening all the time with nervous fear. they had been rowing a long, long time--half a day it seemed, at least--yet liverpool appeared still close at hand, and mary began almost to wonder that the men were not as much disheartened as she was, when the wind, which had been hitherto against them, dropped, and thin clouds began to gather over the sky, shutting out the sun, and casting a chilly gloom over every thing. there was not a breath of air, and yet it was colder than when the soft violence of the westerly wind had been felt. the men renewed their efforts. the boat gave a bound forwards at every pull of the oars. the water was glassy and motionless, reflecting tint by tint of the indian-ink sky above. mary shivered, and her heart sank within her. still now they evidently were making progress. then the steersman pointed to a rippling line in the river only a little way off, and the men disturbed mary, who was watching the ships that lay in what appeared to her the open sea, to get at their sails. she gave a little start, and rose. her patience, her grief, and perhaps her silence, had begun to win upon the men. "yon second to the norrard is the _john cropper_. wind's right now, and sails will soon carry us alongside of her." he had forgotten (or perhaps he did not like to remind mary) that the same wind which now bore their little craft along with easy, rapid motion, would also be favourable to the _john cropper_. but as they looked with straining eyes, as if to measure the decreasing distance that separated them from her, they saw her sails unfurled and flap in the breeze, till, catching the right point, they bellied forth into white roundness, and the ship began to plunge and heave, as if she were a living creature, impatient to be off. "they're heaving anchor!" said one of the boatmen to the others, as the faint musical cry of the sailors came floating over the waters that still separated them. full of the spirit of the chase, though as yet ignorant of mary's motives, the men sprang to hoist another sail. it was fully as much as the boat could bear, in the keen, gusty east wind which was now blowing, and she bent, and laboured, and ploughed, and creaked upbraidingly as if tasked beyond her strength; but she sped along with a gallant swiftness. they drew nearer, and they heard the distant "ahoy" more clearly. it ceased. the anchor was up, and the ship was away. mary stood up, steadying herself by the mast, and stretched out her arms, imploring the flying vessel to stay its course by that mute action, while the tears streamed down her cheeks. the men caught up their oars and hoisted them in the air, and shouted to arrest attention. they were seen by the men aboard the larger craft; but they were too busy with all the confusion prevalent in an outward-bound vessel to pay much attention. there were coils of ropes and seamen's chests to be stumbled over at every turn; there were animals, not properly secured, roaming bewildered about the deck, adding their pitiful lowings and bleatings to the aggregate of noises. there were carcases not cut up, looking like corpses of sheep and pigs rather than like mutton and pork; there were sailors running here and there and everywhere, having had no time to fall into method, and with their minds divided between thoughts of the land and the people they had left, and the present duties on board ship; while the captain strove hard to procure some kind of order by hasty commands given in a loud, impatient voice, to right and left, starboard and larboard, cabin and steerage. as he paced the deck with a chafed step, vexed at one or two little mistakes on the part of the mate, and suffering himself from the pain of separation from wife and children, but showing his suffering only by his outward irritation, he heard a hail from the shabby little river-boat that was striving to overtake his winged ship. for the men fearing that, as the ship was now fairly over the bar, they should only increase the distance between them, and being now within shouting range, had asked of mary her more particular desire. her throat was dry; all musical sound had gone out of her voice; but in a loud harsh whisper she told the men her errand of life and death, and they hailed the ship. "we're come for one william wilson, who is wanted to prove an _alibi_ in liverpool assize courts to-morrow. james wilson is to be tried for a murder, done on thursday night, when he was with william wilson. any thing more, missis?" asked the boat-man of mary, in a lower voice, and taking his hands down from his mouth. "say i'm mary barton. oh, the ship is going on! oh, for the love of heaven, ask them to stop." the boatman was angry at the little regard paid to his summons, and called out again; repeating the message with the name of the young woman who sent it, and interlarding it with sailors' oaths. the ship flew along--away,--the boat struggled after. they could see the captain take his speaking-trumpet. and oh! and alas! they heard his words. he swore a dreadful oath; he called mary a disgraceful name; and he said he would not stop his ship for any one, nor could he part with a single hand, whoever swung for it. the words came in unpitying clearness with their trumpet-sound. mary sat down, looking like one who prays in the death-agony. for her eyes were turned up to that heaven, where mercy dwelleth, while her blue lips quivered, though no sound came. then she bowed her head and hid it in her hands. "hark! yon sailor hails us." she looked up. and her heart stopped its beating to listen. william wilson stood as near the stern of the vessel as he could get; and unable to obtain the trumpet from the angry captain, made a tube of his own hands. "so help me god, mary barton, i'll come back in the pilot-boat, time enough to save the life of the innocent." "what does he say?" asked mary wildly, as the voice died away in the increasing distance, while the boatmen cheered, in their kindled sympathy with their passenger. "what does he say?" repeated she. "tell me. i could not hear." she had heard with her ears, but her brain refused to recognise the sense. they repeated his speech, all three speaking at once, with many comments; while mary looked at them and then at the vessel now far away. "i don't rightly know about it," said she, sorrowfully. "what is the pilot-boat?" they told her, and she gathered the meaning out of the sailors' slang which enveloped it. there was a hope still, although so slight and faint. "how far does the pilot go with the ship?" to different distances they said. some pilots would go as far as holyhead for the chance of the homeward-bound vessels; others only took the ships over the banks. some captains were more cautious than others, and the pilots had different ways. the wind was against the homeward bound vessels, so perhaps the pilot aboard the _john cropper_ would not care to go far out. "how soon would he come back?" there were three boatmen, and three opinions, varying from twelve hours to two days. nay, the man who gave his vote for the longest time, on having his judgment disputed, grew stubborn, and doubled the time, and thought it might be the end of the week before the pilot-boat came home. they began disputing, and urging reasons; and mary tried to understand them; but independently of their nautical language, a veil seemed drawn over her mind, and she had no clear perception of any thing that passed. her very words seemed not her own, and beyond her power of control, for she found herself speaking quite differently to what she meant. one by one her hopes had fallen away, and left her desolate; and though a chance yet remained, she could no longer hope. she felt certain it, too, would fade and vanish. she sank into a kind of stupor. all outward objects harmonised with her despair. the gloomy leaden sky,--the deep, dark waters below, of a still heavier shade of colour,--the cold, flat yellow shore in the distance, which no ray lightened up,--the nipping, cutting wind. she shivered with her depression of mind and body. the sails were taken down, of course, on the return to liverpool, and the progress they made, rowing and tacking, was very slow. the men talked together, disputing about the pilots at first, and then about matters of local importance, in which mary would have taken no interest at any time, and she gradually became drowsy; irrepressibly so, indeed, for in spite of her jerking efforts to keep awake she sank away to the bottom of the boat, and there lay couched on a rough heap of sails, rope, and tackle of various kinds. the measured beat of the waters against the sides of the boat, and the musical boom of the more distant waves, were more lulling than silence, and she slept sound. once she opened her eyes heavily, and dimly saw the old gray, rough boatman (who had stood out the most obstinately for the full fare) covering her with his thick pea-jacket. he had taken it off on purpose, and was doing it tenderly in his way, but before she could rouse herself up to thank him she had dropped off to sleep again. at last, in the dusk of evening, they arrived at the landing-place from which they had started some hours before. the men spoke to mary, but though she mechanically replied, she did not stir; so, at length, they were obliged to shake her. she stood up, shivering and puzzled as to her whereabouts. "now tell me where you are bound to, missis," said the gray old man, "and maybe i can put you in the way." she slowly comprehended what he said, and went through the process of recollection; but very dimly, and with much labour. she put her hand into her pocket and pulled out her purse, and shook its contents into the man's hand; and then began meekly to unpin her shawl, although they had turned away without asking for it. "no, no!" said the older man, who lingered on the step before springing into the boat, and to whom she mutely offered the shawl. "keep it! we donnot want it. it were only for to try you,--some folks say they've no more blunt, when all the while they've getten a mint." "thank you," said she, in a dull, low tone. "where are you bound to? i axed that question afore," said the gruff old fellow. "i don't know. i'm a stranger," replied she, quietly, with a strange absence of anxiety under the circumstances. "but you mun find out then," said he, sharply, "pier-head's no place for a young woman to be standing on, gape-saying." "i've a card somewhere as will tell me," she answered, and the man, partly relieved, jumped into the boat, which was now pushing off to make way for the arrivals from some steamer. mary felt in her pocket for the card, on which was written the name of the street where she was to have met mr. bridgenorth at two o'clock; where job and mrs. wilson were to have been, and where she was to have learnt from the former the particulars of some respectable lodging. it was not to be found. she tried to brighten her perceptions, and felt again, and took out the little articles her pocket contained, her empty purse, her pocket-handkerchief, and such little things, but it was not there. in fact she had dropped it when, so eager to embark, she had pulled out her purse to reckon up her money. she did not know this, of course. she only knew it was gone. it added but little to the despair that was creeping over her. but she tried a little more to help herself, though every minute her mind became more cloudy. she strove to remember where will had lodged, but she could not; name, street, every thing had passed away, and it did not signify; better she were lost than found. she sat down quietly on the top step of the landing, and gazed down into the dark, dank water below. once or twice a spectral thought loomed among the shadows of her brain; a wonder whether beneath that cold dismal surface there would not be rest from the troubles of earth. but she could not hold an idea before her for two consecutive moments; and she forgot what she thought about before she could act upon it. so she continued sitting motionless, without looking up, or regarding in any way the insults to which she was subjected. through the darkening light the old boatman had watched her: interested in her in spite of himself, and his scoldings of himself. when the landing-place was once more comparatively clear, he made his way towards it, across boats, and along planks, swearing at himself while he did so, for an old fool. he shook mary's shoulder violently. "d---- you, i ask you again where you're bound to? don't sit there, stupid. where are you going to?" "i don't know," sighed mary. "come, come; avast with that story. you said a bit ago you'd a card, which was to tell you where to go." "i had, but i've lost it. never mind." she looked again down upon the black mirror below. he stood by her, striving to put down his better self; but he could not. he shook her again. she looked up, as if she had forgotten him. "what do you want?" asked she, wearily. "come with me, and be d----d to you!" replied he, clutching her arm to pull her up. she arose and followed him, with the unquestioning docility of a little child. chapter xxix. a true bill against jem. "there are who, living by the legal pen, are held in honour--honourable men." crabbe. at five minutes before two, job legh stood upon the door-step of the house where mr. bridgenorth lodged at assize time. he had left mrs. wilson at the dwelling of a friend of his, who had offered him a room for the old woman and mary: a room which had frequently been his, on his occasional visits to liverpool, but which he was thankful now to have obtained for them, as his own sleeping-place was a matter of indifference to him, and the town appeared crowded and disorderly on the eve of the assizes. he was shown in to mr. bridgenorth, who was writing. mary and will wilson had not yet arrived, being, as you know, far away on the broad sea; but of this job of course knew nothing, and he did not as yet feel much anxiety about their non-appearance; he was more curious to know the result of mr. bridgenorth's interview that morning with jem. "why, yes," said mr. bridgenorth, putting down his pen, "i have seen him, but to little purpose, i'm afraid. he's very impracticable--very. i told him, of course, that he must be perfectly open with me, or else i could not be prepared for the weak points. i named your name with the view of unlocking his confidence, but--" "what did he say?" asked job, breathlessly. "why, very little. he barely answered me. indeed, he refused to answer some questions--positively refused. i don't know what i can do for him." "then you think him guilty, sir?" said job, despondingly. "no, i don't," replied mr. bridgenorth, quickly and decisively. "much less than i did before i saw him. the impression (mind, 'tis only impression; i rely upon your caution, not to take it for fact)--the impression," with an emphasis on the word, "he gave me is, that he knows something about the affair, but what, he will not say; and so the chances are, if he persists in his obstinacy, he'll be hung. that's all." he began to write again, for he had no time to lose. "but he must not be hung," said job, with vehemence. mr. bridgenorth looked up, smiled a little, but shook his head. "what did he say, sir, if i may be so bold as to ask?" continued job. "his words were few enough, and he was so reserved and short, that as i said before, i can only give you the impression they conveyed to me. i told him of course who i was, and for what i was sent. he looked pleased, i thought,--at least his face (sad enough when i went in, i assure ye) brightened a little; but he said he had nothing to say, no defence to make. i asked him if he was guilty, then; and by way of opening his heart i said i understood he had had provocation enough, inasmuch as i heard that the girl was very lovely, and had jilted him to fall desperately in love with that handsome young carson (poor fellow!). but james wilson did not speak one way or another. i then went to particulars. i asked him if the gun was his, as his mother had declared. he had not heard of her admission it was evident, from his quick way of looking up, and the glance of his eye; but when he saw i was observing him, he hung down his head again, and merely said she was right; it was his gun." "well!" said job, impatiently, as mr. bridgenorth paused. "nay! i have little more to tell you," continued that gentleman. "i asked him to inform me in all confidence, how it came to be found there. he was silent for a time, and then refused. not only refused to answer that question, but candidly told me he would not say another word on the subject, and, thanking me for my trouble and interest in his behalf, he all but dismissed me. ungracious enough on the whole, was it not, mr. legh? and yet, i assure ye, i am twenty times more inclined to think him innocent than before i had the interview." "i wish mary barton would come," said job, anxiously. "she and will are a long time about it." "ay, that's our only chance, i believe," answered mr. bridgenorth, who was writing again. "i sent johnson off before twelve to serve him with his sub-poena, and to say i wanted to speak with him; he'll be here soon, i've no doubt." there was a pause. mr. bridgenorth looked up again, and spoke. "mr. duncombe promised to be here to speak to his character. i sent him a subpoena on saturday night. though after all, juries go very little by such general and vague testimony as that to character. it is very right that they should not often; but in this instance unfortunate for us, as we must rest our case on the _alibi_." the pen went again, scratch, scratch over the paper. job grew very fidgetty. he sat on the edge of his chair, the more readily to start up when will and mary should appear. he listened intently to every noise and every step on the stair. once he heard a man's footstep, and his old heart gave a leap of delight. but it was only mr. bridgenorth's clerk, bringing him a list of those cases in which the grand jury had found true bills. he glanced it over and pushed it to job, merely saying, "of course we expected this," and went on with his writing. there was a true bill against james wilson. of course. and yet job felt now doubly anxious and sad. it seemed the beginning of the end. he had got, by imperceptible degrees, to think jem innocent. little by little this persuasion had come upon him. mary (tossing about in the little boat on the broad river) did not come, nor did will. job grew very restless. he longed to go and watch for them out of the window, but feared to interrupt mr. bridgenorth. at length his desire to look out was irresistible, and he got up and walked carefully and gently across the room, his boots creaking at every cautious step. the gloom which had overspread the sky, and the influence of which had been felt by mary on the open water, was yet more perceptible in the dark, dull street. job grew more and more fidgetty. he was obliged to walk about the room, for he could not keep still; and he did so, regardless of mr. bridgenorth's impatient little motions and noises, as the slow, stealthy, creaking movements were heard, backwards and forwards, behind his chair. he really liked job, and was interested for jem, else his nervousness would have overcome his sympathy long before it did. but he could hold out no longer against the monotonous, grating sound; so at last he threw down his pen, locked his portfolio, and taking up his hat and gloves, he told job he must go to the courts. "but will wilson is not come," said job, in dismay. "just wait while i run to his lodgings. i would have done it before, but i thought they'd be here every minute, and i were afraid of missing them. i'll be back in no time." "no, my good fellow, i really must go. besides, i begin to think johnson must have made a mistake, and have fixed with this william wilson to meet me at the courts. if you like to wait for him here, pray make use of my room; but i've a notion i shall find him there: in which case, i'll send him to your lodgings; shall i? you know where to find me. i shall be here again by eight o'clock, and with the evidence of this witness that's to prove the _alibi_, i'll have the brief drawn out, and in the hands of counsel to-night." so saying he shook hands with job, and went his way. the old man considered for a minute as he lingered at the door, and then bent his steps towards mrs. jones's, where he knew (from reference to queer, odd, heterogeneous memoranda, in an ancient black-leather pocket-book) that will lodged, and where he doubted not he should hear both of him and of mary. he went there, and gathered what intelligence he could out of mrs. jones's slow replies. he asked if a young woman had been there that morning, and if she had seen will wilson. "no!" "why not?" "why, bless you, 'cause he had sailed some hours before she came asking for him." there was a dead silence, broken only by the even, heavy sound of mrs. jones's ironing. "where is the young woman now?" asked job. "somewhere down at the docks," she thought. "charley would know, if he was in, but he wasn't. he was in mischief, somewhere or other, she had no doubt. boys always were. he would break his neck some day, she knew;" so saying, she quietly spat upon her fresh iron, to test its heat, and then went on with her business. job could have boxed her, he was in such a state of irritation. but he did not, and he had his reward. charley came in, whistling with an air of indifference, assumed to carry off his knowledge of the lateness of the hour to which he had lingered about the docks. "here's an old man come to know where the young woman is who went out with thee this morning," said his mother, after she had bestowed on him a little motherly scolding. "where she is now, i don't know. i saw her last sailing down the river after the _john cropper_. i'm afeared she won't reach her; wind changed and she would be under weigh, and over the bar in no time. she should have been back by now." it took job some little time to understand this, from the confused use of the feminine pronoun. then he inquired how he could best find mary. "i'll run down again to the pier," said the boy; "i'll warrant i'll find her." "thou shalt do no such a thing," said his mother, setting her back against the door. the lad made a comical face at job, which met with no responsive look from the old man, whose sympathies were naturally in favour of the parent; although he would thankfully have availed himself of charley's offer, for he was weary, and anxious to return to poor mrs. wilson, who would be wondering what had become of him. "how can i best find her? who did she go with, lad?" but charley was sullen at his mother's exercise of authority before a stranger, and at that stranger's grave looks when he meant to have made him laugh. "they were river boatmen;--that's all i know," said he. "but what was the name of their boat?" persevered job. "i never took no notice;--the anne, or william,--or some of them common names, i'll be bound." "what pier did she start from?" asked job, despairingly. "oh, as for that matter, it were the stairs on the prince's pier she started from; but she'll not come back to the same, for the american steamer came up with the tide, and anchored close to it, blocking up the way for all the smaller craft. it's a rough evening too, to be out on," he maliciously added. "well, god's will be done! i did hope we could have saved the lad," said job, sorrowfully; "but i'm getten very doubtful again. i'm uneasy about mary, too,--very. she's a stranger in liverpool." "so she told me," said charley. "there's traps about for young women at every corner. it's a pity she's no one to meet her when she lands." "as for that," replied job, "i don't see how any one could meet her when we can't tell where she would come to. i must trust to her coming right. she's getten spirit and sense. she'll most likely be for coming here again. indeed, i don't know what else she can do, for she knows no other place in liverpool. missus, if she comes, will you give your son leave to bring her to no. , back garden court, where there's friends waiting for her? i'll give him sixpence for his trouble." mrs. jones, pleased with the reference to her, gladly promised. and even charley, indignant as he was at first at the idea of his motions being under the control of his mother, was mollified at the prospect of the sixpence, and at the probability of getting nearer to the heart of the mystery. but mary never came. chapter xxx. job legh's deception. "poor susan moans, poor susan groans; the clock gives warning for eleven; 'tis on the stroke--'he must be near,' quoth betty, 'and will soon be here, as sure as there's a moon in heaven.' the clock is on the stroke of twelve, and johnny is not yet in sight, --the moon's in heaven, as betty sees, but betty is not quite at ease; and susan has a dreadful night." wordsworth. job found mrs. wilson pacing about in a restless way; not speaking to the woman at whose house she was staying, but occasionally heaving such deep oppressive sighs as quite startled those around her. "well!" said she, turning sharp round in her tottering walk up and down, as job came in. "well, speak!" repeated she, before he could make up his mind what to say; for, to tell the truth, he was studying for some kind-hearted lie which might soothe her for a time. but now the real state of the case came blurting forth in answer to her impatient questioning. "will's not to the fore. but he'll may be turn up yet, time enough." she looked at him steadily for a minute, as if almost doubting if such despair could be in store for her as his words seemed to imply. then she slowly shook her head, and said, more quietly than might have been expected from her previous excited manner, "don't go for to say that! thou dost not think it. thou'rt well-nigh hopeless, like me. i seed all along my lad would be hung for what he never did. and better he were, and were shut [ ] of this weary world, where there's neither justice nor mercy left." [footnote : "shut," quit.] she looked up with tranced eyes as if praying to that throne where mercy ever abideth, and then sat down. "nay, now thou'rt off at a gallop," said job. "will has sailed this morning for sure, but that brave wench, mary barton, is after him, and will bring him back, i'll be bound, if she can but get speech on him. she's not back yet. come, come, hold up thy head. it will all end right." "it will all end right," echoed she; "but not as thou tak'st it. jem will be hung, and will go to his father and the little lads, where the lord god wipes away all tears, and where the lord jesus speaks kindly to the little ones, who look about for the mothers they left upon earth. eh, job, yon's a blessed land, and i long to go to it, and yet i fret because jem is hastening there. i would not fret if he and i could lie down to-night to sleep our last sleep; not a bit would i fret if folk would but know him to be innocent--as i do." "they'll know it sooner or later, and repent sore if they've hanged him for what he never did," replied job. "ay, that they will. poor souls! may god have mercy on them when they find out their mistake." presently job grew tired of sitting waiting, and got up, and hung about the door and window, like some animal wanting to go out. it was pitch dark, for the moon had not yet risen. "you just go to bed," said he to the widow. "you'll want your strength for to-morrow. jem will be sadly off, if he sees you so cut up as you look to-night. i'll step down again and find mary. she'll be back by this time. i'll come and tell you every thing, never fear. but, now, you go to bed." "thou'rt a kind friend, job legh, and i'll go, as thou wishest me. but, oh! mind thou com'st straight off to me, and bring mary as soon as thou'st lit on her." she spoke low, but very calmly. "ay, ay!" replied job, slipping out of the house. he went first to mr. bridgenorth's, where it had struck him that will and mary might be all this time waiting for him. they were not there, however. mr. bridgenorth had just come in, and job went breathlessly up-stairs to consult with him as to the state of the case. "it's a bad job," said the lawyer, looking very grave, while he arranged his papers. "johnson told me how it was; the woman that wilson lodged with told him. i doubt it's but a wild-goose chase of the girl barton. our case must rest on the uncertainty of circumstantial evidence, and the goodness of the prisoner's previous character. a very vague and weak defence. however, i've engaged mr. clinton as counsel, and he'll make the best of it. and now, my good fellow, i must wish you good-night, and turn you out of doors. as it is, i shall have to sit up into the small hours. did you see my clerk as you came up-stairs? you did! then may i trouble you to ask him to step up immediately?" after this job could not stay, and, making his humble bow, he left the room. then he went to mrs. jones's. she was in, but charley had slipped off again. there was no holding that boy. nothing kept him but lock and key, and they did not always; for once she had him locked up in the garret, and he had got off through the skylight. perhaps now he was gone to see after the young woman down at the docks. he never wanted an excuse to be there. unasked, job took a chair, resolved to await charley's re-appearance. mrs. jones ironed and folded her clothes, talking all the time of charley and her husband, who was a sailor in some ship bound for india, and who, in leaving her their boy, had evidently left her rather more than she could manage. she moaned and croaked over sailors, and sea-port towns, and stormy weather, and sleepless nights, and trousers all over tar and pitch, long after job had left off attending to her, and was only trying to hearken to every step and every voice in the street. at last charley came in, but he came alone. "yon mary barton has getten into some scrape or another," said he, addressing himself to job. "she's not to be heard of at any of the piers; and bourne says it were a boat from the cheshire side as she went aboard of. so there's no hearing of her till to-morrow morning." "to-morrow morning she'll have to be in court at nine o'clock, to bear witness on a trial," said job, sorrowfully. "so she said; at least somewhat of the kind," said charley, looking desirous to hear more. but job was silent. he could not think of any thing further that could be done; so he rose up, and, thanking mrs. jones for the shelter she had given him, he went out into the street; and there he stood still, to ponder over probabilities and chances. after some little time he slowly turned towards the lodging where he had left mrs. wilson. there was nothing else to be done; but he loitered on the way, fervently hoping that her weariness and her woes might have sent her to sleep before his return, that he might be spared her questionings. he went very gently into the house-place where the sleepy landlady awaited his coming and his bringing the girl, who, she had been told, was to share the old woman's bed. but in her sleepy blindness she knocked things so about in lighting the candle (she could see to have a nap by fire-light, she said), that the voice of mrs. wilson was heard from the little back-room, where she was to pass the night. "who's there?" job gave no answer, and kept down his breath, that she might think herself mistaken. the landlady, having no such care, dropped the snuffers with a sharp metallic sound, and then, by her endless apologies, convinced the listening woman that job had returned. "job! job legh!" she cried out, nervously. "eh, dear!" said job to himself, going reluctantly to her bed-room door. "i wonder if one little lie would be a sin as things stand? it would happen give her sleep, and she won't have sleep for many and many a night (not to call sleep), if things goes wrong to-morrow. i'll chance it, any way." "job! art thou there?" asked she again with a trembling impatience that told in every tone of her voice. "ay! sure! i thought thou'd ha' been asleep by this time." "asleep! how could i sleep till i knowed if will were found?" "now for it," muttered job to himself. then in a louder voice, "never fear! he's found, and safe, ready for to-morrow." "and he'll prove that thing for my poor lad, will he? he'll bear witness that jem were with him? oh, job, speak! tell me all!" "in for a penny, in for a pound," thought job. "happen one prayer will do for the sum total. any rate, i must go on now.--ay, ay," shouted he, through the door. "he can prove all; and jem will come off as clear as a new-born babe." he could hear mrs. wilson's rustling movements, and in an instant guessed she was on her knees, for he heard her trembling voice uplifted in thanksgiving and praise to god, stopped at times by sobs of gladness and relief. and when he heard this, his heart misgave him; for he thought of the awful enlightening, the terrible revulsion of feeling that awaited her in the morning. he saw the short-sightedness of falsehood; but what could he do now? while he listened, she ended her grateful prayers. "and mary? thou'st found her at mrs. jones's, job?" said she, continuing her inquiries. he gave a great sigh. "yes, she was there, safe enough, second time of going.--god forgive me!" muttered he, "who'd ha' thought of my turning out such an arrant liar in my old days?" "bless the wench! is she here? why does she not come to bed? i'm sure she's need." job coughed away his remains of conscience, and made answer, "she was a bit weary, and o'er done with her sail; and mrs. jones axed her to stay there all night. it was nigh at hand to the courts, where she will have to be in the morning." "it comes easy enough after a while," groaned out job. "the father of lies helps one, i suppose, for now my speech comes as natural as truth. she's done questioning now, that's one good thing. i'll be off before satan and she are at me again." he went to the house-place, where the landlady stood wearily waiting. her husband was in bed, and asleep long ago. but job had not yet made up his mind what to do. he could not go to sleep, with all his anxieties, if he were put into the best bed in liverpool. "thou'lt let me sit up in this arm-chair," said he at length to the woman, who stood, expecting his departure. he was an old friend, so she let him do as he wished. but, indeed, she was too sleepy to have opposed him. she was too glad to be released and go to bed. chapter xxxi. how mary passed the night. "to think that all this long interminable night, which i have passed in thinking on two words-- 'guilty'--'not guilty!'--like one happy moment o'er many a head hath flown unheeded by; o'er happy sleepers dreaming in their bliss of bright to-morrows--or far happier still, with deep breath buried in forgetfulness. o all the dismallest images of death did swim before my eyes!" wilson. and now, where was mary? how job's heart would have been relieved of one of its cares if he could have seen her: for he was in a miserable state of anxiety about her; and many and many a time through that long night he scolded her and himself; her for her obstinacy, and himself for his weakness in yielding to her obstinacy, when she insisted on being the one to follow and find out will. she did not pass that night in bed any more than job; but she was under a respectable roof, and among kind, though rough people. she had offered no resistance to the old boatman, when he had clutched her arm, in order to insure her following him, as he threaded the crowded dock-ways, and dived up strange bye-streets. she came on meekly after him, scarcely thinking in her stupor where she was going, and glad (in a dead, heavy way) that some one was deciding things for her. he led her to an old-fashioned house, almost as small as house could be, which had been built long ago, before all the other part of the street, and had a country-town look about it in the middle of that bustling back street. he pulled her into the house-place; and relieved to a certain degree of his fear of losing her on the way, he exclaimed, "there!" giving a great slap of one hand on her back. the room was light and bright, and roused mary (perhaps the slap on her back might help a little, too), and she felt the awkwardness of accounting for her presence to a little bustling old woman who had been moving about the fire-place on her entrance. the boatman took it very quietly, never deigning to give any explanation, but sitting down in his own particular chair, and chewing tobacco, while he looked at mary with the most satisfied air imaginable, half triumphantly, as if she were the captive of his bow and spear, and half defyingly, as if daring her to escape. the old woman, his wife, stood still, poker in hand, waiting to be told who it was that her husband had brought home so unceremoniously; but, as she looked in amazement the girl's cheek flushed, and then blanched to a dead whiteness; a film came over her eyes, and catching at the dresser for support in that hot whirling room, she fell in a heap on the floor. both man and wife came quickly to her assistance. they raised her up, still insensible, and he supported her on one knee, while his wife pattered away for some cold fresh water. she threw it straight over mary; but though it caused a great sob, the eyes still remained closed, and the face as pale as ashes. "who is she, ben?" asked the woman, as she rubbed her unresisting, powerless hands. "how should i know?" answered her husband gruffly. "well-a-well!" (in a soothing tone, such as you use to irritated children), and as if half to herself, "i only thought you might, you know, as you brought her home. poor thing! we must not ask aught about her, but that she needs help. i wish i'd my salts at home, but i lent 'em to mrs. burton, last sunday in church, for she could not keep awake through the sermon. dear-a-me, how white she is!" "here! you hold her up a bit," said her husband. she did as he desired, still crooning to herself, not caring for his short, sharp interruptions as she went on; and, indeed, to her old, loving heart, his crossest words fell like pearls and diamonds, for he had been the husband of her youth; and even he, rough and crabbed as he was, was secretly soothed by the sound of her voice, although not for worlds, if he could have helped it, would he have shown any of the love that was hidden beneath his rough outside. "what's the old fellow after?" said she, bending over mary, so as to accommodate the drooping head. "taking my pen, as i've had better nor five year. bless us, and save us! he's burning it! ay, i see now, he's his wits about him; burnt feathers is always good for a faint. but they don't bring her round, poor wench! now what's he after next? well! he is a bright one, my old man! that i never thought of that, to be sure!" exclaimed she, as he produced a square bottle of smuggled spirits, labelled "golden wasser," from a corner cupboard in their little room. "that'll do!" said she, as the dose he poured into mary's open mouth made her start and cough. "bless the man! it's just like him to be so tender and thoughtful!" "not a bit!" snarled he, as he was relieved by mary's returning colour, and opened eyes, and wondering, sensible gaze; "not a bit! i never was such a fool afore." his wife helped mary to rise, and placed her in a chair. "all's right now, young woman?" asked the boatman, anxiously. "yes, sir, and thank you. i'm sure, sir, i don't know rightly how to thank you," faltered mary, softly forth. "be hanged to you and your thanks." and he shook himself, took his pipe, and went out without deigning another word; leaving his wife sorely puzzled as to the character and history of the stranger within her doors. mary watched the boatman leave the house, and then, turning her sorrowful eyes to the face of her hostess, she attempted feebly to rise, with the intention of going away,--where she knew not. "nay! nay! who e'er thou be'st, thou'rt not fit to go out into the street. perhaps" (sinking her voice a little) "thou'rt a bad one; i almost misdoubt thee, thou'rt so pretty. well-a-well! it's the bad ones as have the broken hearts, sure enough; good folk never get utterly cast down, they've always getten hope in the lord: it's the sinful as bear the bitter, bitter grief in their crushed hearts, poor souls; it's them we ought, most of all, to pity and to help. she shanna leave the house to-night, choose who she is,--worst woman in liverpool, she shanna. i wished i knew where th' old man picked her up, that i do." mary had listened feebly to this soliloquy, and now tried to satisfy her hostess in weak, broken sentences. "i'm not a bad one, missis, indeed. your master took me out to sea after a ship as had sailed. there was a man in it as might save a life at the trial to-morrow. the captain would not let him come, but he says he'll come back in the pilot-boat." she fell to sobbing at the thought of her waning hopes, and the old woman tried to comfort her, beginning with her accustomed, "well-a-well! and he'll come back, i'm sure. i know he will; so keep up your heart. don't fret about it. he's sure to be back." "oh! i'm afraid! i'm sore afraid he won't," cried mary, consoled, nevertheless, by the woman's assertions, all groundless as she knew them to be. still talking half to herself and half to mary, the old woman prepared tea, and urged her visitor to eat and refresh herself. but mary shook her head at the proffered food, and only drank a cup of tea with thirsty eagerness. for the spirits had thrown her into a burning heat, and rendered each impression received through her senses of the most painful distinctness and intensity, while her head ached in a terrible manner. she disliked speaking, her power over her words seemed so utterly gone. she used quite different expressions to those she intended. so she kept silent, while mrs. sturgis (for that was the name of her hostess) talked away, and put her tea-things by, and moved about incessantly, in a manner that increased the dizziness in mary's head. she felt as if she ought to take leave for the night and go. but where? presently the old man came back, crosser and gruffer than when he went away. he kicked aside the dry shoes his wife had prepared for him, and snarled at all she said. mary attributed this to his finding her still there, and gathered up her strength for an effort to leave the house. but she was mistaken. by-and-bye, he said (looking right into the fire, as if addressing it), "wind's right against them!" "ay, ay, and is it so?" said his wife, who, knowing him well, knew that his surliness proceeded from some repressed sympathy. "well-a-well, wind changes often at night. time enough before morning. i'd bet a penny it has changed sin' thou looked." she looked out of their little window at a weather-cock, near, glittering in the moonlight; and as she was a sailor's wife, she instantly recognised the unfavourable point at which the indicator seemed stationary, and giving a heavy sigh, turned into the room, and began to beat about in her own mind for some other mode of comfort. "there's no one else who can prove what you want at the trial to-morrow, is there?" asked she. "no one!" answered mary. "and you've no clue to the one as is really guilty, if t'other is not?" mary did not answer, but trembled all over. sturgis saw it. "don't bother her with thy questions," said he to his wife. "she mun go to bed, for she's all in a shiver with the sea air. i'll see after the wind, hang it, and the weather-cock, too. tide will help 'em when it turns." mary went up-stairs murmuring thanks and blessings on those who took the stranger in. mrs. sturgis led her into a little room redolent of the sea and foreign lands. there was a small bed for one son, bound for china; and a hammock slung above for another, who was now tossing in the baltic. the sheets looked made out of sail-cloth, but were fresh and clean in spite of their brownness. against the wall were wafered two rough drawings of vessels with their names written underneath, on which the mother's eyes caught, and gazed until they filled with tears. but she brushed the drops away with the back of her hand, and in a cheerful tone went on to assure mary the bed was well aired. "i cannot sleep, thank you. i will sit here, if you please," said mary, sinking down on the window-seat. "come, now," said mrs. sturgis, "my master told me to see you to bed, and i mun. what's the use of watching? a watched pot never boils, and i see you are after watching that weather-cock. why now, i try never to look at it, else i could do nought else. my heart many a time goes sick when the wind rises, but i turn away and work away, and try never to think on the wind, but on what i ha' getten to do." "let me stay up a little," pleaded mary, as her hostess seemed so resolute about seeing her to bed. her looks won her suit. "well, i suppose i mun. i shall catch it down stairs, i know. he'll be in a fidget till you're getten to bed, i know; so you mun be quiet if you are so bent upon staying up." and quietly, noiselessly, mary watched the unchanging weather-cock through the night. she sat on the little window-seat, her hand holding back the curtain which shaded the room from the bright moonlight without; her head resting its weariness against the corner of the window-frame; her eyes burning and stiff with the intensity of her gaze. the ruddy morning stole up the horizon, casting a crimson glow into the watcher's room. it was the morning of the day of trial! chapter xxxii. the trial and verdict--"not guilty." "thou stand'st here arraign'd, that, with presumption impious and accursed, thou hast usurp'd god's high prerogative, making thy fellow mortal's life and death wait on thy moody and diseased passions; that with a violent and untimely steel hast set abroach the blood that should have ebbed in calm and natural current: to sum all in one wild name--a name the pale air freezes at, and every cheek of man sinks in with horror-- thou art a cold and midnight murderer." milman's "fazio." of all the restless people who found that night's hours agonising from excess of anxiety, the poor father of the murdered man was perhaps the most restless. he had slept but little since the blow had fallen; his waking hours had been too full of agitated thought, which seemed to haunt and pursue him through his unquiet slumbers. and this night of all others was the most sleepless. he turned over and over again in his mind the wonder if every thing had been done that could be done, to insure the conviction of jem wilson. he almost regretted the haste with which he had urged forward the proceedings, and yet until he had obtained vengeance, he felt as if there was no peace on earth for him (i don't know that he exactly used the term vengeance in his thoughts; he spoke of justice, and probably thought of his desired end as such); no peace either bodily or mental, for he moved up and down his bedroom with the restless incessant tramp of a wild beast in a cage, and if he compelled his aching limbs to cease for an instant, the twitchings which ensued almost amounted to convulsions, and he re-commenced his walk as the lesser evil, and the more bearable fatigue. with daylight increased power of action came; and he drove off to arouse his attorney, and worry him with further directions and inquiries; and when that was ended, he sat, watch in hand, until the courts should be opened, and the trial begin. what were all the living,--wife or daughters,--what were they in comparison with the dead,--the murdered son who lay unburied still, in compliance with his father's earnest wish, and almost vowed purpose of having the slayer of his child sentenced to death, before he committed the body to the rest of the grave? at nine o'clock they all met at their awful place of _rendezvous_. the judge, the jury, the avenger of blood, the prisoner, the witnesses--all were gathered together within one building. and besides these were many others, personally interested in some part of the proceedings, in which, however, they took no part; job legh, ben sturgis, and several others were there, amongst whom was charley jones. job legh had carefully avoided any questioning from mrs. wilson that morning. indeed he had not been much in her company, for he had risen up early to go out once more to make inquiry for mary; and when he could hear nothing of her, he had desperately resolved not to undeceive mrs. wilson, as sorrow never came too late; and if the blow were inevitable, it would be better to leave her in ignorance of the impending evil as long as possible. she took her place in the witness-room, worn and dispirited, but not anxious. as job struggled through the crowd into the body of the court, mr. bridgenorth's clerk beckoned to him. "here's a letter for you from our client!" job sickened as he took it. he did not know why, but he dreaded a confession of guilt, which would be an overthrow of all hope. the letter ran as follows. dear friend,--i thank you heartily for your goodness in finding me a lawyer, but lawyers can do no good to me, whatever they may do to other people. but i am not the less obliged to you, dear friend. i foresee things will go against me--and no wonder. if i was a jury-man, i should say the man was guilty as had as much evidence brought against him as may be brought against me to-morrow. so it's no blame to them if they do. but, job legh, i think i need not tell you i am as guiltless in this matter as the babe unborn, although it is not in my power to prove it. if i did not believe that you thought me innocent, i could not write as i do now to tell you my wishes. you'll not forget they are the wishes of a man shortly to die. dear friend, you must take care of my mother. not in the money way, for she will have enough for her and aunt alice; but you must let her talk to you of me; and show her that (whatever others may do) you think i died innocent. i don't reckon she will stay long behind when we are all gone. be tender with her, job, for my sake; and if she is a bit fractious at times, remember what she has gone through. i know mother will never doubt me, god bless her. there is one other whom i fear i have loved too dearly; and yet, the loving her has made the happiness of my life. she will think i have murdered her lover; she will think i have caused the grief she must be feeling. and she must go on thinking so. it is hard upon me to say this; but she _must_. it will be best for her, and that's all i ought to think on. but, dear job, you are a hearty fellow for your time of life, and may live a many years to come; and perhaps you could tell her, when you felt sure you were drawing near your end, that i solemnly told you (as i do now) that i was innocent of this thing. you must not tell her for many years to come; but i cannot well bear to think on her living through a long life, and hating the thought of me as the murderer of him she loved, and dying with that hatred to me in her heart. it would hurt me sore in the other world to see the look of it in her face, as it would be, till she was told. i must not let myself think on how she must be viewing me now. so god bless you, job legh; and no more from yours to command, james wilson. job turned the letter over and over when he had read it; sighed deeply; and then wrapping it carefully up in a bit of newspaper he had about him, he put it in his waistcoat pocket, and went off to the door of the witness-room to ask if mary barton were there. as the door opened he saw her sitting within, against a table on which her folded arms were resting, and her head was hidden within them. it was an attitude of hopelessness, and would have served to strike job dumb in sickness of heart, even without the sound of mrs. wilson's voice in passionate sobbing, and sore lamentations, which told him as well as words could do (for she was not within view of the door, and he did not care to go in), that she was at any rate partially undeceived as to the hopes he had given her last night. sorrowfully did job return into the body of the court; neither mrs. wilson nor mary having seen him as he had stood at the witness-room door. as soon as he could bring his distracted thoughts to bear upon the present scene, he perceived that the trial of james wilson for the murder of henry carson was just commencing. the clerk was gabbling over the indictment, and in a minute or two there was the accustomed question, "how say you, guilty, or not guilty?" although but one answer was expected,--was customary in all cases,--there was a pause of dead silence, an interval of solemnity even in this hackneyed part of the proceeding; while the prisoner at the bar stood with compressed lips, looking at the judge with his outward eyes, but with far other and different scenes presented to his mental vision;--a sort of rapid recapitulation of his life,--remembrances of his childhood,--his father (so proud of him, his first-born child),--his sweet little playfellow, mary,--his hopes, his love,--his despair, yet still, yet ever and ever, his love,--the blank, wide world it had been without her love,--his mother,--his childless mother,--but not long to be so,--not long to be away from all she loved,--nor during that time to be oppressed with doubt as to his innocence, sure and secure of her darling's heart;--he started from his instant's pause, and said in a low firm voice, "not guilty, my lord." the circumstances of the murder, the discovery of the body, the causes of suspicion against jem, were as well known to most of the audience as they are to you, so there was some little buzz of conversation going on among the people while the leading counsel for the prosecution made his very effective speech. "that's mr. carson, the father, sitting behind serjeant wilkinson!" "what a noble-looking old man he is! so stern and inflexible, with such classical features! does he not remind you of some of the busts of jupiter?" "i am more interested by watching the prisoner. criminals always interest me. i try to trace in the features common to humanity some expression of the crimes by which they have distinguished themselves from their kind. i have seen a good number of murderers in my day, but i have seldom seen one with such marks of cain on his countenance as the man at the bar." "well, i am no physiognomist, but i don't think his face strikes me as bad. it certainly is gloomy and depressed, and not unnaturally so, considering his situation." "only look at his low, resolute brow, his downcast eye, his white compressed lips. he never looks up,--just watch him." "his forehead is not so low if he had that mass of black hair removed, and is very square, which some people say is a good sign. if others are to be influenced by such trifles as you are, it would have been much better if the prison barber had cut his hair a little previous to the trial; and as for down-cast eye, and compressed lip, it is all part and parcel of his inward agitation just now; nothing to do with character, my good fellow." poor jem! his raven hair (his mother's pride, and so often fondly caressed by her fingers), was that too to have its influence against him? the witnesses were called. at first they consisted principally of policemen; who, being much accustomed to giving evidence, knew what were the material points they were called on to prove, and did not lose the time of the court in listening to any thing unnecessary. "clear as day against the prisoner," whispered one attorney's clerk to another. "black as night, you mean," replied his friend; and they both smiled. "jane wilson! who's she? some relation, i suppose, from the name." "the mother,--she that is to prove the gun part of the case." "oh, ay--i remember! rather hard on her, too, i think." then both were silent, as one of the officers of the court ushered mrs. wilson into the witness-box. i have often called her "the old woman," and "an old woman," because, in truth, her appearance was so much beyond her years, which might not be many above fifty. but partly owing to her accident in early life, which left a stamp of pain upon her face, partly owing to her anxious temper, partly to her sorrows, and partly to her limping gait, she always gave me the idea of age. but now she might have seemed more than seventy; her lines were so set and deep, her features so sharpened, and her walk so feeble. she was trying to check her sobs into composure, and (unconsciously) was striving to behave as she thought would best please her poor boy, whom she knew she had often grieved by her uncontrolled impatience. he had buried his face in his arms, which rested on the front of the dock (an attitude he retained during the greater part of his trial, and which prejudiced many against him). the counsel began the examination. "your name is jane wilson, i believe." "yes, sir." "the mother of the prisoner at the bar?" "yes, sir;" with quivering voice, ready to break out into weeping, but earning respect by the strong effort at self-control, prompted, as i have said before, by her earnest wish to please her son by her behaviour. the barrister now proceeded to the important part of the examination, tending to prove that the gun found on the scene of the murder was the prisoner's. she had committed herself so fully to the policeman, that she could not well retract; so without much delay in bringing the question round to the desired point, the gun was produced in court, and the inquiry made-- "that gun belongs to your son, does it not?" she clenched the sides of the witness-box in her efforts to make her parched tongue utter words. at last she moaned forth, "oh! jem, jem! what mun i say?" every one bent forward to hear the prisoner's answer; although, in fact, it was of little importance to the issue of the trial. he lifted up his head; and with a face brimming full of pity for his mother, yet resolved into endurance, said, "tell the truth, mother!" and so she did, with the fidelity of a little child. every one felt that she did; and the little colloquy between mother and son did them some slight service in the opinion of the audience. but the awful judge sat unmoved; and the jurymen changed not a muscle of their countenances; while the counsel for the prosecution went triumphantly through this part of the case, including the fact of jem's absence from home on the night of the murder, and bringing every admission to bear right against the prisoner. it was over. she was told to go down. but she could no longer compel her mother's heart to keep silence, and suddenly turning towards the judge (with whom she imagined the verdict to rest), she thus addressed him with her choking voice. "and now, sir, i've telled you the truth, and the whole truth, as _he_ bid me; but don't ye let what i have said go for to hang him; oh, my lord judge, take my word for it, he's as innocent as the child as has yet to be born. for sure, i, who am his mother, and have nursed him on my knee, and been gladdened by the sight of him every day since, ought to know him better than yon pack of fellows" (indicating the jury, while she strove against her heart to render her words distinct and clear for her dear son's sake) "who, i'll go bail, never saw him before this morning in all their born days. my lord judge, he's so good i often wondered what harm there was in him; many is the time when i've been fretted (for i'm frabbit enough at times), when i've scold't myself, and said, 'you ungrateful thing, the lord god has given you jem, and isn't that blessing enough for you?' but he has seen fit to punish me. if jem is--if jem is--taken from me, i shall be a childless woman; and very poor, having nought left to love on earth, and i cannot say 'his will be done.' i cannot, my lord judge, oh, i cannot." while sobbing out these words she was led away by the officers of the court, but tenderly, and reverently, with the respect which great sorrow commands. the stream of evidence went on and on, gathering fresh force from every witness who was examined, and threatening to overwhelm poor jem. already they had proved that the gun was his, that he had been heard not many days before the commission of the deed to threaten the deceased; indeed, that the police had, at that time, been obliged to interfere to prevent some probable act of violence. it only remained to bring forward a sufficient motive for the threat and the murder. the clue to this had been furnished by the policeman, who had overheard jem's angry language to mr. carson; and his report in the first instance had occasioned the subpoena to mary. and now she was to be called on to bear witness. the court was by this time almost as full as it could hold; but fresh attempts were being made to squeeze in at all the entrances, for many were anxious to see and hear this part of the trial. old mr. carson felt an additional beat at his heart at the thought of seeing the fatal helen, the cause of all--a kind of interest and yet repugnance, for was not she beloved by the dead; nay, perhaps in her way, loving and mourning for the same being that he himself was so bitterly grieving over? and yet he felt as if he abhorred her and her rumoured loveliness, as if she were the curse against him; and he grew jealous of the love with which she had inspired his son, and would fain have deprived her of even her natural right of sorrowing over her lover's untimely end: for you see it was a fixed idea in the minds of all, that the handsome, bright, gay, rich young gentleman must have been beloved in preference to the serious, almost stern-looking smith, who had to toil for his daily bread. hitherto the effect of the trial had equalled mr. carson's most sanguine hopes, and a severe look of satisfaction came over the face of the avenger,--over that countenance whence the smile had departed, never more to return. all eyes were directed to the door through which the witnesses entered. even jem looked up to catch one glimpse before he hid his face from her look of aversion. the officer had gone to fetch her. she was in exactly the same attitude as when job legh had seen her two hours before through the half-open door. not a finger had moved. the officer summoned her, but she did not stir. she was so still he thought she had fallen asleep, and he stepped forward and touched her. she started up in an instant, and followed him with a kind of rushing rapid motion into the court, into the witness-box. and amid all that sea of faces, misty and swimming before her eyes, she saw but two clear bright spots, distinct and fixed: the judge, who might have to condemn; and the prisoner, who might have to die. the mellow sunlight streamed down that high window on her head, and fell on the rich treasure of her golden hair, stuffed away in masses under her little bonnet-cap; and in those warm beams the motes kept dancing up and down. the wind had changed--had changed almost as soon as she had given up her watching; the wind had changed, and she heeded it not. many who were looking for mere flesh and blood beauty, mere colouring, were disappointed; for her face was deadly white, and almost set in its expression, while a mournful bewildered soul looked out of the depths of those soft, deep, gray eyes. but others recognised a higher and stranger kind of beauty; one that would keep its hold on the memory for many after years. i was not there myself; but one who was, told me that her look, and indeed her whole face, was more like the well-known engraving from guido's picture of "beatrice cenci" than any thing else he could give me an idea of. he added, that her countenance haunted him, like the remembrance of some wild sad melody, heard in childhood; that it would perpetually recur with its mute imploring agony. with all the court reeling before her (always save and except those awful two), she heard a voice speak, and answered the simple inquiry (something about her name) mechanically, as if in a dream. so she went on for two or three more questions, with a strange wonder in her brain, as to the reality of the terrible circumstances in which she was placed. suddenly she was roused, she knew not how or by what. she was conscious that all was real, that hundreds were looking at her, that true-sounding words were being extracted from her; that that figure, so bowed down, with the face concealed by both hands, was really jem. her face flushed scarlet, and then paler than before. but in her dread of herself, with the tremendous secret imprisoned within her, she exerted every power she had to keep in the full understanding of what was going on, of what she was asked, and of what she answered. with all her faculties preternaturally alive and sensitive, she heard the next question from the pert young barrister, who was delighted to have the examination of this witness. "and pray, may i ask, which was the favoured lover? you say you knew both these young men. which was the favoured lover? which did you prefer?" and who was he, the questioner, that he should dare so lightly to ask of her heart's secrets? that he should dare to ask her to tell, before that multitude assembled there, what woman usually whispers with blushes and tears, and many hesitations, to one ear alone? so, for an instant, a look of indignation contracted mary's brow, as she steadily met the eyes of the impertinent counsellor. but, in that instant, she saw the hands removed from a face beyond, behind; and a countenance revealed of such intense love and woe,--such a deprecating dread of her answer; and suddenly her resolution was taken. the present was everything; the future, that vast shroud, it was maddening to think upon; but _now_ she might own her fault, but _now_ she might even own her love. now, when the beloved stood thus, abhorred of men, there would be no feminine shame to stand between her and her avowal. so she also turned towards the judge, partly to mark that her answer was not given to the monkeyfied man who questioned her, and likewise that her face might be averted from, and her eyes not gaze upon, the form that contracted with the dread of the words he anticipated. "he asks me which of them two i liked the best. perhaps i liked mr. harry carson once--i don't know--i've forgotten; but i loved james wilson, that's now on trial, above what tongue can tell--above all else on earth put together; and i love him now better than ever, though he has never known a word of it till this minute. for you see, sir, mother died before i was thirteen, before i could know right from wrong about some things; and i was giddy and vain, and ready to listen to any praise of my good looks; and this poor young mr. carson fell in with me, and told me he loved me; and i was foolish enough to think he meant me marriage: a mother is a pitiful loss to a girl, sir; and so i used to fancy i could like to be a lady, and rich, and never know want any more. i never found out how dearly i loved another till one day, when james wilson asked me to marry him, and i was very hard and sharp in my answer (for indeed, sir, i'd a deal to bear just then), and he took me at my word and left me; and from that day to this i've never spoken a word to him, or set eyes on him; though i'd fain have done so, to try and show him we had both been too hasty; for he'd not been gone out of my sight above a minute before i knew i loved--far above my life," said she, dropping her voice as she came to this second confession of the strength of her attachment. "but, if the gentleman asks me which i loved the best, i make answer, i was flattered by mr. carson, and pleased with his flattery; but james wilson i--" she covered her face with her hands, to hide the burning scarlet blushes, which even dyed her fingers. there was a little pause; still, though her speech might inspire pity for the prisoner, it only strengthened the supposition of his guilt. presently the counsellor went on with his examination. "but you have seen young mr. carson since your rejection of the prisoner?" "yes, often." "you have spoken to him, i conclude, at these times." "only once to call speaking." "and what was the substance of your conversation? did you tell him you found you preferred his rival?" "no, sir. i don't think as i've done wrong in saying, now as things stand, what my feelings are; but i never would be so bold as to tell one young man i cared for another. i never named jem's name to mr. carson. never." "then what did you say when you had this final conversation with mr. carson? you can give me the substance of it, if you don't remember the words." "i'll try, sir; but i'm not very clear. i told him i could not love him, and wished to have nothing more to do with him. he did his best to over-persuade me, but i kept steady, and at last i ran off." "and you never spoke to him again?" "never!" "now, young woman, remember you are upon your oath. did you ever tell the prisoner at the bar of mr. henry carson's attentions to you? of your acquaintance, in short? did you ever try to excite his jealousy by boasting of a lover so far above you in station?" "never. i never did," said she, in so firm and distinct a manner as to leave no doubt. "were you aware that he knew of mr. henry carson's regard for you? remember you are on your oath!" "never, sir. i was not aware until i heard of the quarrel between them, and what jem had said to the policeman, and that was after the murder. to this day i can't make out who told jem. oh, sir, may not i go down?" for she felt the sense, the composure, the very bodily strength which she had compelled to her aid for a time, suddenly giving way, and was conscious that she was losing all command over herself. there was no occasion to detain her longer; she had done her part. she might go down. the evidence was still stronger against the prisoner; but now he stood erect and firm, with self-respect in his attitude, and a look of determination on his face, which almost made it appear noble. yet he seemed lost in thought. job legh had all this time been trying to soothe and comfort mrs. wilson, who would first be in the court, in order to see her darling, and then, when her sobs became irrepressible, had to be led out into the open air, and sat there weeping, on the steps of the court-house. who would have taken charge of mary on her release from the witness-box i do not know, if mrs. sturgis, the boatman's wife, had not been there, brought by her interest in mary, towards whom she now pressed, in order to urge her to leave the scene of the trial. "no! no!" said mary, to this proposition. "i must be here, i must watch that they don't hang him, you know i must." "oh! they'll not hang him! never fear! besides the wind has changed, and that's in his favour. come away. you're so hot, and first white and then red; i'm sure you're ill. just come away." "oh! i don't know about any thing but that i must stay," replied mary, in a strange hurried manner, catching hold of some rails as if she feared some bodily force would be employed to remove her. so mrs. sturgis just waited patiently by her, every now and then peeping among the congregation of heads in the body of the court, to see if her husband were still there. and there he always was to be seen, looking and listening with all his might. his wife felt easy that he would not be wanting her at home until the trial was ended. mary never let go her clutched hold on the rails. she wanted them to steady her, in that heaving, whirling court. she thought the feeling of something hard compressed within her hand would help her to listen, for it was such pain, such weary pain in her head, to strive to attend to what was being said. they were all at sea, sailing away on billowy waves, and every one speaking at once, and no one heeding her father, who was calling on them to be silent, and listen to him. then again, for a brief second, the court stood still, and she could see the judge, sitting up there like an idol, with his trappings, so rigid and stiff; and jem, opposite, looking at her, as if to say, am i to die for what you know your ----. then she checked herself, and by a great struggle brought herself round to an instant's sanity. but the round of thought never stood still; and off she went again; and every time her power of struggling against the growing delirium grew fainter and fainter. she muttered low to herself, but no one heard her except her neighbour, mrs. sturgis; all were too closely attending to the case for the prosecution, which was now being wound up. the counsel for the prisoner had avoided much cross-examination, reserving to himself the right of calling the witnesses forward again; for he had received so little, and such vague instructions, and understood that so much depended on the evidence of one who was not forthcoming, that in fact he had little hope of establishing any thing like a show of a defence, and contented himself with watching the case, and lying in wait for any legal objections that might offer themselves. he lay back on the seat, occasionally taking a pinch of snuff in a manner intended to be contemptuous; now and then elevating his eyebrows, and sometimes exchanging a little note with mr. bridgenorth behind him. the attorney had far more interest in the case than the barrister, to which he was perhaps excited by his poor old friend job legh; who had edged and wedged himself through the crowd close to mr. bridgenorth's elbow, sent thither by ben sturgis, to whom he had been "introduced" by charley jones, and who had accounted for mary's disappearance on the preceding day, and spoken of their chase, their fears, their hopes. all this was told in a few words to mr. bridgenorth--so few, that they gave him but a confused idea, that time was of value; and this he named to his counsel, who now rose to speak for the defence. job legh looked about for mary, now he had gained, and given, some idea of the position of things. at last he saw her, standing by a decent-looking woman, looking flushed and anxious, and moving her lips incessantly, as if eagerly talking; her eyes never resting on any object, but wandering about as if in search of something. job thought it was for him she was seeking, and he struggled to get round to her. when he had succeeded, she took no notice of him, although he spoke to her, but still kept looking round and round in the same wild, restless manner. he tried to hear the low quick mutterings of her voice, as he caught the repetition of the same words over and over again. "i must not go mad. i must not, indeed. they say people tell the truth when they're mad; but i don't. i was always a liar. i was, indeed; but i'm not mad. i must not go mad. i must not, indeed." suddenly she seemed to become aware how earnestly job was listening (with mournful attention) to her words, and turning sharp round upon him, with upbraiding for his eaves-dropping on her lips, she caught sight of something,--or some one,--who, even in that state, had power to arrest her attention, and throwing up her arms with wild energy, she shrieked aloud, "oh, jem! jem! you're saved; and i _am_ mad--" and was instantly seized with convulsions. with much commiseration she was taken out of court, while the attention of many was diverted from her, by the fierce energy with which a sailor forced his way over rails and seats, against turnkeys and policemen. the officers of the court opposed this forcible manner of entrance, but they could hardly induce the offender to adopt any quieter way of attaining his object, and telling his tale in the witness-box, the legitimate place. for will had dwelt so impatiently on the danger in which his absence would place his cousin, that even yet he seemed to fear that he might see the prisoner carried off, and hung, before he could pour out the narrative which would exculpate him. as for job legh, his feelings were all but uncontrollable; as you may judge by the indifference with which he saw mary borne, stiff and convulsed, out of the court, in the charge of the kind mrs. sturgis, who, you will remember, was an utter stranger to him. "she'll keep! i'll not trouble myself about her," said he to himself, as he wrote with trembling hands a little note of information to mr. bridgenorth, who had conjectured, when will had first disturbed the awful tranquillity of the life-and-death court, that the witness had arrived (better late than never) on whose evidence rested all the slight chance yet remaining to jem wilson of escaping death. during the commotion in the court, among all the cries and commands, the dismay and the directions, consequent upon will's entrance, and poor mary's fearful attack of illness, mr. bridgenorth had kept his lawyer-like presence of mind; and long before job legh's almost illegible note was poked at him, he had recapitulated the facts on which will had to give evidence, and the manner in which he had been pursued, after his ship had taken her leave of the land. the barrister who defended jem took new heart when he was put in possession of these striking points to be adduced, not so much out of earnestness to save the prisoner, of whose innocence he was still doubtful, as because he saw the opportunities for the display of forensic eloquence which were presented by the facts; "a gallant tar brought back from the pathless ocean by a girl's noble daring," "the dangers of too hastily judging from circumstantial evidence," &c., &c.; while the counsellor for the prosecution prepared himself by folding his arms, elevating his eyebrows, and putting his lips in the form in which they might best whistle down the wind such evidence as might be produced by a suborned witness, who dared to perjure himself. for, of course, it is etiquette to suppose that such evidence as may be given against the opinion which lawyers are paid to uphold, is any thing but based on truth; and "perjury," "conspiracy," and "peril of your immortal soul," are light expressions to throw at the heads of those who may prove (not the speaker, there would then be some excuse for the hasty words of personal anger, but) the hirer of the speaker to be wrong, or mistaken. but when once will had attained his end, and felt that his tale, or part of a tale, would be heard by judge and jury; when once he saw jem standing safe and well before him (even though he saw him pale and care-worn at the felon's bar); his courage took the shape of presence of mind, and he awaited the examination with a calm, unflinching intelligence, which dictated the clearest and most pertinent answers. he told the story you know so well: how his leave of absence being nearly expired, he had resolved to fulfil his promise, and go to see an uncle residing in the isle of man; how his money (sailor-like) was all expended in manchester, and how, consequently, it had been necessary for him to walk to liverpool, which he had accordingly done on the very night of the murder, accompanied as far as hollins greeb by his friend and cousin, the prisoner at the bar. he was clear and distinct in every corroborative circumstance, and gave a short account of the singular way in which he had been recalled from his outward-bound voyage, and the terrible anxiety he had felt, as the pilot-boat had struggled home against the wind. the jury felt that their opinion (so nearly decided half an hour ago) was shaken and disturbed in a very uncomfortable and perplexing way, and were almost grateful to the counsel for the prosecution, when he got up, with a brow of thunder, to demolish the evidence, which was so bewildering when taken in connexion with every thing previously adduced. but if such, without looking to the consequences, was the first impulsive feeling of some among the jury, how shall i describe the vehemence of passion which possessed the mind of poor mr. carson, as he saw the effect of the young sailor's statement? it never shook his belief in jem's guilt in the least, that attempt at an alibi; his hatred, his longing for vengeance, having once defined an object to itself, could no more bear to be frustrated and disappointed than the beast of prey can submit to have his victim taken from his hungry jaws. no more likeness to the calm stern power of jupiter was there in that white eager face, almost distorted by its fell anxiety of expression. the counsel to whom etiquette assigned the cross-examination of will, caught the look on mr. carson's face, and in his desire to further the intense wish there manifested, he over-shot his mark even in his first insulting question: "and now, my man, you've told the court a very good and very convincing story; no reasonable man ought to doubt the unstained innocence of your relation at the bar. still there is one circumstance you have forgotten to name; and i feel that without it your evidence is rather incomplete. will you have the kindness to inform the gentlemen of the jury what has been your charge for repeating this very plausible story? how much good coin of her majesty's realm have you received, or are you to receive, for walking up from the docks, or some less creditable place, and uttering the tale you have just now repeated,--very much to the credit of your instructor, i must say? remember, sir, you are upon oath." it took will a minute to extract the meaning from the garb of unaccustomed words in which it was invested, and during this time he looked a little confused. but the instant the truth flashed upon him, he fixed his bright clear eyes, flaming with indignation, upon the counsellor, whose look fell at last before that stern unflinching gaze. then, and not till then, will made answer. "will you tell the judge and jury how much money you've been paid for your impudence towards one who has told god's blessed truth, and who would scorn to tell a lie, or blackguard any one, for the biggest fee as ever lawyer got for doing dirty work? will you tell, sir?-- but i'm ready, my lord judge, to take my oath as many times as your lordship or the jury would like, to testify to things having happened just as i said. there's o'brien, the pilot, in court now. would somebody with a wig on please to ask him how much he can say for me?" it was a good idea, and caught at by the counsel for the defence. o'brien gave just such testimony as was required to clear will from all suspicion. he had witnessed the pursuit, he had heard the conversation which took place between the boat and the ship; he had given will a homeward passage in his boat. and the character of an accredited pilot, appointed by trinity house, was known to be above suspicion. mr. carson sank back on his seat in sickening despair. he knew enough of courts to be aware of the extreme unwillingness of juries to convict, even where the evidence is most clear, when the penalty of such conviction is death. at the period of the trial most condemnatory to the prisoner, he had repeated this fact to himself in order to damp his too certain expectation of a conviction. now it needed not repetition, for it forced itself upon his consciousness, and he seemed to _know_, even before the jury retired to consult, that by some trick, some negligence, some miserable hocus-pocus, the murderer of his child, his darling, his absalom, who had never rebelled,--the slayer of his unburied boy would slip through the fangs of justice, and walk free and unscathed over that earth where his son would never more be seen. it was even so. the prisoner hid his face once more to shield the expression of an emotion he could not control, from the notice of the over-curious; job legh ceased his eager talking to mr. bridgenorth; charley looked grave and earnest; for the jury filed one by one back into their box, and the question was asked to which such an awful answer might be given. the verdict they had come to was unsatisfactory to themselves at last; neither being convinced of his innocence, nor yet quite willing to believe him guilty in the teeth of the alibi. but the punishment that awaited him, if guilty, was so terrible, and so unnatural a sentence for man to pronounce on man, that the knowledge of it had weighed down the scale on the side of innocence, and "not guilty" was the verdict that thrilled through the breathless court. one moment of silence, and then the murmurs rose, as the verdict was discussed by all with lowered voice. jem stood motionless, his head bowed; poor fellow, he was stunned with the rapid career of events during the last few hours. he had assumed his place at the bar with little or no expectation of an acquittal; and with scarcely any desire for life, in the complication of occurrences tending to strengthen the idea of mary's more than indifference to him; she had loved another, and in her mind jem believed that he himself must be regarded as the murderer of him she loved. and suddenly, athwart this gloom which made life seem such a blank expanse of desolation, there flashed the exquisite delight of hearing mary's avowal of love, making the future all glorious, if a future in this world he might hope to have. he could not dwell on any thing but her words, telling of her passionate love; all else was indistinct, nor could he strive to make it otherwise. she loved him. and life, now full of tender images, suddenly bright with all exquisite promises, hung on a breath, the slenderest gossamer chance. he tried to think that the knowledge of her love would soothe him even in his dying hours; but the phantoms of what life with her might be, would obtrude, and made him almost gasp and reel under the uncertainty he was enduring. will's appearance had only added to the intensity of this suspense. the full meaning of the verdict could not at once penetrate his brain. he stood dizzy and motionless. some one pulled his coat. he turned, and saw job legh, the tears stealing down his brown furrowed cheeks, while he tried in vain to command voice enough to speak. he kept shaking jem by the hand as the best and necessary expression of his feeling. "here! make yourself scarce! i should think you'd be glad to get out of that!" exclaimed the gaoler, as he brought up another livid prisoner, from out whose eyes came the anxiety which he would not allow any other feature to display. job legh pressed out of court, and jem followed unreasoningly. the crowd made way, and kept their garments tight about them, as jem passed, for about him there still hung the taint of the murderer. he was in the open air, and free once more! although many looked on him with suspicion, faithful friends closed round him; his arm was unresistingly pumped up and down by his cousin and job; when one was tired, the other took up the wholesome exercise, while ben sturgis was working off his interest in the scene by scolding charley for walking on his head round and round mary's sweetheart, for a sweetheart he was now satisfactorily ascertained to be, in spite of her assertion to the contrary. and all this time jem himself felt bewildered and dazzled; he would have given any thing for an hour's uninterrupted thought on the occurrences of the past week, and the new visions raised up during the morning; aye, even though that tranquil hour were to be passed in the hermitage of his quiet prison cell. the first question sobbed out by his choking voice, oppressed with emotion, was, "where is she?" they led him to the room where his mother sat. they had told her of her son's acquittal, and now she was laughing, and crying, and talking, and giving way to all those feelings which she had restrained with such effort during the last few days. they brought her son to her, and she threw herself upon his neck, weeping there. he returned her embrace, but looked around, beyond. excepting his mother there was no one in the room but the friends who had entered with him. "eh, lad!" said she, when she found voice to speak. "see what it is to have behaved thysel! i could put in a good word for thee, and the jury could na go and hang thee in the face of th' character i gave thee. was na it a good thing they did na keep me from liverpool? but i would come; i knew i could do thee good, bless thee, my lad. but thou'rt very white, and all of a tremble." he kissed her again and again, but looking round as if searching for some one he could not find, the first words he uttered were still, "where is she?" chapter xxxiii. requiescat in pace. "fear no more the heat o' th' sun, nor the furious winter's rages; thou thy worldly task hast done, home art gone and ta'en thy wages." cymbeline. "while day and night can bring delight, or nature aught of pleasure give; while joys above my mind can move for thee, and thee alone i live: "when that grim foe of joy below comes in between to make us part, the iron hand that breaks our band, it breaks my bliss--it breaks my heart." burns. she was where no words of peace, no soothing hopeful tidings could reach her; in the ghastly spectral world of delirium. hour after hour, day after day, she started up with passionate cries on her father to save jem; or rose wildly, imploring the winds and waves, the pitiless winds and waves, to have mercy; and over and over again she exhausted her feverish fitful strength in these agonised entreaties, and fell back powerless, uttering only the wailing moans of despair. they told her jem was safe, they brought him before her eyes; but sight and hearing were no longer channels of information to that poor distracted brain, nor could human voice penetrate to her understanding. jem alone gathered the full meaning of some of her strange sentences, and perceived that by some means or other she, like himself, had divined the truth of her father being the murderer. long ago (reckoning time by events and thoughts, and not by clock or dial-plate), jem had felt certain that mary's father was harry carson's murderer; and although the motive was in some measure a mystery, yet a whole train of circumstances (the principal of which was that john barton had borrowed the fatal gun only two days before) had left no doubt in jem's mind. sometimes he thought that john had discovered, and thus bloodily resented, the attentions which mr. carson had paid to his daughter; at others, he believed the motive to exist in the bitter feuds between the masters and their work-people, in which barton was known to take so keen an interest. but if he had felt himself pledged to preserve this secret, even when his own life was the probable penalty, and he believed he should fall, execrated by mary as the guilty destroyer of her lover, how much more was he bound now to labour to prevent any word of hers from inculpating her father, now that she was his own; now that she had braved so much to rescue him; and now that her poor brain had lost all guiding and controlling power over her words. all that night long jem wandered up and down the narrow precincts of ben sturgis's house. in the little bed-room where mrs. sturgis alternately tended mary, and wept over the violence of her illness, he listened to her ravings; each sentence of which had its own peculiar meaning and reference, intelligible to his mind, till her words rose to the wild pitch of agony, that no one could alleviate, and he could bear it no longer, and stole, sick and miserable down stairs, where ben sturgis thought it his duty to snore away in an arm-chair instead of his bed, under the idea that he should thus be more ready for active service, such as fetching the doctor to revisit his patient. before it was fairly light, jem (wide-awake, and listening with an earnest attention he could not deaden, however painful its results proved) heard a gentle subdued knock at the house door; it was no business of his, to be sure, to open it, but as ben slept on, he thought he would see who the early visitor might be, and ascertain if there was any occasion for disturbing either host or hostess. it was job legh who stood there, distinct against the outer light of the street. "how is she? eh! poor soul! is that her! no need to ask! how strange her voice sounds! screech! screech! and she so low, sweet-spoken, when she's well! thou must keep up heart, old boy, and not look so dismal, thysel." "i can't help it, job; it's past a man's bearing to hear such a one as she is, going on as she is doing; even if i did not care for her, it would cut me sore to see one so young, and--i can't speak of it, job, as a man should do," said jem, his sobs choking him. "let me in, will you?" said job, pushing past him, for all this time jem had stood holding the door, unwilling to admit job where he might hear so much that would be suggestive to one acquainted with the parties that mary named. "i'd more than one reason for coming betimes. i wanted to hear how yon poor wench was;--that stood first. late last night i got a letter from margaret, very anxious-like. the doctor says the old lady yonder can't last many days longer, and it seems so lonesome for her to die with no one but margaret and mrs. davenport about her. so i thought i'd just come and stay with mary barton, and see as she's well done to, and you and your mother and will go and take leave of old alice." jem's countenance, sad at best just now, fell lower and lower. but job went on with his speech. "she still wanders, margaret says, and thinks she's with her mother at home; but for all that, she should have some kith and kin near her to close her eyes, to my thinking." "could not you and will take mother home? i'd follow when--" jem faltered out thus far, when job interrupted, "lad! if thou knew what thy mother has suffered for thee, thou'd not speak of leaving her just when she's got thee from the grave as it were. why, this very night she roused me up, and 'job,' says she, 'i ask your pardon for wakening you, but tell me, am i awake or dreaming? is jem proved innocent? oh, job legh! god send i've not been only dreaming it!' for thou see'st she can't rightly understand why thou'rt with mary, and not with her. ay, ay! i know why; but a mother only gives up her son's heart inch by inch to his wife, and then she gives it up with a grudge. no, jem! thou must go with thy mother just now, if ever thou hopest for god's blessing. she's a widow, and has none but thee. never fear for mary! she's young and will struggle through. they are decent people, these folk she is with, and i'll watch o'er her as though she was my own poor girl, that lies cold enough in london-town. i grant ye, it's hard enough for her to be left among strangers. to my mind john barton would be more in the way of his duty, looking after his daughter, than delegating it up and down the country, looking after every one's business but his own." a new idea and a new fear came into jem's mind. what if mary should implicate her father? "she raves terribly," said he. "all night long she's been speaking of her father, and mixing up thoughts of him with the trial she saw yesterday. i should not wonder if she'll speak of him as being in court next thing." "i should na wonder, either," answered job. "folk in her way say many and many a strange thing; and th' best way is never to mind them. now you take your mother home, jem, and stay by her till old alice is gone, and trust me for seeing after mary." jem felt how right job was, and could not resist what he knew to be his duty, but i cannot tell you how heavy and sick at heart he was as he stood at the door to take a last fond, lingering look at mary. he saw her sitting up in bed, her golden hair, dimmed with her one day's illness, floating behind her, her head bound round with wetted cloths, her features all agitated, even to distortion, with the pangs of her anxiety. her lover's eyes filled with tears. he could not hope. the elasticity of his heart had been crushed out of him by early sorrows; and now, especially, the dark side of every thing seemed to be presented to him. what if she died, just when he knew the treasure, the untold treasure he possessed in her love! what if (worse than death) she remained a poor gibbering maniac all her life long (and mad people do live to be old sometimes, even under all the pressure of their burden), terror-distracted as she was now, and no one able to comfort her! "jem!" said job, partly guessing the other's feelings by his own. "jem!" repeated he, arresting his attention before he spoke. jem turned round, the little motion causing the tears to overflow and trickle down his cheeks. "thou must trust in god, and leave her in his hands." he spoke hushed, and low; but the words sank all the more into jem's heart, and gave him strength to tear himself away. he found his mother (notwithstanding that she had but just regained her child through mary's instrumentality) half inclined to resent his having passed the night in anxious devotion to the poor invalid. she dwelt on the duties of children to their parents (above all others), till jem could hardly believe the relative positions they had held only yesterday, when she was struggling with and controlling every instinct of her nature, only because _he_ wished it. however, the recollection of that yesterday, with its hair's breadth between him and a felon's death, and the love that had lightened the dark shadow, made him bear with the meekness and patience of a true-hearted man all the worrying little acerbities of to-day; and he had no small merit in so doing; for in him, as in his mother, the re-action after intense excitement had produced its usual effect in increased irritability of the nervous system. they found alice alive, and without pain. and that was all. a child of a few weeks old would have had more bodily strength; a child of a very few months old, more consciousness of what was passing before her. but even in this state she diffused an atmosphere of peace around her. true, will, at first, wept passionate tears at the sight of her, who had been as a mother to him, so standing on the confines of life. but even now, as always, loud passionate feeling could not long endure in the calm of her presence. the firm faith which her mind had no longer power to grasp, had left its trail of glory; for by no other word can i call the bright happy look which illumined the old earth-worn face. her talk, it is true, bore no more that constant earnest reference to god and his holy word which it had done in health, and there were no death-bed words of exhortation from the lips of one so habitually pious. for still she imagined herself once again in the happy, happy realms of childhood; and again dwelling in the lovely northern haunts where she had so often longed to be. though earthly sight was gone away, she beheld again the scenes she had loved from long years ago! she saw them without a change to dim the old radiant hues. the long dead were with her, fresh and blooming as in those bygone days. and death came to her as a welcome blessing, like as evening comes to the weary child. her work here was finished, and faithfully done. what better sentence can an emperor wish to have said over his bier? in second childhood (that blessing clouded by a name), she said her "nunc dimittis,"--the sweetest canticle to the holy. "mother, good night! dear mother! bless me once more! i'm very tired, and would fain go to sleep." she never spoke again on this side heaven. she died the day after their return from liverpool. from that time, jem became aware that his mother was jealously watching for some word or sign which should betoken his wish to return to mary. and yet go to liverpool he must and would, as soon as the funeral was over, if but for a single glimpse of his darling. for job had never written; indeed, any necessity for his so doing had never entered his head. if mary died, he would announce it personally; if she recovered, he meant to bring her home with him. writing was to him little more than an auxiliary to natural history; a way of ticketing specimens, not of expressing thoughts. the consequence of this want of intelligence as to mary's state was, that jem was constantly anticipating that every person and every scrap of paper was to convey to him the news of her death. he could not endure this state long; but he resolved not to disturb the house by announcing to his mother his purposed intention of returning to liverpool, until the dead had been carried forth. on sunday afternoon they laid her low with many tears. will wept as one who would not be comforted. the old childish feeling came over him, the feeling of loneliness at being left among strangers. by and bye, margaret timidly stole near him, as if waiting to console; and soon his passion sank down to grief, and grief gave way to melancholy, and though he felt as if he never could be joyful again, he was all the while unconsciously approaching nearer to the full happiness of calling margaret his own, and a golden thread was interwoven even now with the darkness of his sorrow. yet it was on his arm that jane wilson leant on her return homewards. jem took charge of margaret. "margaret, i'm bound for liverpool by the first train to-morrow; i must set your grandfather at liberty." "i'm sure he likes nothing better than watching over poor mary; he loves her nearly as well as me. but let me go! i have been so full of poor alice, i've never thought of it before; i can't do so much as many a one, but mary will like to have a woman about her that she knows. i'm sorry i waited to be reminded, jem." replied margaret, with some little self-reproach. but margaret's proposition did not at all agree with her companion's wishes. he found he had better speak out, and put his intention at once to the right motive; the subterfuge about setting job legh at liberty had done him harm instead of good. "to tell truth, margaret, it's i that must go, and that for my own sake, not your grandfather's. i can rest neither by night nor day for thinking on mary. whether she lives or dies i look on her as my wife before god, as surely and solemnly as if we were married. so being, i have the greatest right to look after her, and i cannot yield it even to--" "her father," said margaret, finishing his interrupted sentence. "it seems strange that a girl like her should be thrown on the bare world to struggle through so bad an illness. no one seems to know where john barton is, else i thought of getting morris to write him a letter telling him about mary. i wish he was home, that i do!" jem could not echo this wish. "mary's not bad off for friends where she is," said he. "i call them friends, though a week ago we none of us knew there were such folks in the world. but being anxious and sorrowful about the same thing makes people friends quicker than any thing, i think. she's like a mother to mary in her ways; and he bears a good character, as far as i could learn just in that hurry. we're drawing near home, and i've not said my say, margaret. i want you to look after mother a bit. she'll not like my going, and i've got to break it to her yet. if she takes it very badly, i'll come back to-morrow night; but if she's not against it very much, i mean to stay till it's settled about mary, one way or the other. will, you know, will be there, margaret, to help a bit in doing for mother." will's being there made the only objection margaret saw to this plan. she disliked the idea of seeming to throw herself in his way; and yet she did not like to say any thing of this feeling to jem, who had all along seemed perfectly unconscious of any love-affair, besides his own, in progress. so margaret gave a reluctant consent. "if you can just step up to our house to-night, jem, i'll put up a few things as may be useful to mary, and then you can say when you'll likely be back. if you come home to-morrow night, and will's there, perhaps i need not step up?" "yes, margaret, do! i shan't leave easy unless you go some time in the day to see mother. i'll come to-night, though; and now good-bye. stay! do you think you could just coax poor will to walk a bit home with you, that i might speak to mother by myself?" no! that margaret could not do. that was expecting too great a sacrifice of bashful feeling. but the object was accomplished by will's going up-stairs immediately on their return to the house, to indulge his mournful thoughts alone. as soon as jem and his mother were left by themselves, he began on the subject uppermost in his mind. "mother!" she put her handkerchief from her eyes, and turned quickly round so as to face him where he stood, thinking what best to say. the little action annoyed him, and he rushed at once into the subject. "mother! i am going back to liverpool to-morrow morning to see how mary barton is." "and what's mary barton to thee, that thou shouldst be running after her in that-a-way?" "if she lives, she shall be my wedded wife. if she dies--mother, i can't speak of what i shall feel if she dies." his voice was choked in his throat. for an instant his mother was interested by his words; and then came back the old jealousy of being supplanted in the affections of that son, who had been, as it were, newly born to her, by the escape he had so lately experienced from danger. so she hardened her heart against entertaining any feeling of sympathy; and turned away from the face, which recalled the earnest look of his childhood, when he had come to her in some trouble, sure of help and comfort. and coldly she spoke, in those tones which jem knew and dreaded, even before the meaning they expressed was fully shaped. "thou'rt old enough to please thysel. old mothers are cast aside, and what they've borne forgotten, as soon as a pretty face comes across. i might have thought of that last tuesday, when i felt as if thou wert all my own, and the judge were some wild animal trying to rend thee from me. i spoke up for thee then; but it's all forgotten now, i suppose." "mother! you know all this while, _you know_ i can never forget any kindness you've ever done for me; and they've been many. why should you think i've only room for one love in my heart? i can love you as dearly as ever, and mary too, as much as man ever loved woman." he awaited a reply. none was vouchsafed. "mother, answer me!" said he, at last. "what mun i answer? you asked me no question." "well! i ask you this now. to-morrow morning i go to liverpool to see her, who is as my wife. dear mother! will you bless me on my errand? if it please god she recovers, will you take her to you as you would a daughter?" she could neither refuse nor assent. "why need you go?" said she querulously, at length. "you'll be getting in some mischief or another again. can't you stop at home quiet with me?" jem got up, and walked about the room in despairing impatience. she would not understand his feelings. at last he stopped right before the place where she was sitting, with an air of injured meekness on her face. "mother! i often think what a good man father was! i've often heard you tell of your courting days; and of the accident that befell you, and how ill you were. how long is it ago?" "near upon five-and-twenty years," said she, with a sigh. "you little thought when you were so ill you should live to have such a fine strapping son as i am, did you now?" she smiled a little, and looked up at him, which was just what he wanted. "thou'rt not so fine a man as thy father was, by a deal!" said she, looking at him with much fondness, notwithstanding her depreciatory words. he took another turn or two up and down the room. he wanted to bend the subject round to his own case. "those were happy days when father was alive!" "you may say so, lad! such days as will never come again to me, at any rate." she sighed sorrowfully. "mother!" said he at last, stopping short, and taking her hand in his with tender affection, "you'd like me to be as happy a man as my father was before me, would not you? you'd like me to have some one to make me as happy as you made father? now, would you not, dear mother?" "i did not make him as happy as i might ha' done," murmured she, in a low, sad voice of self-reproach. "th' accident gave a jar to my temper it's never got the better of; and now he's gone where he can never know how i grieve for having frabbed him as i did." "nay, mother, we don't know that!" said jem, with gentle soothing. "any how, you and father got along with as few rubs as most people. but for _his_ sake, dear mother, don't say me nay, now that i come to you to ask your blessing before setting out to see her, who is to be my wife, if ever woman is; for _his_ sake, if not for mine, love her who i shall bring home to be to me all you were to him: and mother! i do not ask for a truer or a tenderer heart than yours is, in the long run." the hard look left her face; though her eyes were still averted from jem's gaze, it was more because they were brimming over with tears, called forth by his words, than because any angry feeling yet remained. and when his manly voice died away in low pleadings, she lifted up her hands, and bent down her son's head below the level of her own; and then she solemnly uttered a blessing. "god bless thee, jem, my own dear lad. and may he bless mary barton for thy sake." jem's heart leaped up, and from this time hope took the place of fear in his anticipations with regard to mary. "mother! you show your own true self to mary, and she'll love you as dearly as i do." so with some few smiles, and some few tears, and much earnest talking, the evening wore away. "i must be off to see margaret. why, it's near ten o'clock! could you have thought it? now don't you stop up for me, mother. you and will go to bed, for you've both need of it. i shall be home in an hour." margaret had felt the evening long and lonely; and was all but giving up the thoughts of jem's coming that night, when she heard his step at the door. he told her of his progress with his mother; he told her his hopes, and was silent on the subject of his fears. "to think how sorrow and joy are mixed up together. you'll date your start in life as mary's acknowledged lover from poor alice wilson's burial day. well! the dead are soon forgotten!" "dear margaret!--but you're worn out with your long evening waiting for me. i don't wonder. but never you, nor any one else, think because god sees fit to call up new interests, perhaps right out of the grave, that therefore the dead are forgotten. margaret, you yourself can remember our looks, and fancy what we're like." "yes! but what has that to do with remembering alice?" "why, just this. you're not always trying to think on our faces, and making a labour of remembering; but often, i'll be bound, when you're sinking off to sleep, or when you're very quiet and still, the faces you knew so well when you could see, come smiling before you with loving looks. or you remember them, without striving after it, and without thinking it's your duty to keep recalling them. and so it is with them that are hidden from our sight. if they've been worthy to be heartily loved while alive, they'll not be forgotten when dead; it's against nature. and we need no more be upbraiding ourselves for letting in god's rays of light upon our sorrow, and no more be fearful of forgetting them, because their memory is not always haunting and taking up our minds, than you need to trouble yourself about remembering your grandfather's face, or what the stars were like,--you can't forget if you would, what it's such a pleasure to think about. don't fear my forgetting aunt alice." "i'm not, jem; not now, at least; only you seemed so full about mary." "i've kept it down so long, remember. how glad aunt alice would have been to know that i might hope to have her for my wife! that's to say, if god spares her!" "she would not have known it, even if you could have told her this last fortnight,--ever since you went away she's been thinking always that she was a little child at her mother's apron-string. she must have been a happy little thing; it was such a pleasure to her to think about those early days, when she lay old and gray on her death-bed." "i never knew any one seem more happy all her life long." "ay! and how gentle and easy her death was! she thought her mother was near her." they fell into calm thought about those last peaceful happy hours. it struck eleven. jem started up. "i should have been gone long ago. give me the bundle. you'll not forget my mother. good night, margaret." she let him out and bolted the door behind him. he stood on the steps to adjust some fastening about the bundle. the court, the street, was deeply still. long ago had all retired to rest on that quiet sabbath evening. the stars shone down on the silent deserted streets, and the soft clear moonlight fell in bright masses, leaving the steps on which jem stood in shadow. a foot-fall was heard along the pavement; slow and heavy was the sound. before jem had ended his little piece of business, a form had glided into sight; a wan, feeble figure, bearing, with evident and painful labour, a jug of water from the neighbouring pump. it went before jem, turned up the court at the corner of which he was standing, passed into the broad, calm light; and there, with bowed head, sinking and shrunk body, jem recognised john barton. no haunting ghost could have had less of the energy of life in its involuntary motions than he, who, nevertheless, went on with the same measured clock-work tread until the door of his own house was reached. and then he disappeared, and the latch fell feebly to, and made a faint and wavering sound, breaking the solemn silence of the night. then all again was still. for a minute or two jem stood motionless, stunned by the thoughts which the sight of mary's father had called up. margaret did not know he was at home: had he stolen like a thief by dead of night into his own dwelling? depressed as jem had often and long seen him, this night there was something different about him still; beaten down by some inward storm, he seemed to grovel along, all self-respect lost and gone. must he be told of mary's state? jem felt he must not; and this for many reasons. he could not be informed of her illness without many other particulars being communicated at the same time, of which it were better he should be kept in ignorance; indeed, of which mary herself could alone give the full explanation. no suspicion that he was the criminal seemed hitherto to have been excited in the mind of any one. added to these reasons was jem's extreme unwillingness to face him, with the belief in his breast that he, and none other, had done the fearful deed. it was true that he was mary's father, and as such had every right to be told of all concerning her; but supposing he were, and that he followed the impulse so natural to a father, and wished to go to her, what might be the consequences? among the mingled feelings she had revealed in her delirium, ay, mingled even with the most tender expressions of love for her father, was a sort of horror of him; a dread of him as a blood-shedder, which seemed to separate him into two persons,--one, the father who had dandled her on his knee, and loved her all her life long; the other, the assassin, the cause of all her trouble and woe. if he presented himself before her while this idea of his character was uppermost, who might tell the consequence? jem could not, and would not, expose her to any such fearful chance: and to tell the truth, i believe he looked upon her as more his own, to guard from all shadow of injury with most loving care, than as belonging to any one else in this world, though girt with the reverend name of father, and guiltless of aught that might have lessened such reverence. if you think this account of mine confused, of the half-feelings, half-reasons, which passed through jem's mind, as he stood gazing at the empty space, where that crushed form had so lately been seen,--if you are perplexed to disentangle the real motives, i do assure you it was from just such an involved set of thoughts that jem drew the resolution to act as if he had not seen that phantom likeness of john barton; himself, yet not himself. chapter xxxiv. the return home. "_dixwell._ forgiveness! oh, forgiveness, and a grave! _mary._ god knows thy heart, my father! and i shudder to think what thou perchance hast acted. _dixwell._ oh! _mary._ no common load of woe is thine, my father." elliott's "kerhonah." mary still hovered between life and death when jem arrived at the house where she lay; and the doctors were as yet unwilling to compromise their wisdom by allowing too much hope to be entertained. but the state of things, if not less anxious, was less distressing than when jem had quitted her. she lay now in a stupor, which was partly disease, and partly exhaustion after the previous excitement. and now jem found the difficulty which every one who has watched by a sick bed knows full well; and which is perhaps more insurmountable to men than it is to women,--the difficulty of being patient, and trying not to expect any visible change for long, long hours of sad monotony. but after awhile the reward came. the laboured breathing became lower and softer, the heavy look of oppressive pain melted away from the face, and a languor that was almost peace took the place of suffering. she slept a natural sleep; and they stole about on tip-toe, and spoke low, and softly, and hardly dared to breathe, however much they longed to sigh out their thankful relief. she opened her eyes. her mind was in the tender state of a lately-born infant's. she was pleased with the gay but not dazzling colours of the paper; soothed by the subdued light; and quite sufficiently amused by looking at all the objects in the room,--the drawing of the ships, the festoons of the curtain, the bright flowers on the painted backs of the chairs,--to care for any stronger excitement. she wondered at the ball of glass, containing various coloured sands from the isle of wight, or some such place, which hung suspended from the middle of the little valance over the window. but she did not care to exert herself to ask any questions, although she saw mrs. sturgis standing at the bed-side with some tea, ready to drop it into her mouth by spoonfuls. she did not see the face of honest joy, of earnest thankfulness,--the clasped hands,--the beaming eyes,--the trembling eagerness of gesture, of one who had long awaited her awakening, and who now stood behind the curtains watching through some little chink her every faint motion; or if she had caught a glimpse of that loving, peeping face, she was in too exhausted a state to have taken much notice, or have long retained the impression that he she loved so well was hanging about her, and blessing god for every conscious look which stole over her countenance. she fell softly into slumber, without a word having been spoken by any one during that half hour of inexpressible joy. and again the stillness was enforced by sign and whispered word, but with eyes that beamed out their bright thoughts of hope. jem sat by the side of the bed, holding back the little curtain, and gazing as if he could never gaze his fill at the pale, wasted face, so marbled and so chiselled in its wan outline. she wakened once more; her soft eyes opened, and met his over-bending look. she smiled gently, as a baby does when it sees its mother tending its little cot; and continued her innocent, infantine gaze into his face, as if the sight gave her much unconscious pleasure. but by-and-by a different expression came into her sweet eyes; a look of memory and intelligence; her white face flushed the brightest rosy red, and with feeble motion she tried to hide her head in the pillow. it required all jem's self-control to do what he knew and felt to be necessary, to call mrs. sturgis, who was quietly dozing by the fireside; and that done, he felt almost obliged to leave the room to keep down the happy agitation which would gush out in every feature, every gesture, and every tone. from that time forward mary's progress towards health was rapid. there was every reason, but one, in favour of her speedy removal home. all jem's duties lay in manchester. it was his mother's dwelling-place, and there his plans for life had been to be worked out; plans, which the suspicion and imprisonment he had fallen into, had thrown for a time into a chaos, which his presence was required to arrange into form. for he might find, in spite of a jury's verdict, that too strong a taint was on his character for him ever to labour in manchester again. he remembered the manner in which some one suspected of having been a convict was shunned by masters and men, when he had accidentally met with work in their foundry; the recollection smote him now, how he himself had thought that it did not become an honest upright man to associate with one who had been a prisoner. he could not choose but think on that poor humble being, with his downcast conscious look; hunted out of the work-shop, where he had sought to earn an honest livelihood, by the looks, and half-spoken words, and the black silence of repugnance (worse than words to bear), that met him on all sides. jem felt that his own character had been attainted; and that to many it might still appear suspicious. he knew that he could convince the world, by a future as blameless as his past had been, that he was innocent. but at the same time he saw that he must have patience, and nerve himself for some trials; and the sooner these were undergone, the sooner he was aware of the place he held in men's estimation, the better. he longed to have presented himself once more at the foundry; and then the reality would drive away the pictures that would (unbidden) come of a shunned man, eyed askance by all, and driven forth to shape out some new career. i said every reason "but one" inclined jem to hasten mary's return as soon as she was sufficiently convalescent. that one was the meeting which awaited her at home. turn it over as jem would, he could not decide what was the best course to pursue. he could compel himself to any line of conduct that his reason and his sense of right told him to be desirable; but they did not tell him it was desirable to speak to mary, in her tender state of mind and body, of her father. how much would be implied by the mere mention of his name! speak it as calmly, and as indifferently as he might, he could not avoid expressing some consciousness of the terrible knowledge she possessed. she, for her part, was softer and gentler than she had ever been in her gentlest mood; since her illness, her motions, her glances, her voice were all tender in their languor. it seemed almost a trouble to her to break the silence with the low sounds of her own sweet voice, and her words fell sparingly on jem's greedy, listening ear. her face was, however, so full of love and confidence, that jem felt no uneasiness at the state of silent abstraction into which she often fell. if she did but love him, all would yet go right; and it was better not to press for confidence on that one subject which must be painful to both. there came a fine, bright, balmy day. and mary tottered once more out into the open air, leaning on jem's arm, and close to his beating heart. and mrs. sturgis watched them from her door, with a blessing on her lips, as they went slowly up the street. they came in sight of the river. mary shuddered. "oh, jem! take me home. yon river seems all made of glittering, heaving, dazzling metal, just as it did when i began to be ill." jem led her homewards. she dropped her head as searching for something on the ground. "jem!" he was all attention. she paused for an instant. "when may i go home? to manchester, i mean. i am so weary of this place; and i would fain be at home." she spoke in a feeble voice; not at all impatiently, as the words themselves would seem to intimate, but in a mournful way, as if anticipating sorrow even in the very fulfilment of her wishes. "darling! we will go whenever you wish; whenever you feel strong enough. i asked job to tell margaret to get all in readiness for you to go there at first. she'll tend you and nurse you. you must not go home. job proffered for you to go there." "ah! but i must go home, jem. i'll try and not fail now in what's right. there are things we must not speak on" (lowering her voice), "but you'll be really kind if you'll not speak against my going home. let us say no more about it, dear jem. i must go home, and i must go alone." "not alone, mary!" "yes, alone! i cannot tell you why i ask it. and if you guess, i know you well enough to be sure you'll understand why i ask you never to speak on that again to me, till i begin. promise, dear jem, promise!" he promised; to gratify that beseeching face he promised. and then he repented, and felt as if he had done ill. then again he felt as if she were the best judge, and knowing all (perhaps more than even he did) might be forming plans which his interference would mar. one thing was certain! it was a miserable thing to have this awful forbidden ground of discourse; to guess at each other's thoughts, when eyes were averted, and cheeks blanched, and words stood still, arrested in their flow by some casual allusion. at last a day, fine enough for mary to travel on, arrived. she had wished to go, but now her courage failed her. how could she have said she was weary of that quiet house, where even ben sturgis' grumblings only made a kind of harmonious bass in the concord between him and his wife, so thoroughly did they know each other with the knowledge of many years! how could she have longed to quit that little peaceful room where she had experienced such loving tendence! even the very check bed-curtains became dear to her under the idea of seeing them no more. if it was so with inanimate objects, if they had such power of exciting regret, what were her feelings with regard to the kind old couple, who had taken the stranger in, and cared for her, and nursed her, as though she had been a daughter? each wilful sentence spoken in the half unconscious irritation of feebleness came now with avenging self-reproach to her memory, as she hung about mrs. sturgis, with many tears, which served instead of words to express her gratitude and love. ben bustled about with the square bottle of goldenwasser in one of his hands, and a small tumbler in the other; he went to mary, jem, and his wife in succession, pouring out a glass for each and bidding them drink it to keep their spirits up: but as each severally refused, he drank it himself; and passed on to offer the same hospitality to another with the like refusal, and the like result. when he had swallowed the last of the three draughts, he condescended to give his reasons for having done so. "i cannot abide waste. what's poured out mun be drunk. that's my maxim." so saying, he replaced the bottle in the cupboard. it was he who in a firm commanding voice at last told jem and mary to be off, or they would be too late. mrs. sturgis had kept up till then; but as they left her house, she could no longer restrain her tears, and cried aloud in spite of her husband's upbraiding. "perhaps they'll be too late for th' train!" exclaimed she, with a degree of hope, as the clock struck two. "what! and come back again! no! no! that would never do. we've done our part, and cried our cry; it's no use going o'er the same ground again. i should ha' to give 'em more out of yon bottle when next parting time came, and them three glasses they had made a hole in the stuff, i can tell you. time jack was back from hamburg with some more." when they reached manchester, mary looked very white, and the expression on her face was almost stern. she was in fact summoning up her resolution to meet her father if he were at home. jem had never named his midnight glimpse of john barton to human being; but mary had a sort of presentiment that wander where he would, he would seek his home at last. but in what mood she dreaded to think. for the knowledge of her father's capability of guilt seemed to have opened a dark gulf in his character, into the depths of which she trembled to look. at one moment she would fain have claimed protection against the life she must lead, for some time at least, alone with a murderer! she thought of his gloom, before his mind was haunted by the memory of so terrible a crime; his moody, irritable ways. she imagined the evenings as of old: she, toiling at some work, long after houses were shut, and folks abed; he, more savage than he had ever been before with the inward gnawing of his remorse. at such times she could have cried aloud with terror, at the scenes her fancy conjured up. but her filial duty, nay, her love and gratitude for many deeds of kindness done to her as a little child, conquered all fear. she would endure all imaginable terrors, although of daily occurrence. and she would patiently bear all wayward violence of temper; more than patiently would she bear it--pitifully, as one who knew of some awful curse awaiting the blood-shedder. she would watch over him tenderly, as the innocent should watch over the guilty; awaiting the gracious seasons, wherein to pour oil and balm into the bitter wounds. with the untroubled peace which the resolve to endure to the end gives, she approached the house that from habit she still called home, but which possessed the holiness of home no longer. "jem!" said she, as they stood at the entrance to the court, close by job legh's door, "you must go in there and wait half-an-hour. not less. if in that time i don't come back, you go your ways to your mother. give her my dear love. i will send by margaret when i want to see you." she sighed heavily. "mary! mary! i cannot leave you. you speak as coldly as if we were to be nought to each other. and my heart's bound up in you. i know why you bid me keep away, but--" she put her hand on his arm, as he spoke in a loud agitated tone; she looked into his face with upbraiding love in her eyes, and then she said, while her lips quivered, and he felt her whole frame trembling: "dear jem! i often could have told you more of love, if i had not once spoken out so free. remember that time, jem, if ever you think me cold. then, the love that's in my heart would out in words; but now, though i'm silent on the pain i'm feeling in quitting you, the love is in my heart all the same. but this is not the time to speak on such things. if i do not do what i feel to be right now, i may blame myself all my life long! jem, you promised--" and so saying she left him. she went quicker than she would otherwise have passed over those few yards of ground, for fear he should still try to accompany her. her hand was on the latch, and in a breath the door was opened. there sat her father, still and motionless--not even turning his head to see who had entered; but perhaps he recognised the foot-step,--the trick of action. he sat by the fire; the grate i should say, for fire there was none. some dull, gray ashes, negligently left, long days ago, coldly choked up the bars. he had taken the accustomed seat from mere force of habit, which ruled his automaton-body. for all energy, both physical and mental, seemed to have retreated inwards to some of the great citadels of life, there to do battle against the destroyer, conscience. his hands were crossed, his fingers interlaced; usually a position implying some degree of resolution, or strength; but in him it was so faintly maintained, that it appeared more the result of chance; an attitude requiring some application of outward force to alter,--and a blow with a straw seemed as though it would be sufficient. and as for his face, it was sunk and worn,--like a skull, with yet a suffering expression that skulls have not! your heart would have ached to have seen the man, however hardly you might have judged his crime. but crime and all was forgotten by his daughter, as she saw his abashed look, his smitten helplessness. all along she had felt it difficult (as i may have said before) to reconcile the two ideas, of her father and a blood-shedder. but now it was impossible. he was her father! her own dear father! and in his sufferings, whatever their cause, more dearly loved than ever before. his crime was a thing apart, never more to be considered by her. and tenderly did she treat him, and fondly did she serve him in every way that heart could devise, or hand execute. she had some money about her, the price of her strange services as a witness; and when the lingering dusk drew on, she stole out to effect some purchases necessary for her father's comfort. for how body and soul had been kept together, even as much as they were, during the days he had dwelt alone, no one can say. the house was bare as when mary had left it, of coal, or of candle, of food, or of blessing in any shape. she came quickly home; but as she passed job legh's door, she stopped. doubtless jem had long since gone; and doubtless, too, he had given margaret some good reason for not intruding upon her friend for this night at least, otherwise mary would have seen her before now. but to-morrow,--would she not come in to-morrow? and who so quick as blind margaret in noticing tones, and sighs, and even silence? she did not give herself time for further thought, her desire to be once more with her father was too pressing; but she opened the door, before she well knew what to say. "it's mary barton! i know her by her breathing! grandfather, it's mary barton!" margaret's joy at meeting her, the open demonstration of her love, affected mary much; she could not keep from crying, and sat down weak and agitated on the first chair she could find. "ay, ay, mary! thou'rt looking a bit different to when i saw thee last. thou'lt give jem and me good characters for sick nurses, i trust. if all trades fail, i'll turn to that. jem's place is for life, i reckon. nay, never redden so, lass. you and he know each other's minds by this time!" margaret held her hand, and gently smiled into her face. job legh took the candle up, and began a leisurely inspection. "thou hast getten a bit of pink in thy cheeks,--not much; but when last i saw thee, thy lips were as white as a sheet. thy nose is sharpish at th' end; thou'rt more like thy father than ever thou wert before. lord! child, what's the matter? art thou going to faint?" for mary had sickened at the mention of that name; yet she felt that now or never was the time to speak. "father's come home!" she said, "but he's very poorly; i never saw him as he is now, before. i asked jem not to come near him for fear it might fidget him." she spoke hastily, and (to her own idea) in an unnatural manner. but they did not seem to notice it, nor to take the hint she had thrown out of company being unacceptable; for job legh directly put down some insect, which he was impaling on a corking-pin, and exclaimed, "thy father come home! why, jem never said a word of it! and ailing too! i'll go in, and cheer him with a bit of talk. i ne'er knew any good come of delegating it." "oh, job! father cannot stand--father is too ill. don't come; not but that you're very kind and good; but to-night--indeed," said she at last, in despair, seeing job still persevere in putting away his things; "you must not come till i send or come for you. father's in that strange way, i can't answer for it if he sees strangers. please don't come. i'll come and tell you every day how he goes on. i must be off now to see after him. dear job! kind job! don't be angry with me. if you knew all you'd pity me." for job was muttering away in high dudgeon, and even margaret's tone was altered as she wished mary good night. just then she could ill brook coldness from any one, and least of all bear the idea of being considered ungrateful by so kind and zealous a friend as job had been; so she turned round suddenly, even when her hand was on the latch of the door, and ran back, and threw her arms about his neck, and kissed him first, and then margaret. and then, the tears fast-falling down her cheeks, but no word spoken, she hastily left the house, and went back to her home. there was no change in her father's position, or in his spectral look. he had answered her questions (but few in number, for so many subjects were unapproachable) by monosyllables, and in a weak, high, childish voice; but he had not lifted his eyes; he could not meet his daughter's look. and she, when she spoke, or as she moved about, avoided letting her eyes rest upon him. she wished to be her usual self; but while every thing was done with a consciousness of purpose, she felt it was impossible. in this manner things went on for some days. at night he feebly clambered up stairs to bed; and during those long dark hours mary heard those groans of agony which never escaped his lips by day, when they were compressed in silence over his inward woe. many a time she sat up listening, and wondering if it would ease his miserable heart if she went to him, and told him she knew all, and loved and pitied him more than words could tell. by day the monotonous hours wore on in the same heavy, hushed manner as on that first dreary afternoon. he ate,--but without relish; and food seemed no longer to nourish him, for each morning his face had caught more of the ghastly fore-shadowing of death. the neighbours kept strangely aloof. of late years john barton had had a repellent power about him, felt by all, except to the few who had either known him in his better and happier days, or those to whom he had given his sympathy and his confidence. people did not care to enter the doors of one whose very depth of thoughtfulness rendered him moody and stern. and now they contented themselves with a kind inquiry when they saw mary in her goings-out or in her comings-in. with her oppressing knowledge, she imagined their reserved conduct stranger than it was in reality. she missed job and margaret too; who, in all former times of sorrow or anxiety since their acquaintance first began, had been ready with their sympathy. but most of all she missed the delicious luxury she had lately enjoyed in having jem's tender love at hand every hour of the day, to ward off every wind of heaven, and every disturbing thought. she knew he was often hovering about the house; though the knowledge seemed to come more by intuition, than by any positive sight or sound for the first day or two. on the third day she met him at job legh's. they received her with every effort of cordiality; but still there was a cobweb-veil of separation between them, to which mary was morbidly acute; while in jem's voice, and eyes, and manner, there was every evidence of most passionate, most admiring, and most trusting love. the trust was shown by his respectful silence on that one point of reserve on which she had interdicted conversation. he left job legh's house when she did. they lingered on the step, he holding her hand between both of his, as loth to let her go; he questioned her as to when he should see her again. "mother does so want to see you," whispered he. "can you come to see her to-morrow? or when?" "i cannot tell," replied she, softly. "not yet. wait awhile; perhaps only a little while. dear jem, i must go to him,--dearest jem." the next day, the fourth from mary's return home, as she was sitting near the window, sadly dreaming over some work, she caught a glimpse of the last person she wished to see--of sally leadbitter! she was evidently coming to their house; another moment, and she tapped at the door. john barton gave an anxious, uneasy side-glance. mary knew that if she delayed answering the knock, sally would not scruple to enter; so as hastily as if the visit had been desired, she opened the door, and stood there with the latch in her hand, barring up all entrance, and as much as possible obstructing all curious glances into the interior. "well, mary barton! you're home at last! i heard you'd getten home; so i thought i'd just step over and hear the news." she was bent on coming in, and saw mary's preventive design. so she stood on tip-toe, looking over mary's shoulders into the room where she suspected a lover to be lurking; but instead, she saw only the figure of the stern, gloomy father she had always been in the habit of avoiding; and she dropped down again, content to carry on the conversation where mary chose, and as mary chose, in whispers. "so the old governor is back again, eh? and what does he say to all your fine doings at liverpool, and before?--you and i know where. you can't hide it now, mary, for it's all in print." mary gave a low moan,--and then implored sally to change the subject; for unpleasant as it always was, it was doubly unpleasant in the manner in which she was treating it. if they had been alone, mary would have borne it patiently,--or so she thought,--but now she felt almost certain her father was listening; there was a subdued breathing, a slight bracing-up of the listless attitude. but there was no arresting sally's curiosity to hear all she could respecting the adventures mary had experienced. she, in common with the rest of miss simmonds' young ladies, was almost jealous of the fame that mary had obtained; to herself, such miserable notoriety. "nay! there's no use shunning talking it over. why! it was in the _guardian_,--and the _courier_,--and some one told jane hodson it was even copied into a london paper. you've set up heroine on your own account, mary barton. how did you like standing witness? ar'n't them lawyers impudent things? staring at one so. i'll be bound you wished you'd taken my offer, and borrowed my black watered scarf! now didn't you, mary? speak truth!" "to tell truth, i never thought about it then, sally. how could i?" asked she, reproachfully. "oh--i forgot. you were all for that stupid james wilson. well! if i've ever the luck to go witness on a trial, see if i don't pick up a better beau than the prisoner. i'll aim at a lawyer's clerk, but i'll not take less than a turnkey." cast down as mary was, she could hardly keep from smiling at the idea, so wildly incongruous with the scene she had really undergone, of looking out for admirers during a trial for murder. "i'd no thought to be looking out for beaux, i can assure you, sally.--but don't let us talk any more about it; i can't bear to think on it. how is miss simmonds? and everybody?" "oh, very well; and by the way she gave me a bit of a message for you. you may come back to work if you'll behave yourself, she says. i told you she'd be glad to have you back, after all this piece of business, by way of tempting people to come to her shop. they'd come from salford to have a peep at you, for six months at least." "don't talk so; i cannot come, i can never face miss simmonds again. and even if i could--" she stopped, and blushed. "ay! i know what you're thinking on. but that will not be this some time, as he's turned off from the foundry,--you'd better think twice afore refusing miss simmonds' offer." "turned off from the foundry! jem?" cried mary. "to be sure! didn't you know it? decent men were not going to work with a--no! i suppose i mustn't say it, seeing you went to such trouble to get up an _alibi_; not that i should think much the worse of a spirited young fellow for falling foul of a rival,--they always do at the theatre." but mary's thoughts were with jem. how good he had been never to name his dismissal to her. how much he had had to endure for her sake! "tell me all about it," she gasped out. "why, you see, they've always swords quite handy at them plays," began sally; but mary, with an impatient shake of her head, interrupted, "about jem,--about jem, i want to know." "oh! i don't pretend to know more than is in every one's mouth: he's turned away from the foundry, because folks don't think you've cleared him outright of the murder; though perhaps the jury were loth to hang him. old mr. carson is savage against judge and jury, and lawyers and all, as i heard." "i must go to him, i must go to him," repeated mary, in a hurried manner. "he'll tell you all i've said is true, and not a word of lie," replied sally. "so i'll not give your answer to miss simmonds, but leave you to think twice about it. good afternoon!" mary shut the door, and turned into the house. her father sat in the same attitude; the old unchanging attitude. only his head was more bowed towards the ground. she put on her bonnet to go to ancoats; for see, and question, and comfort, and worship jem, she must. as she hung about her father for an instant before leaving him, he spoke--voluntarily spoke for the first time since her return; but his head was drooping so low she could not hear what he said, so she stooped down; and after a moment's pause, he repeated the words, "tell jem wilson to come here at eight o'clock to-night." could he have overheard her conversation with sally leadbitter? they had whispered low, she thought. pondering on this, and many other things, she reached ancoats. chapter xxxv. "forgive us our trespasses." "oh, had he lived, replied rusilla, never penitence had equalled his! full well i know his heart, vehement in all things. he would on himself have wreaked such penance as had reached the height of fleshly suffering,--yea, which being told, with its portentous rigour should have made the memory of his fault, o'erpowered and lost in shuddering pity and astonishment, fade like a feeble horror." southey's "roderick." as mary was turning into the street where the wilsons lived, jem overtook her. he came upon her suddenly, and she started. "you're going to see mother?" he asked tenderly, placing her arm within his, and slackening his pace. "yes, and you too. oh, jem, is it true? tell me." she felt rightly that he would guess the meaning of her only half expressed inquiry. he hesitated a moment before he answered her. "darling, it is; it's no use hiding it--if you mean that i'm no longer to work at duncombe's foundry. it's no time (to my mind) to have secrets from each other, though i did not name it yesterday, thinking you might fret. i shall soon get work again, never fear." "but why did they turn you off, when the jury had said you were innocent?" "it was not just to say turned off, though i don't think i could have well stayed on. a good number of the men managed to let out they should not like to work under me again; there were some few who knew me well enough to feel i could not have done it, but more were doubtful; and one spoke to young mr. duncombe, hinting at what they thought." "oh jem! what a shame!" said mary, with mournful indignation. "nay, darling! i'm not for blaming them. poor fellows like them have nought to stand upon and be proud of but their character, and it's fitting they should take care of that, and keep that free from soil and taint." "but you,--what could they get but good from you? they might have known you by this time." "so some do; the overlooker, i'm sure, would know i'm innocent. indeed, he said as much to-day; and he said he had had some talk with old mr. duncombe, and they thought it might be better if i left manchester for a bit; they'd recommend me to some other place." but mary could only shake her head in a mournful way, and repeat her words, "they might have known thee better, jem." jem pressed the little hand he held between his own work-hardened ones. after a minute or two, he asked, "mary, art thou much bound to manchester? would it grieve thee sore to quit the old smoke-jack?" "with thee?" she asked, in a quiet, glancing way. "ay, lass! trust me, i'll ne'er ask thee to leave manchester while i'm in it. because i've heard fine things of canada; and our overlooker has a cousin in the foundry line there.--thou knowest where canada is, mary?" "not rightly--not now, at any rate;--but with thee, jem," her voice sunk to a soft, low whisper, "anywhere--" what was the use of a geographical description? "but father!" said mary, suddenly breaking that delicious silence with the one sharp discord in her present life. she looked up at her lover's grave face; and then the message her father had sent flashed across her memory. "oh, jem, did i tell you?--father sent word he wished to speak with you. i was to bid you come to him at eight to-night. what can he want, jem?" "i cannot tell," replied he. "at any rate i'll go. it's no use troubling ourselves to guess," he continued, after a pause of a few minutes, during which they slowly and silently paced up and down the by-street, into which he had led her when their conversation began. "come and see mother, and then i'll take thee home, mary. thou wert all in a tremble when first i came up with thee; thou'rt not fit to be trusted home by thyself," said he, with fond exaggeration of her helplessness. yet a little more lovers' loitering; a few more words, in themselves nothing--to you nothing, but to those two what tender passionate language can i use to express the feelings which thrilled through that young man and maiden, as they listened to the syllables made dear and lovely through life by that hour's low-whispered talk. it struck the half hour past seven. "come and speak to mother; she knows you're to be her daughter, mary, darling." so they went in. jane wilson was rather chafed at her son's delay in returning home, for as yet he had managed to keep her in ignorance of his dismissal from the foundry; and it was her way to prepare some little pleasure, some little comfort for those she loved; and if they, unwittingly, did not appear at the proper time to enjoy her preparation, she worked herself up into a state of fretfulness which found vent in upbraidings as soon as ever the objects of her care appeared, thereby marring the peace which should ever be the atmosphere of a home, however humble; and causing a feeling almost amounting to loathing to arise at the sight of the "stalled ox," which, though an effect and proof of careful love, has been the cause of so much disturbance. mrs. wilson had first sighed, and then grumbled to herself, over the increasing toughness of the potato-cakes she had made for her son's tea. the door opened, and he came in; his face brightening into proud smiles, mary barton hanging on his arm, blushing and dimpling, with eye-lids veiling the happy light of her eyes,--there was around the young couple a radiant atmosphere--a glory of happiness. could his mother mar it? could she break into it with her martha-like cares? only for one moment did she remember her sense of injury,--her wasted trouble,--and then, her whole woman's heart heaving with motherly love and sympathy, she opened her arms, and received mary into them, as, shedding tears of agitated joy, she murmured in her ear, "bless thee, mary, bless thee! only make him happy, and god bless thee for ever!" it took some of jem's self-command to separate those whom he so much loved, and who were beginning, for his sake, to love one another so dearly. but the time for his meeting john barton drew on: and it was a long way to his house. as they walked briskly thither they hardly spoke; though many thoughts were in their minds. the sun had not long set, but the first faint shade of twilight was over all; and when they opened the door, jem could hardly perceive the objects within by the waning light of day, and the flickering fire-blaze. but mary saw all at a glance! her eye, accustomed to what was usual in the aspect of the room, saw instantly what was unusual,--saw, and understood it all. her father was standing behind his habitual chair, holding by the back of it as if for support. and opposite to him there stood mr. carson; the dark out-line of his stern figure looming large against the light of the fire in that little room. behind her father sat job legh, his head in his hands, and resting his elbows on the little family table,--listening evidently; but as evidently deeply affected by what he heard. there seemed to be some pause in the conversation. mary and jem stood at the half-open door, not daring to stir; hardly to breathe. "and have i heard you aright?" began mr. carson, with his deep quivering voice. "man! have i heard you aright? was it you, then, that killed my boy? my only son?"--(he said these last few words almost as if appealing for pity, and then he changed his tone to one more vehement and fierce). "don't dare to think that i shall be merciful, and spare you, because you have come forward to accuse yourself. i tell you i will not spare you the least pang the law can inflict,--you, who did not show pity on my boy, shall have none from me." "i did not ask for any," said john barton, in a low voice. "ask, or not ask, what care i? you shall be hanged--hanged--man!" said he, advancing his face, and repeating the word with slow, grinding emphasis, as if to infuse some of the bitterness of his soul into it. john barton gasped, but not with fear. it was only that he felt it terrible to have inspired such hatred, as was concentrated into every word, every gesture of mr. carson's. "as for being hanged, sir, i know it's all right and proper. i dare say it's bad enough; but i tell you what, sir," speaking with an out-burst, "if you'd hanged me the day after i'd done the deed, i would have gone down on my knees and blessed you. death! lord, what is it to life? to such a life as i've been leading this fortnight past. life at best is no great thing; but such a life as i have dragged through since that night," he shuddered at the thought. "why, sir, i've been on the point of killing myself this many a time to get away from my own thoughts. i didn't! and i'll tell you why. i didn't know but that i should be more haunted than ever with the recollection of my sin. oh! god above only can tell the agony with which i've repented me of it, and part perhaps because i feared he would think i were impatient of the misery he sent as punishment--far, far worse misery than any hanging, sir." he ceased from excess of emotion. then he began again. "sin' that day (it may be very wicked, sir, but it's the truth) i've kept thinking and thinking if i were but in that world where they say god is, he would, may be, teach me right from wrong, even if it were with many stripes. i've been sore puzzled here. i would go through hell-fire if i could but get free from sin at last, it's such an awful thing. as for hanging, that's just nought at all." his exhaustion compelled him to sit down. mary rushed to him. it seemed as if till then he had been unaware of her presence. "ay, ay, wench!" said he feebly, "is it thee? where's jem wilson?" jem came forward. john barton spoke again, with many a break and gasping pause, "lad! thou hast borne a deal for me. it's the meanest thing i ever did to leave thee to bear the brunt. thou, who wert as innocent of any knowledge of it as the babe unborn. i'll not bless thee for it. blessing from such as me would not bring thee any good. thou'lt love mary, though she is my child." he ceased, and there was a pause of a few seconds. then mr. carson turned to go. when his hand was on the latch of the door, he hesitated for an instant. "you can have no doubt for what purpose i go. straight to the police-office, to send men to take care of you, wretched man, and your accomplice. to-morrow morning your tale shall be repeated to those who can commit you to gaol, and before long you shall have the opportunity of trying how desirable hanging is." "oh, sir!" said mary, springing forward, and catching hold of mr. carson's arm, "my father is dying. look at him, sir. if you want death for death, you have it. don't take him away from me these last hours. he must go alone through death, but let me be with him as long as i can. oh, sir! if you have any mercy in you, leave him here to die." john himself stood up, stiff and rigid, and replied, "mary, wench! i owe him summut. i will go die, where, and as he wishes me. thou hast said true, i am standing side by side with death; and it matters little where i spend the bit of time left of life. that time i must pass in wrestling with my soul for a character to take into the other world. i'll go where you see fit, sir. he's innocent," faintly indicating jem, as he fell back in his chair. "never fear! they cannot touch him," said job legh, in a low voice. but as mr. carson was on the point of leaving the house with no sign of relenting about him, he was again stopped by john barton, who had risen once more from his chair, and stood supporting himself on jem, while he spoke. "sir, one word! my hairs are gray with suffering, and yours with years--" "and have i had no suffering?" asked mr. carson, as if appealing for sympathy, even to the murderer of his child. and the murderer of his child answered to the appeal, and groaned in spirit over the anguish he had caused. "have i had no inward suffering to blanch these hairs? have not i toiled and struggled even to these years with hopes in my heart that all centered in my boy? i did not speak of them, but were they not there? i seemed hard and cold; and so i might be to others, but not to him!--who shall ever imagine the love i bore to him? even he never dreamed how my heart leapt up at the sound of his footstep, and how precious he was to his poor old father.--and he is gone--killed--out of the hearing of all loving words--out of my sight for ever. he was my sunshine, and now it is night! oh, my god! comfort me, comfort me!" cried the old man aloud. the eyes of john barton grew dim with tears. rich and poor, masters and men, were then brothers in the deep suffering of the heart; for was not this the very anguish he had felt for little tom, in years so long gone by that they seemed like another life! the mourner before him was no longer the employer; a being of another race, eternally placed in antagonistic attitude; going through the world glittering like gold, with a stony heart within, which knew no sorrow but through the accidents of trade; no longer the enemy, the oppressor, but a very poor and desolate old man. the sympathy for suffering, formerly so prevalent a feeling with him, again filled john barton's heart, and almost impelled him to speak (as best he could) some earnest, tender words to the stern man, shaking in his agony. but who was he, that he should utter sympathy or consolation? the cause of all this woe. oh blasting thought! oh miserable remembrance! he had forfeited all right to bind up his brother's wounds. stunned by the thought, he sank upon the seat, almost crushed with the knowledge of the consequences of his own action; for he had no more imagined to himself the blighted home, and the miserable parents, than does the soldier, who discharges his musket, picture to himself the desolation of the wife, and the pitiful cries of the helpless little ones, who are in an instant to be made widowed and fatherless. to intimidate a class of men, known only to those below them as desirous to obtain the greatest quantity of work for the lowest wages,--at most to remove an overbearing partner from an obnoxious firm, who stood in the way of those who struggled as well as they were able to obtain their rights,--this was the light in which john barton had viewed his deed; and even so viewing it, after the excitement had passed away, the avenger, the sure avenger, had found him out. but now he knew that he had killed a man, and a brother,--now he knew that no good thing could come out of this evil, even to the sufferers whose cause he had so blindly espoused. he lay across the table, broken-hearted. every fresh quivering sob of mr. carson's stabbed him to his soul. he felt execrated by all; and as if he could never lay bare the perverted reasonings which had made the performance of undoubted sin appear a duty. the longing to plead some faint excuse grew stronger and stronger. he feebly raised his head, and looking at job legh, he whispered out, "i did not know what i was doing, job legh; god knows i didn't! oh, sir!" said he wildly, almost throwing himself at mr. carson's feet, "say you forgive me the anguish i now see i have caused you. i care not for pain, or death, you know i don't; but oh, man! forgive me the trespass i have done!" "forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us," said job, solemnly and low, as if in prayer; as if the words were suggested by those john barton had used. mr. carson took his hands away from his face. i would rather see death than the ghastly gloom which darkened that countenance. "let my trespasses be unforgiven, so that i may have vengeance for my son's murder." there are blasphemous actions as well as blasphemous words: all unloving, cruel deeds are acted blasphemy. mr. carson left the house. and john barton lay on the ground as one dead. they lifted him up, and almost hoping that that deep trance might be to him the end of all earthly things, they bore him to his bed. for a time they listened with divided attention to his faint breathings; for in each hasty hurried step that echoed in the street outside, they thought they heard the approach of the officers of justice. when mr. carson left the house he was dizzy with agitation; the hot blood went careering through his frame. he could not see the deep blue of the night-heavens for the fierce pulses which throbbed in his head. and partly to steady and calm himself, he leaned against a railing, and looked up into those calm majestic depths with all their thousand stars. and by-and-by his own voice returned upon him, as if the last words he had spoken were being uttered through all that infinite space; but in their echoes there was a tone of unutterable sorrow. "let my trespasses be unforgiven, so that i may have vengeance for my son's murder." he tried to shake off the spiritual impression made by this imagination. he was feverish and ill,--and no wonder. so he turned to go homewards; not, as he had threatened, to the police-office. after all (he told himself), that would do in the morning. no fear of the man's escaping, unless he escaped to the grave. so he tried to banish the phantom voices and shapes which came unbidden to his brain, and to recall his balance of mind by walking calmly and slowly, and noticing every thing which struck his senses. it was a warm soft evening in spring, and there were many persons in the streets. among others, a nurse with a little girl in her charge, conveying her home from some children's gaiety; a dance most likely, for the lovely little creature was daintily decked out in soft, snowy muslin; and her fairy feet tripped along by her nurse's side as if to the measure of some tune she had lately kept time to. suddenly up behind her there came a rough, rude errand-boy, nine or ten years of age; a giant he looked by the fairy-child, as she fluttered along. i don't know how it was, but in some awkward way he knocked the poor little girl down upon the hard pavement as he brushed rudely past, not much caring whom he hurt, so that he got along. the child arose sobbing with pain; and not without cause, for blood was dropping down from the face, but a minute before so fair and bright--dropping down on the pretty frock, making those scarlet marks so terrible to little children. the nurse, a powerful woman, had seized the boy, just as mr. carson (who had seen the whole transaction) came up. "you naughty little rascal! i'll give you to a policeman, that i will! do you see how you've hurt the little girl? do you?" accompanying every sentence with a violent jerk of passionate anger. the lad looked hard and defying; but withal terrified at the threat of the policeman, those ogres of our streets to all unlucky urchins. the nurse saw it, and began to drag him along, with a view of making what she called "a wholesome impression." his terror increased, and with it his irritation; when the little sweet face, choking away its sobs, pulled down nurse's head and said, "please, dear nurse, i'm not much hurt; it was very silly to cry, you know. he did not mean to do it. _he did not know what he was doing_, did you, little boy? nurse won't call a policeman, so don't be frightened." and she put up her little mouth to be kissed by her injurer, just as she had been taught to do at home to "make peace." "that lad will mind, and be more gentle for the time to come, i'll be bound, thanks to that little lady," said a passer-by, half to himself, and half to mr. carson, whom he had observed to notice the scene. the latter took no apparent heed of the remark, but passed on. but the child's pleading reminded him of the low, broken voice he had so lately heard, penitently and humbly urging the same extenuation of his great guilt. "i did not know what i was doing." he had some association with those words; he had heard, or read of that plea somewhere before. where was it? could it be--? he would look when he got home. so when he entered his house he went straight and silently up-stairs to his library, and took down the great large handsome bible, all grand and golden, with its leaves adhering together from the bookbinder's press, so little had it been used. on the first page (which fell open to mr. carson's view) were written the names of his children, and his own. "henry john, son of the above john and elizabeth carson. born, sept. th, ." to make the entry complete, his death should now be added. but the page became hidden by the gathering mist of tears. thought upon thought, and recollection upon recollection came crowding in, from the remembrance of the proud day when he had purchased the costly book, in order to write down the birth of the little babe of a day old. he laid his head down on the open page, and let the tears fall slowly on the spotless leaves. his son's murderer was discovered; had confessed his guilt; and yet (strange to say) he could not hate him with the vehemence of hatred he had felt, when he had imagined him a young man, full of lusty life, defying all laws, human and divine. in spite of his desire to retain the revengeful feeling he considered as a duty to his dead son, something of pity would steal in for the poor, wasted skeleton of a man, the smitten creature, who had told him of his sin, and implored his pardon that night. in the days of his childhood and youth, mr. carson had been accustomed to poverty; but it was honest, decent poverty; not the grinding squalid misery he had remarked in every part of john barton's house, and which contrasted strangely with the pompous sumptuousness of the room in which he now sat. unaccustomed wonder filled his mind at the reflection of the different lots of the brethren of mankind. then he roused himself from his reverie, and turned to the object of his search--the gospel, where he half expected to find the tender pleading: "they know not what they do." it was murk midnight by this time, and the house was still and quiet. there was nothing to interrupt the old man in his unwonted study. years ago, the gospel had been his task-book in learning to read. so many years ago, that he had become familiar with the events before he could comprehend the spirit that made the life. he fell to the narrative now afresh, with all the interest of a little child. he began at the beginning, and read on almost greedily, understanding for the first time the full meaning of the story. he came to the end; the awful end. and there were the haunting words of pleading. he shut the book, and thought deeply. all night long, the archangel combated with the demon. all night long, others watched by the bed of death. john barton had revived to fitful intelligence. he spoke at times with even something of his former energy; and in the racy lancashire dialect he had always used when speaking freely. "you see i've so often been hankering after the right way; and it's a hard one for a poor man to find. at least it's been so to me. no one learned me, and no one telled me. when i was a little chap they taught me to read, and then they ne'er gave me no books; only i heard say the bible was a good book. so when i grew thoughtful, and puzzled, i took to it. but you'd never believe black was black, or night was night, when you saw all about you acting as if black was white, and night was day. it's not much i can say for myself in t'other world, god forgive me; but i can say this, i would fain have gone after the bible rules if i'd seen folk credit it; they all spoke up for it, and went and did clean contrary. in those days i would ha' gone about wi' my bible, like a little child, my finger in th' place, and asking the meaning of this or that text, and no one told me. then i took out two or three texts as clear as glass, and i tried to do what they bid me do. but i don't know how it was; masters and men, all alike cared no more for minding those texts, than i did for th' lord mayor of london; so i grew to think it must be a sham put upon poor ignorant folk, women, and such-like. "it was not long i tried to live gospel-wise, but it was liker heaven than any other bit of earth has been. i'd old alice to strengthen me; but every one else said, 'stand up for thy rights, or thou'lt never get 'em;' and wife and children never spoke, but their helplessness cried aloud, and i was driven to do as others did,--and then tom died. you know all about that--i'm getting scant o' breath, and blind-like." then again he spoke, after some minutes of hushed silence. "all along it came natural to love folk, though now i am what i am. i think one time i could e'en have loved the masters if they'd ha' letten me; that was in my gospel-days, afore my child died o' hunger. i was tore in two often-times, between my sorrow for poor suffering folk, and my trying to love them as caused their sufferings (to my mind). "at last i gave it up in despair, trying to make folks' actions square wi' th' bible; and i thought i'd no longer labour at following th' bible mysel. i've said all this afore, may be. but from that time i've dropped down, down,--down." after that he only spoke in broken sentences. "i did not think he'd been such an old man,--oh! that he had but forgiven me,"--and then came earnest, passionate, broken words of prayer. job legh had gone home like one struck down with the unexpected shock. mary and jem together waited the approach of death; but as the final struggle drew on, and morning dawned, jem suggested some alleviation to the gasping breath, to purchase which he left the house in search of a druggist's shop, which should be open at that early hour. during his absence, barton grew worse; he had fallen across the bed, and his breathing seemed almost stopped; in vain did mary strive to raise him, her sorrow and exhaustion had rendered her too weak. so, on hearing some one enter the house-place below, she cried out for jem to come to her assistance. a step, which was not jem's, came up the stairs. mr. carson stood in the door-way. in one instant he comprehended the case. he raised up the powerless frame; and the departing soul looked out of the eyes with gratitude. he held the dying man propped in his arms. john barton folded his hands as if in prayer. "pray for us," said mary, sinking on her knees, and forgetting in that solemn hour all that had divided her father and mr. carson. no other words could suggest themselves than some of those he had read only a few hours before. "god be merciful to us sinners.--forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us." and when the words were said, john barton lay a corpse in mr. carson's arms. so ended the tragedy of a poor man's life. mary knew nothing more for many minutes. when she recovered consciousness, she found herself supported by jem on the "settle" in the house-place. job and mr. carson were there, talking together lowly and solemnly. then mr. carson bade farewell and left the house; and job said aloud, but as if speaking to himself, "god has heard that man's prayer. he has comforted him." chapter xxxvi. jem's interview with mr. duncombe. "the first dark day of nothingness, the last of danger and distress." byron. although mary had hardly been conscious of her thoughts, and it had been more like a secret instinct informing her soul, than the result of any process of reasoning, she had felt for some time (ever since her return from liverpool, in fact), that for her father there was but one thing to be desired and anticipated, and that was death! she had seen that conscience had given the mortal wound to his earthly frame; she did not dare to question of the infinite mercy of god, what the future life would be to him. though at first desolate and stunned by the blow which had fallen on herself, she was resigned and submissive as soon as she recovered strength enough to ponder and consider a little; and you may be sure that no tenderness or love was wanting on jem's part, and no consideration and sympathy on that of job and margaret, to soothe and comfort the girl who now stood alone in the world as far as blood-relations were concerned. she did not ask or care to know what arrangements they were making in whispered tones with regard to the funeral. she put herself into their hands with the trust of a little child; glad to be undisturbed in the reveries and remembrances which filled her eyes with tears, and caused them to fall quietly down her pale cheeks. it was the longest day she had ever known in her life; every charge and every occupation was taken away from her: but perhaps the length of quiet time thus afforded was really good, although its duration weighed upon her; for by this means she contemplated her situation in every light, and fully understood that the morning's event had left her an orphan; and thus she was spared the pangs caused to us by the occurrence of death in the evening, just before we should naturally, in the usual course of events, lie down to slumber. for in such case, worn out by anxiety, and it may be by much watching, our very excess of grief rocks itself to sleep, before we have had time to realise its cause; and we waken, with a start of agony like a fresh stab, to the consciousness of the one awful vacancy, which shall never, while the world endures, be filled again. the day brought its burden of duty to mrs. wilson. she felt bound by regard, as well as by etiquette, to go and see her future daughter-in-law. and by an old association of ideas (perhaps of death with church-yards, and churches with sunday) she thought it necessary to put on her best, and latterly unused clothes, the airing of which on a little clothes-horse before the fire seemed to give her a not unpleasing occupation. when jem returned home late in the evening succeeding john barton's death, weary and oppressed with the occurrences and excitements of the day, he found his mother busy about her mourning, and much inclined to talk. although he longed for quiet, he could not avoid sitting down and answering her questions. "well, jem, he's gone at last, is he?" "yes. how did you hear, mother?" "oh, job came over here and telled me, on his way to the undertaker's. did he make a fine end?" it struck jem that she had not heard of the confession which had been made by john barton on his death-bed; he remembered job legh's discretion, and he determined that if it could be avoided his mother should never hear of it. many of the difficulties to be anticipated in preserving the secret would be obviated, if he could induce his mother to fall into the plan he had named to mary of emigrating to canada. the reasons which rendered this secrecy desirable related to the domestic happiness he hoped for. with his mother's irritable temper he could hardly expect that all allusion to the crime of john barton would be for ever restrained from passing her lips, and he knew the deep trial such references would be to mary. accordingly he resolved as soon as possible in the morning to go to job and beseech his silence; he trusted that secrecy in that quarter, even if the knowledge had been extended to margaret, might be easily secured. but what would be mr. carson's course? were there any means by which he might be persuaded to spare john barton's memory? he was roused up from this train of thought by his mother's more irritated tone of voice. "jem!" she was saying, "thou might'st just as well never be at a death-bed again, if thou cannot bring off more news about it; here have i been by mysel all day (except when oud job came in), but thinks i, when jem comes he'll be sure to be good company, seeing he was in the house at the very time of the death; and here thou art, without a word to throw at a dog, much less thy mother: it's no use thy going to a death-bed if thou cannot carry away any of the sayings!" "he did not make any, mother," replied jem. "well, to be sure! so fond as he used to be of holding forth, to miss such a fine opportunity that will never come again! did he die easy?" "he was very restless all night long," said jem, reluctantly returning to the thoughts of that time. "and in course thou plucked the pillow away? thou didst not! well! with thy bringing up, and thy learning, thou might'st have known that were the only help in such a case. there were pigeons' feathers in the pillow, depend on't. to think of two grown-up folk like you and mary, not knowing death could never come easy to a person lying on a pillow with pigeons' feathers in!" jem was glad to escape from all this talking to the solitude and quiet of his own room, where he could lie and think uninterruptedly of what had happened and remained to be done. the first thing was to seek an interview with mr. duncombe, his former master. accordingly, early the next morning jem set off on his walk to the works, where for so many years his days had been spent; where for so long a time his thoughts had been thought, his hopes and fears experienced. it was not a cheering feeling to remember that henceforward he was to be severed from all these familiar places; nor were his spirits enlivened by the evident feelings of the majority of those who had been his fellow-workmen. as he stood in the entrance to the foundry, awaiting mr. duncombe's leisure, many of those employed in the works passed him on their return from breakfast; and with one or two exceptions, without any acknowledgment of former acquaintance beyond a distant nod at the utmost. "it is hard," said jem to himself, with a bitter and indignant feeling rising in his throat, "that let a man's life be what it may, folk are so ready to credit the first word against him. i could live it down if i stayed in england; but then what would not mary have to bear? sooner or later the truth would out; and then she would be a show to folk for many a day as john barton's daughter. well! god does not judge as hardly as man, that's one comfort for all of us!" mr. duncombe did not believe in jem's guilt, in spite of the silence in which he again this day heard the imputation of it; but he agreed that under the circumstances it was better he should leave the country. "we have been written to by government, as i think i told you before, to recommend an intelligent man, well acquainted with mechanics, as instrument-maker to the agricultural college they are establishing at toronto, in canada. it is a comfortable appointment,--house,--land,--and a good per-centage on the instruments made. i will show you the particulars if i can lay my hand on the letter, which i believe i must have left at home." "thank you, sir. no need for seeing the letter to say i'll accept it. i must leave manchester; and i'd as lief quit england at once when i'm about it." "of course government will give you your passage; indeed, i believe an allowance would be made for a family if you had one; but you are not a married man, i believe?" "no, sir, but--" jem hung back from a confession with the awkwardness of a girl. "but--" said mr. duncombe, smiling, "you would like to be a married man before you go, i suppose; eh, wilson?" "if you please, sir. and there's my mother, too. i hope she'll go with us. but i can pay her passage; no need to trouble government." "nay, nay! i'll write to-day and recommend you; and say that you have a family of two. they'll never ask if the family goes upwards or downwards. i shall see you again before you sail, i hope, wilson; though i believe they'll not allow you long to wait. come to my house next time; you'll find it pleasanter, i daresay. these men are so wrong-headed. keep up your heart!" jem felt that it was a relief to have this point settled; and that he need no longer weigh reasons for and against his emigration. and with his path growing clearer and clearer before him the longer he contemplated it, he went to see mary, and if he judged it fit, to tell her what he had decided upon. margaret was sitting with her. "grandfather wants to see you!" said she to jem on his entrance. "and i want to see him," replied jem, suddenly remembering his last night's determination to enjoin secrecy on job legh. so he hardly stayed to kiss poor mary's sweet woe-begone face, but tore himself away from his darling to go to the old man, who awaited him impatiently. "i've getten a note from mr. carson," exclaimed job the moment he saw jem; "and man-alive, he wants to see thee and me! for sure, there's no more mischief up, is there?" said he, looking at jem with an expression of wonder. but if any suspicion mingled for an instant with the thoughts that crossed job's mind, it was immediately dispelled by jem's honest, fearless, open countenance. "i can't guess what he's wanting, poor old chap," answered he. "may be there's some point he's not yet satisfied on; may be--but it's no use guessing; let's be off." "it wouldn't be better for thee to be scarce a bit, would it, and leave me to go and find out what's up? he has, perhaps, getten some crotchet into his head thou'rt an accomplice, and is laying a trap for thee." "i'm not afeared!" said jem; "i've done nought wrong, and know nought wrong, about yon poor dead lad; though i'll own i had evil thoughts once on a time. folk can't mistake long if once they'll search into the truth. i'll go and give the old gentleman all the satisfaction in my power, now it can injure no one. i'd my own reasons for wanting to see him besides, and it all falls in right enough for me." job was a little reassured by jem's boldness; but still, if the truth must be told, he wished the young man would follow his advice, and leave him to sound mr. carson's intentions. meanwhile jane wilson had donned her sunday suit of black, and set off on her errand of condolence. she felt nervous and uneasy at the idea of the moral sayings and texts which she fancied were expected from visitors on occasions like the present; and prepared many a good set speech as she walked towards the house of mourning. as she gently opened the door, mary, sitting idly by the fire, caught a glimpse of her,--of jem's mother,--of the early friend of her dead parents,--of the kind minister to many a little want in days of childhood,--and rose and came and fell about her neck, with many a sob and moan, saying, "oh, he's gone--he's dead--all gone--all dead, and i am left alone!" "poor wench! poor, poor wench!" said jane wilson, tenderly kissing her. "thou'rt not alone, so donnot take on so. i'll say nought of him who's above, for thou know'st he is ever the orphan's friend; but think on jem! nay, mary, dear, think on me! i'm but a frabbit woman at times, but i've a heart within me through all my temper, and thou shalt be as a daughter henceforward,--as mine own ewe-lamb. jem shall not love thee better in his way, than i will in mine; and thou'lt bear with my turns, mary, knowing that in my soul god sees the love that shall ever be thine, if thou'lt take me for thy mother, and speak no more of being alone." mrs. wilson was weeping herself long before she had ended this speech, which was so different to all she had planned to say, and from all the formal piety she had laid in store for the visit; for this was heart's piety, and needed no garnish of texts to make it true religion, pure and undefiled. they sat together on the same chair, their arms encircling each other; they wept for the same dead; they had the same hope, and trust, and overflowing love in the living. from that time forward, hardly a passing cloud dimmed the happy confidence of their intercourse; even by jem would his mother's temper sooner be irritated than by mary; before the latter she repressed her occasional nervous ill-humour till the habit of indulging it was perceptibly decreased. years afterwards in conversation with jem, he was startled by a chance expression which dropped from his mother's lips; it implied a knowledge of john barton's crime. it was many a long day since they had seen any manchester people who could have revealed the secret (if indeed it was known in manchester, against which jem had guarded in every possible way). and he was led to inquire first as to the extent, and then as to the source of her knowledge. it was mary herself who had told all. for on the morning to which this chapter principally relates, as mary sat weeping, and as mrs. wilson comforted her by every tenderest word and caress, she revealed to the dismayed and astonished jane, the sting of her deep sorrow; the crime which stained her dead father's memory. she was quite unconscious that jem had kept it secret from his mother; she had imagined it bruited abroad as the suspicion against her lover had been; so word after word (dropped from her lips in the supposition that mrs. wilson knew all) had told the tale and revealed the cause of her deep anguish; deeper than is ever caused by death alone. on large occasions like the present, mrs. wilson's innate generosity came out. her weak and ailing frame imparted its irritation to her conduct in small things, and daily trifles; but she had deep and noble sympathy with great sorrows, and even at the time that mary spoke she allowed no expression of surprise or horror to escape her lips. she gave way to no curiosity as to the untold details; she was as secret and trustworthy as her son himself; and if in years to come her anger was occasionally excited against mary, and she, on rare occasions, yielded to ill-temper against her daughter-in-law, she would upbraid her for extravagance, or stinginess, or over-dressing, or under-dressing, or too much mirth or too much gloom, but never, never in her most uncontrolled moments did she allude to any one of the circumstances relating to mary's flirtation with harry carson, or his murderer; and always when she spoke of john barton, named him with the respect due to his conduct before the last, miserable, guilty month of his life. therefore it came like a blow to jem when, after years had passed away, he gathered his mother's knowledge of the whole affair. from the day when he learnt (not without remorse) what hidden depths of self-restraint she had in her soul, his manner to her, always tender and respectful, became reverential; and it was more than ever a loving strife between him and mary which should most contribute towards the happiness of the declining years of their mother. but i am speaking of the events which have occurred only lately, while i have yet many things to tell you that happened six or seven years ago. chapter xxxvii. details connected with the murder. "the rich man dines, while the poor man pines, and eats his heart away; 'they teach us lies,' he sternly cries, 'would _brothers_ do as they?'" "the dream." mr. carson stood at one of the breathing-moments of life. the object of the toils, the fears, and the wishes of his past years, was suddenly hidden from his sight,--vanished into the deep mystery which circumscribes existence. nay, even the vengeance which he had proposed to himself as an aim for exertion, had been taken away from before his eyes, as by the hand of god. events like these would have startled the most thoughtless into reflection, much more such a man as mr. carson, whose mind, if not enlarged, was energetic; indeed, whose very energy, having been hitherto the cause of the employment of his powers in only one direction, had prevented him from becoming largely and philosophically comprehensive in his views. but now the foundations of his past life were razed to the ground, and the place they had once occupied was sown with salt, to be for ever rebuilt no more. it was like the change from this life to that other hidden one, when so many of the motives which have actuated all our earthly existence, will have become more fleeting than the shadows of a dream. with a wrench of his soul from the past, so much of which was as nothing, and worse than nothing to him now, mr. carson took some hours, after he had witnessed the death of his son's murderer, to consider his situation. but suddenly, while he was deliberating, and searching for motives which should be effective to compel him to exertion and action once more; while he contemplated the desire after riches, social distinction, a name among the merchant-princes amidst whom he moved, and saw these false substances fade away into the shadows they truly are, and one by one disappear into the grave of his son,--suddenly, i say, the thought arose within him that more yet remained to be learned about the circumstances and feelings which had prompted john barton's crime; and when once this mournful curiosity was excited, it seemed to gather strength in every moment that its gratification was delayed. accordingly he sent a message to summon job legh and jem wilson, from whom he promised himself some elucidation of what was as yet unexplained; while he himself set forth to call on mr. bridgenorth, whom he knew to have been jem's attorney, with a glimmering suspicion intruding on his mind, which he strove to repel, that jem might have had some share in his son's death. he had returned before his summoned visitors arrived; and had time enough to recur to the evening on which john barton had made his confession. he remembered with mortification how he had forgotten his proud reserve, and his habitual concealment of his feelings, and had laid bare his agony of grief in the presence of these two men who were coming to see him by his desire; and he entrenched himself behind stiff barriers of self-control, through which he hoped no appearance of emotion would force its way in the conversation he anticipated. nevertheless, when the servant announced that two men were there by appointment to speak to him, and he had desired that they might be shown into the library where he sat, any watcher might have perceived by the trembling hands, and shaking head, not only how much he was aged by the occurrences of the last few weeks, but also how much he was agitated at the thought of the impending interview. but he so far succeeded in commanding himself at first, as to appear to jem wilson and job legh one of the hardest and most haughty men they had ever spoken to, and to forfeit all the interest which he had previously excited in their minds by his unreserved display of deep and genuine feeling. when he had desired them to be seated, he shaded his face with his hand for an instant before speaking. "i have been calling on mr. bridgenorth this morning," said he, at last; "as i expected, he can give me but little satisfaction on some points respecting the occurrence on the th of last month which i desire to have cleared up. perhaps you two can tell me what i want to know. as intimate friends of barton's you probably know, or can conjecture a good deal. have no scruple as to speaking the truth. what you say in this room shall never be named again by me. besides, you are aware that the law allows no one to be tried twice for the same offence." he stopped for a minute, for the mere act of speaking was fatiguing to him after the excitement of the last few weeks. job legh took the opportunity of speaking. "i'm not going to be affronted either for myself or jem at what you've just now been saying about the truth. you don't know us, and there's an end on't; only it's as well for folk to think others good and true until they're proved contrary. ask what you like, sir, i'll answer for it we'll either tell truth or hold our tongues." "i beg your pardon," said mr. carson, slightly bowing his head. "what i wished to know was," referring to a slip of paper he held in his hand, and shaking so much he could hardly adjust his glasses to his eyes, "whether you, wilson, can explain how barton came possessed of your gun. i believe you refused this explanation to mr. bridgenorth." "i did, sir! if i had said what i knew then, i saw it would criminate barton, and so i refused telling aught. to you, sir, now i will tell every thing and any thing; only it is but little. the gun was my father's before it was mine, and long ago he and john barton had a fancy for shooting at the gallery; and they used always to take this gun, and brag that though it was old-fashioned it was sure." jem saw with self-upbraiding pain how mr. carson winced at these last words, but at each irrepressible and involuntary evidence of feeling, the hearts of the two men warmed towards him. jem went on speaking. "one day in the week--i think it was on the wednesday,--yes, it was,--it was on st. patrick's day, i met john just coming out of our house, as i were going to my dinner. mother was out, and he'd found no one in. he said he'd come to borrow the old gun, and that he'd have made bold, and taken it, but it was not to be seen. mother was afraid of it, so after father's death (for while he were alive, she seemed to think he could manage it) i had carried it to my own room. i went up and fetched it for john, who stood outside the door all the time." "what did he say he wanted it for?" asked mr. carson, hastily. "i don't think he spoke when i gave it him. at first he muttered something about the shooting-gallery, and i never doubted but that it were for practice there, as i knew he had done years before." mr. carson had strung up his frame to an attitude of upright attention while jem was speaking; now the tension relaxed, and he sank back in his chair, weak and powerless. he rose up again, however, as jem went on, anxious to give every particular which could satisfy the bereaved father. "i never knew for what he wanted the gun till i was taken up,--i do not know yet why he wanted it. no one would have had me get out of the scrape by implicating an old friend,--my father's old friend, and the father of the girl i loved. so i refused to tell mr. bridgenorth aught about it, and would not have named it now to any one but you." jem's face became very red at the allusion he made to mary, but his honest, fearless eyes had met mr. carson's penetrating gaze unflinchingly, and had carried conviction of his innocence and truthfulness. mr. carson felt certain that he had heard all that jem could tell. accordingly he turned to job legh. "you were in the room the whole time while barton was speaking to me, i think?" "yes, sir," answered job. "you'll excuse my asking plain and direct questions; the information i am gaining is really a relief to my mind, i don't know how, but it is,--will you tell me if you had any idea of barton's guilt in this matter before?" "none whatever, so help me god!" said job, solemnly. "to tell truth (and axing your forgiveness, jem), i had never got quite shut of the notion that jem here had done it. at times i was as clear of his innocence as i was of my own; and whenever i took to reasoning about it, i saw he could not have been the man that did it. still i never thought of barton." "and yet by his confession he must have been absent at the time," said mr. carson, referring to his slip of paper. "ay, and for many a day after,--i can't rightly say how long. but still, you see, one's often blind to many a thing that lies right under one's nose, till it's pointed out. and till i heard what john barton had to say yon night, i could not have seen what reason he had for doing it; while in the case of jem, any one who looked at mary barton might have seen a cause for jealousy, clear enough." "then you believe that barton had no knowledge of my son's unfortunate,--" he looked at jem, "of his attentions to mary barton. this young man, wilson, had heard of them, you see." "the person who told me said clearly she neither had, nor would tell mary's father," interposed jem. "i don't believe he'd ever heard of it; he weren't a man to keep still in such a matter, if he had." "besides," said job, "the reason he gave on his death-bed, so to speak, was enough; 'specially to those who knew him." "you mean his feelings regarding the treatment of the workmen by the masters; you think he acted from motives of revenge, in consequence of the part my son had taken in putting down the strike?" "well, sir," replied job, "it's hard to say: john barton was not a man to take counsel with people; nor did he make many words about his doings. so i can only judge from his way of thinking and talking in general, never having heard him breathe a syllable concerning this matter in particular. you see he were sadly put about to make great riches and great poverty square with christ's gospel"--job paused, in order to try and express what was clear enough in his own mind, as to the effect produced on john barton by the great and mocking contrasts presented by the varieties of human condition. before he could find suitable words to explain his meaning, mr. carson spoke. "you mean he was an owenite; all for equality and community of goods, and that kind of absurdity." "no, no! john barton was no fool. no need to tell him that were all men equal to-night, some would get the start by rising an hour earlier to-morrow. nor yet did he care for goods, nor wealth--no man less, so that he could get daily bread for him and his; but what hurt him sore, and rankled in him as long as i knew him (and, sir, it rankles in many a poor man's heart far more than the want of any creature-comforts, and puts a sting into starvation itself), was that those who wore finer clothes, and eat better food, and had more money in their pockets, kept him at arm's length, and cared not whether his heart was sorry or glad; whether he lived or died,--whether he was bound for heaven or hell. it seemed hard to him that a heap of gold should part him and his brother so far asunder. for he was a loving man before he grew mad with seeing such as he was slighted, as if christ himself had not been poor. at one time, i've heard him say, he felt kindly towards every man, rich or poor, because he thought they were all men alike. but latterly he grew aggravated with the sorrows and suffering that he saw, and which he thought the masters might help if they would." "that's the notion you've all of you got," said mr. carson. "now, how in the world can we help it? we cannot regulate the demand for labour. no man or set of men can do it. it depends on events which god alone can control. when there is no market for our goods, we suffer just as much as you can do." "not as much, i'm sure, sir; though i'm not given to political economy, i know that much. i'm wanting in learning, i'm aware; but i can use my eyes. i never see the masters getting thin and haggard for want of food; i hardly ever see them making much change in their way of living, though i don't doubt they've got to do it in bad times. but it's in things for show they cut short; while for such as me, it's in things for life we've to stint. for sure, sir, you'll own it's come to a hard pass when a man would give aught in the world for work to keep his children from starving, and can't get a bit, if he's ever so willing to labour. i'm not up to talking as john barton would have done, but that's clear to me at any rate." "my good man, just listen to me. two men live in solitude; one produces loaves of bread, the other coats,--or what you will. now, would it not be hard if the bread-producer were forced to give bread for the coats, whether he wanted them or not, in order to furnish employment to the other? that is the simple form of the case; you've only to multiply the numbers. there will come times of great changes in the occupation of thousands, when improvements in manufactures and machinery are made.--it's all nonsense talking,--it must be so!" job legh pondered a few moments. "it's true it was a sore time for the hand-loom weavers when power-looms came in: them new-fangled things make a man's life like a lottery; and yet i'll never misdoubt that power-looms, and railways, and all such-like inventions, are the gifts of god. i have lived long enough, too, to see that it is part of his plan to send suffering to bring out a higher good; but surely it's also part of his plan that as much of the burden of the suffering as can be, should be lightened by those whom it is his pleasure to make happy, and content in their own circumstances. of course it would take a deal more thought and wisdom than me, or any other man has, to settle out of hand how this should be done. but i'm clear about this, when god gives a blessing to be enjoyed, he gives it with a duty to be done; and the duty of the happy is to help the suffering to bear their woe." "still, facts have proved and are daily proving how much better it is for every man to be independent of help, and self-reliant," said mr. carson, thoughtfully. "you can never work facts as you would fixed quantities, and say, given two facts, and the product is so and so. god has given men feelings and passions which cannot be worked into the problem, because they are for ever changing and uncertain. god has also made some weak; not in any one way, but in all. one is weak in body, another in mind, another in steadiness of purpose, a fourth can't tell right from wrong, and so on; or if he can tell the right, he wants strength to hold by it. now to my thinking, them that is strong in any of god's gifts is meant to help the weak,--be hanged to the facts! i ask your pardon, sir; i can't rightly explain the meaning that is in me. i'm like a tap as won't run, but keeps letting it out drop by drop, so that you've no notion of the force of what's within." job looked and felt very sorrowful at the want of power in his words, while the feeling within him was so strong and clear. "what you say is very true, no doubt," replied mr. carson; "but how would you bring it to bear upon the masters' conduct,--on my particular case?" added he, gravely. "i'm not learned enough to argue. thoughts come into my head that i'm sure are as true as gospel, though may be they don't follow each other like the q. e. d. of a proposition. the masters has it on their own conscience,--you have it on yours, sir, to answer for to god whether you've done, and are doing all in your power to lighten the evils that seem always to hang on the trades by which you make your fortunes. it's no business of mine, thank god. john barton took the question in hand, and his answer to it was no! then he grew bitter, and angry, and mad; and in his madness he did a great sin, and wrought a great woe; and repented him with tears as of blood; and will go through his penance humbly and meekly in t'other place, i'll be bound. i never seed such bitter repentance as his that last night." there was a silence of many minutes. mr. carson had covered his face, and seemed utterly forgetful of their presence; and yet they did not like to disturb him by rising to leave the room. at last he said, without meeting their sympathetic eyes, "thank you both for coming,--and for speaking candidly to me. i fear, legh, neither you nor i have convinced each other, as to the power, or want of power, in the masters to remedy the evils the men complain of." "i'm loth to vex you, sir, just now; but it was not the want of power i was talking on; what we all feel sharpest is the want of inclination to try and help the evils which come like blights at times over the manufacturing places, while we see the masters can stop work and not suffer. if we saw the masters try for our sakes to find a remedy,--even if they were long about it,--even if they could find no help, and at the end of all could only say, 'poor fellows, our hearts are sore for ye; we've done all we could, and can't find a cure,'--we'd bear up like men through bad times. no one knows till they've tried, what power of bearing lies in them, if once they believe that men are caring for their sorrows and will help if they can. if fellow-creatures can give nought but tears and brave words, we take our trials straight from god, and we know enough of his love to put ourselves blind into his hands. you say our talk has done no good. i say it has. i see the view you take of things from the place where you stand. i can remember that, when the time comes for judging you; i sha'n't think any longer, does he act right on my views of a thing, but does he act right on his own. it has done me good in that way. i'm an old man, and may never see you again; but i'll pray for you, and think on you and your trials, both of your great wealth, and of your son's cruel death, many and many a day to come; and i'll ask god to bless both to you now and for evermore. amen. farewell!" jem had maintained a manly and dignified reserve ever since he had made his open statement of all he knew. now both the men rose and bowed low, looking at mr. carson with the deep human interest they could not fail to take in one who had endured and forgiven a deep injury; and who struggled hard, as it was evident he did, to bear up like a man under his affliction. he bowed low in return to them. then he suddenly came forward and shook them by the hand; and thus, without a word more, they parted. there are stages in the contemplation and endurance of great sorrow, which endow men with the same earnestness and clearness of thought that in some of old took the form of prophecy. to those who have large capability of loving and suffering, united with great power of firm endurance, there comes a time in their woe, when they are lifted out of the contemplation of their individual case into a searching inquiry into the nature of their calamity, and the remedy (if remedy there be) which may prevent its recurrence to others as well as to themselves. hence the beautiful, noble efforts which are from time to time brought to light, as being continuously made by those who have once hung on the cross of agony, in order that others may not suffer as they have done; one of the grandest ends which sorrow can accomplish; the sufferer wrestling with god's messenger until a blessing is left behind, not for one alone but for generations. it took time before the stern nature of mr. carson was compelled to the recognition of this secret of comfort, and that same sternness prevented his reaping any benefit in public estimation from the actions he performed; for the character is more easily changed than the habits and manners originally formed by that character, and to his dying day mr. carson was considered hard and cold by those who only casually saw him, or superficially knew him. but those who were admitted into his confidence were aware, that the wish which lay nearest to his heart was that none might suffer from the cause from which he had suffered; that a perfect understanding, and complete confidence and love, might exist between masters and men; that the truth might be recognised that the interests of one were the interests of all, and as such, required the consideration and deliberation of all; that hence it was most desirable to have educated workers, capable of judging, not mere machines of ignorant men; and to have them bound to their employers by the ties of respect and affection, not by mere money bargains alone; in short, to acknowledge the spirit of christ as the regulating law between both parties. many of the improvements now in practice in the system of employment in manchester, owe their origin to short, earnest sentences spoken by mr. carson. many and many yet to be carried into execution, take their birth from that stern, thoughtful mind, which submitted to be taught by suffering. chapter xxxviii. conclusion. "touch us gently, gentle time! we've not proud nor soaring wings, our ambition, our content, lies in simple things; humble voyagers are we o'er life's dim unsounded sea; touch us gently, gentle time!" barry cornwall. not many days after john barton's funeral was over, all was arranged respecting jem's appointment at toronto; and the time was fixed for his sailing. it was to take place almost immediately: yet much remained to be done; many domestic preparations were to be made; and one great obstacle, anticipated by both jem and mary, to be removed. this was the opposition they expected from mrs. wilson, to whom the plan had never yet been named. they were most anxious that their home should continue ever to be hers, yet they feared that her dislike to a new country might be an insuperable objection to this. at last jem took advantage of an evening of unusual placidity, as he sat alone with his mother just before going to bed, to broach the subject; and to his surprise she acceded willingly to his proposition of her accompanying himself and his wife. "to be sure 'merica is a long way to flit to; beyond london a good bit i reckon; and quite in foreign parts; but i've never had no opinion of england, ever since they could be such fools as take up a quiet chap like thee, and clap thee in prison. where you go, i'll go. perhaps in them indian countries they'll know a well-behaved lad when they see him; ne'er speak a word more, lad, i'll go." their path became daily more smooth and easy; the present was clear and practicable, the future was hopeful; they had leisure of mind enough to turn to the past. "jem!" said mary to him, one evening as they sat in the twilight, talking together in low happy voices till margaret should come to keep mary company through the night, "jem! you've never yet told me how you came to know about my naughty ways with poor young mr. carson." she blushed for shame at the remembrance of her folly, and hid her head on his shoulder while he made answer. "darling, i'm almost loth to tell you; your aunt esther told me." "ah, i remember! but how did she know? i was so put about that night i did not think of asking her. where did you see her? i've forgotten where she lives." mary said all this in so open and innocent a manner, that jem felt sure she knew not the truth respecting esther, and he half hesitated to tell her. at length he replied, "where did you see esther lately? when? tell me, love, for you've never named it before, and i can't make it out." "oh! it was that horrible night which is like a dream." and she told him of esther's midnight visit, concluding with, "we must go and see her before we leave, though i don't rightly know where to find her." "dearest mary,--" "what, jem?" exclaimed she, alarmed by his hesitation. "your poor aunt esther has no home:--she's one of them miserable creatures that walk the streets." and he in his turn told of his encounter with esther, with so many details that mary was forced to be convinced, although her heart rebelled against the belief. "jem, lad!" said she, vehemently, "we must find her out,--we must hunt her up!" she rose as if she was going on the search there and then. "what could we do, darling?" asked he, fondly restraining her. "do! why! what could we _not_ do, if we could but find her? she's none so happy in her ways, think ye, but what she'd turn from them, if any one would lend her a helping hand. don't hold me, jem; this is just the time for such as her to be out, and who knows but what i might find her close at hand." "stay, mary, for a minute; i'll go out now and search for her if you wish, though it's but a wild chase. you must not go. it would be better to ask the police to-morrow. but if i should find her, how can i make her come with me? once before she refused, and said she could not break off her drinking ways, come what might?" "you never will persuade her if you fear and doubt," said mary, in tears. "hope yourself, and trust to the good that must be in her. speak to that,--she has it in her yet,--oh, bring her home, and we will love her so, we'll make her good." "yes!" said jem, catching mary's sanguine spirit; "she shall go to america with us; and we'll help her to get rid of her sins. i'll go now, my precious darling, and if i can't find her, it's but trying the police to-morrow. take care of your own sweet self, mary," said he, fondly kissing her before he went out. it was not to be. jem wandered far and wide that night, but never met esther. the next day he applied to the police; and at last they recognised under his description of her, a woman known to them under the name of the "butterfly," from the gaiety of her dress a year or two ago. by their help he traced out one of her haunts, a low lodging-house behind peter street. he and his companion, a kind-hearted policeman, were admitted, suspiciously enough, by the landlady, who ushered them into a large garret where twenty or thirty people of all ages and both sexes lay and dozed away the day, choosing the evening and night for their trades of beggary, thieving, or prostitution. "i know the butterfly was here," said she, looking round. "she came in, the night before last, and said she had not a penny to get a place for shelter; and that if she was far away in the country she could steal aside and die in a copse, or a clough, like the wild animals; but here the police would let no one alone in the streets, and she wanted a spot to die in, in peace. it's a queer sort of peace we have here, but that night the room was uncommon empty, and i'm not a hard-hearted woman (i wish i were, i could ha' made a good thing out of it afore this if i were harder), so i sent her up,--but she's not here now, i think." "was she very bad?" asked jem. "ay! nought but skin and bone, with a cough to tear her in two." they made some inquiries, and found that in the restlessness of approaching death, she had longed to be once more in the open air, and had gone forth,--where, no one seemed to be able to tell. leaving many messages for her, and directions that he was to be sent for if either the policeman or the landlady obtained any clue to her where-abouts, jem bent his steps towards mary's house; for he had not seen her all that long day of search. he told her of his proceedings and want of success; and both were saddened at the recital, and sat silent for some time. after a while they began talking over their plans. in a day or two, mary was to give up house, and go and live for a week or so with job legh, until the time of her marriage, which would take place immediately before sailing; they talked themselves back into silence and delicious reverie. mary sat by jem, his arm round her waist, her head on his shoulder; and thought over the scenes which had passed in that home she was so soon to leave for ever. suddenly she felt jem start, and started too without knowing why; she tried to see his countenance, but the shades of evening had deepened so much she could read no expression there. it was turned to the window; she looked and saw a white face pressed against the panes on the outside, gazing intently into the dusky chamber. while they watched, as if fascinated by the appearance, and unable to think or stir, a film came over the bright, feverish, glittering eyes outside, and the form sank down to the ground without a struggle of instinctive resistance. "it is esther!" exclaimed they, both at once. they rushed outside; and, fallen into what appeared simply a heap of white or light-coloured clothes, fainting or dead, lay the poor crushed butterfly--the once innocent esther. she had come (as a wounded deer drags its heavy limbs once more to the green coolness of the lair in which it was born, there to die) to see the place familiar to her innocence, yet once again before her death. whether she was indeed alive or dead, they knew not now. job came in with margaret, for it was bed-time. he said esther's pulse beat a little yet. they carried her upstairs and laid her on mary's bed, not daring to undress her, lest any motion should frighten the trembling life away; but it was all in vain. towards midnight, she opened wide her eyes and looked around on the once familiar room; job legh knelt by the bed praying aloud and fervently for her, but he stopped as he saw her roused look. she sat up in bed with a sudden convulsive motion. "has it been a dream then?" asked she wildly. then with a habit, which came like instinct even in that awful dying hour, her hand sought for a locket which hung concealed in her bosom, and, finding that, she knew all was true which had befallen her since last she lay an innocent girl on that bed. she fell back, and spoke word never more. she held the locket containing her child's hair still in her hand, and once or twice she kissed it with a long soft kiss. she cried feebly and sadly as long as she had any strength to cry, and then she died. they laid her in one grave with john barton. and there they lie without name, or initial, or date. only this verse is inscribed upon the stone which covers the remains of these two wanderers. psalm ciii. v. .--"for he will not always chide, neither will he keep his anger for ever." i see a long, low, wooden house, with room enough and to spare. the old primeval trees are felled and gone for many a mile around; one alone remains to overshadow the gable-end of the cottage. there is a garden around the dwelling, and far beyond that stretches an orchard. the glory of an indian summer is over all, making the heart leap at the sight of its gorgeous beauty. at the door of the house, looking towards the town, stands mary, watching for the return of her husband from his daily work; and while she watches, she listens, smiling; "clap hands, daddy comes, with his pocket full of plums, and a cake for johnnie." then comes a crow of delight from johnnie. then his grandmother carries him to the door, and glories in seeing him resist his mother's blandishments to cling to her. "english letters! 'twas that made me so late!" "oh, jem, jem! don't hold them so tight! what do they say?" "why, some good news. come, give a guess what it is." "oh, tell me! i cannot guess," said mary. "then you give it up, do you? what do you say, mother?" jane wilson thought a moment. "will and margaret are married?" asked she. "not exactly,--but very near. the old woman has twice the spirit of the young one. come, mary, give a guess!" he covered his little boy's eyes with his hands for an instant, significantly, till the baby pushed them down, saying in his imperfect way, "tan't see." "there now! johnnie can see. do you guess, mary?" "they've done something to margaret to give her back her sight!" exclaimed she. "they have. she has been couched, and can see as well as ever. she and will are to be married on the twenty-fifth of this month, and he's bringing her out here next voyage; and job legh talks of coming too,--not to see you, mary,--nor you, mother,--nor you, my little hero" (kissing him), "but to try and pick up a few specimens of canadian insects, will says. all the compliment is to the earwigs, you see, mother!" "dear job legh!" said mary, softly and seriously. the power and the glory by grace macgowan cooke author of "mistress joy," "huldah," "their first formal call," etc. with four illustrations by arthur i. keller to helen contents chapter i. the birth of a woman-child ii. the birth of an ambition iii. a peak in darien iv. of the use of feet v. the moccasin flower vi. weavers and weft vii. above the valley viii. of the use of wings ix. a bit of metal x. the sandals of joy xi. the new boarder xii. the contents of a bandanna xiii. a patient for the hospital xiv. wedding bells xv. the feet of the children xvi. bitter waters xvii. a victim xviii. light xix. a pact xx. missing xxi. the search xxii. the atlas vertebra xxiii. a clue xxiv. the rescue xxv. the future illustrations "yes, i'm a-going to get a chance to work right away," she smiled up at him. _frontispiece_ he loomed above them, white and shaking. "you thieves!" he roared. "give me my bandanner! give me johnnie's silver mine!" "lost--gone! my god, mother--it's three days and three nights!" the car was already leaping down the hill at a tremendous pace. chapter i the birth of a woman-child "whose cradle's that?" the sick woman's thin querulous tones arrested the man at the threshold. "onie dillard's," he replied hollowly from the depths of the crib which he carried upside down upon his head, like some curious kind of overgrown helmet. "now, why in the name o' common sense would ye go and borry a broken cradle?" came the wail from the bed. "i 'lowed you'd git billy spinner's, an' hit's as good as new." uncle pros set the small article of furniture down gently. "don't you worry yo'se'f, laurelly," he said enthusiastically. pros passmore, uncle of the sick woman and mainstay of the forlorn little consadine household, was always full of enthusiasm. "just a few nails and a little wrappin' of twine'll make it all right," he informed his niece. "i stopped a-past and borried the nails and the hammer from jeff dawes; i mighty nigh pounded my thumb off knockin' in nails with a rock an' a sad-iron last week." "looks like nobody ain't got no sense," returned laurella consadine ungratefully. "even you, unc' pros--while you borryin' why cain't ye borry whole things that don't need mendin'?" out of the shadows that hoarded the further end of the room came a woman with a little bundle in her arm which had evidently created the necessity for the borrowed cradle. "laurelly," the nurse hesitated, "i wouldn't name it to ye whilst ye was a-sufferin,' but i jest cain't find the baby's clothes nowhars. i've done washed the little trick and wrapped her in my flannen petticoat. i do despise to put anything on 'em that anybody else has wore ... hit don't seem right. but i've been plumb through everything, an' cain't find none of her coats. whar did you put 'em?" "i didn't have no luck borryin' for this one," complained the sick woman fretfully. "looks like everybody's got that mean that they wouldn't lend me a rag ... an' the lord knows i only ast a _wearin'_ of the clothes for my chillen. folks can make shore that i return what i borry--ef the lord lets me." "ain't they nothin' to put on the baby?" asked mavity bence, aghast. "no. hit's jest like i been tellin' ye, i went to tarver's wife--she's got a plenty. i knowed in reason she'd have baby clothes that she couldn't expect to wear out on her own chillen. i said as much to her, when she told me she was liable to need 'em befo' i did. i says, 'ye cain't need more'n half of 'em, i reckon, an' half'll do me, an' i'll return 'em to ye when i'm done with 'em.' she acted jest as selfish--said she'd like to know how i was goin' to inshore her that it wouldn't be twins agin same as 'twas before. some folks is powerful mean an' suspicious." all this time the nurse had been standing with the quiet small packet which was the storm centre of preparation lying like a cocoon or a giant seed-pod against her bosom. "she's a mighty likely little gal," said she finally. "have ye any hopes o' gittin' anything to put on her?" the woman in the bed--she was scarcely more than a girl, with shining dark eyes and a profusion of jetty ringlets about her elfish, pretty little face--seemed to feel that this speech was in the nature of a reproach. she hastened to detail her further activities on behalf of the newcomer. "consadine's a poor provider," she said plaintively, alluding to her absent husband. "maw said to me when i would have him that he was a poor provider; and then he's got into this here way of goin' off like. time things gets too bad here at home he's got a big scheme up for makin' his fortune somewhars else, and out he puts. he 'lowed he'd be home with a plenty before the baby come. but thar--he's the best man that ever was, when he's here, and i have no wish to miscall him. i reckon he thought i could borry what i'd need. biney meal lent me enough for the little un that died; but of course some o' the coats was buried with the child; and what was left, sis' elvira borried for her baby. i was layin' off to go over to the deep spring neighbourhood when i could git a lift in that direction--the folks over yon is mighty accommodative," she concluded, "but i was took sooner than i expected, and hyer we air without a stitch, i've done sont bud an' honey to mandy ann foncher's mebby they'll bring in somethin'." the little cabin shrank back against the steep side of the mountain as though half terrified at the hollow immensity of the welkin above, or the almost sheer drop to the valley five hundred feet beneath. a sidling mountain trail passed the front of its rail fence, and stones continually rolled from the upper to the lower side of this highway. the day was darkening rapidly. a low line of red still burned behind the massive bulk of big unaka, and the solemn purple mountains raised their peaks against it in a jagged line. within die single-roomed cabin the rich, broken light from the cavernous fireplace filled the smoke-browned interior full of shadow and shine in which things leaped oddly into life, or dropped out of knowledge with a startling effect. the four corners of the log room were utilized, three of them for beds, made by thrusting two poles through auger holes bored in the logs of the walls, setting a leg at the corner where these met and lacing the bottom with hickory withes. the fourth had some rude planks nailed in it for a table, and a knot-hole in one of the logs served the primitive purpose of a salt-cellar. a pack of gaunt hounds quarrelled under the floor, and the sick woman stirred uneasily on her bed and expressed a wish that her emissaries would return. uncle pros had taken the cradle to a back door to get the last of the evening sun upon his task. one would not have thought that he could hear what the women were saying at this distance, but the old hunter's ears were sharp. "never you mind, laurelly," he called cheerfully. "wrop the baby up some fashion, and i'll hike out and get clothes for her, time i mend this cradle." "ef that ain't just like unc' pros!" and the girlish mother laughed out suddenly. you saw the gypsy beauty of her face. "he ain't content with borryin' men's truck, but thinks he can turn in an' borry coats 'mongst the women. well, i reckon he might have better luck than what i did." as she spoke a small boy and girl, her dead brother's children, came clattering in from the purple mysteries of dusk outside, hand clasped in hand, and stopped close to the bed, staring. "mandy ann, she wouldn't lend us a thing," bud began in an aggrieved tone. "i traded for this--chopped wood for it--and hit was all she would give me." he laid a coarse little garment upon the ragged coverlet. "that!" cried laurella passmore, taking it up with angrily tremulous fingers. "my child shain't wear no sech. hit ain't fittin' for my baby to put on. oh, i wisht i could git up from here and do about; i'd git somethin' for her to wear!" "son," said mrs. bence, approaching the bedside, "air ye afeared to go over as far as my house right now?" "i ain't skeered ef honey'll go with me," returned the boy doubtfully, as he interrogated the twilit spaces beyond the open cabin door. "well, you go ask pap to look in the green chist and send me the spotted caliker poke that he'll find under the big bun'le. don't you let him give you that thar big bun'le; 'caze that's not a thing but seed corn, and he'll be mad ef it's tetched. fell pap that what's in the spotted poke ain't nothin' that he wants. tell him it's--well, tell him to look at it before he gives it to you." the two little souls scuttled away into the gathering dark, and the neighbour woman sat down by the fire to nurse the baby and croon and await the clothing for which she had sent. she was not an old woman, but already stiff and misshapen by toil and the lack of that saving salt of pride, the stimulation of joy, which keeps us erect and supple. her broad back was bent; her hands as they shifted the infant tenderly were knotted and work-worn. mavity bence was a widow, living at home with her father, gideon himes; she had one child left, a daughter; but the clothing for which she had sent was an outfit made for a son, the posthumous offspring of his father; and the babe had not lived long enough to wear it. outside, uncle pros began to sing at his work. he had a fluty old tenor voice, and he put in turns and quavers that no ear not of the mountains could possibly follow and fix. first it was a hymn, all abrupt, odd, minor cadences and monotonous refrain. then he shifted to a ballad--and the mountains are full of old ballads of scotland and england, come down from the time of the first settlers, and with local names quaintly substituted for the originals here and there. "she's gwine to walk in a silken gownd, an' ha'e plenty o' siller for to spare," chanted the old man above the little bed he was repairing. "who's that you're a-namin' that's a-goin' to have silk dresses?" inquired laurella, as he entered and set the mended cradle down by the bedside. "the baby." he returned. "ef i find my silver mine--or ruther _when_ i find my silver mine, for you know in reason with the directions pap's grandpap left, and that word from great uncle billy that helped the injuns work it, i'm bound to run the thing down one o' these days--when i find my silver mine this here little gal's a-goin' to have everything she wants--ain't ye, pretty?" and, having made a bed in the cradle from some folded covers, he lifted the baby with strange deftness and placed it in. "see thar," he called their attention proudly. "as good as new. and ef i git time i'm a-goin' to give it a few licks o' paint." hands on knees, he bent to study the face of the new-born, that countenance so ambiguous to our eyes, scarce stamped yet with the common seal of humanity. "she's a mighty pretty little gal," he repeated mavity bence's words. "she's got the passmore favour, as well as the consadine. reckon i better be steppin' over to vander's and see can i borry their cow. if it's with you this time like it was with the last one, we'll have to have a cow. i always thought if we'd had a fresh cow for that other one, hit would 'a' lived. i know in reason vander'll lend the cow for a spell"--uncle pros always had unbounded confidence in the good will of his neighbours toward himself, since his own generosity to them would have been fathomless--"i know in reason he'll lend hit, 'caze they ain't got no baby to their house." he bestowed one more proud, fond look upon the little face in the borrowed cradle, and walked out with as elated a step as though a queen had been born to the tribe. in the doorway he met bud and honey, returning with the spotted calico poke clutched fast between them. "i won't ask nothin' but a wearin' of em for my child," laurella consadine, born laurella passmore, reiterated when the small garments were laid out on the bed, and the baby was being dressed. "they're mighty fine, mavity, an' i'll take good keer of 'em and always bear in mind that they're only borried." "no," returned mavity bence, with unwonted firmness, as she put the newcomer into the slip intended for her own son. "no, laurelly, these clothes ain't loaned to you. i give 'em to this child. i'm a widder, and i never look to wed again, becaze pap he has to have somebody to do for him, an' he'd just about tear up the ground if i was to name sech a thing. i'm mighty glad to give 'em to yo' little gal. i only wisht," she said wistfully, "that hit was a boy. ef hit was a boy, mebbe you'd give hit the name that should 'a' went with the clothes. i was a-goin' to call the baby john after hit's pappy." laurella consadine lay quiescent for a moment, big black eyes studying the smoky logs that raftered the roof. then all at once she laughed, with a flash of white teeth. "i don't see why johnnie ain't a mighty fine name for a gal," she said. "i vow i'm a-goin' to name her johnnie!" and so this one of the tribe of borrowing passmores wore her own clothing from the first. no borrowed garment touched her. she rejected the milk from the borrowed cow, fiercely; lustily she demanded--and eventually received--her own legitimate, unborrowed sustenance. perhaps such a beginning had its own influence upon her future. chapter ii the birth of an ambition all day the girl had walked steadily, her bare feet comforted by the warm dust, shunning the pebbles, never finding sham stones in the way, making friends with the path--that would always be johnnie. from the little high-hung valley in the remote fastnesses of the unakas where she was born, johnnie consadine was walking down to cottonville, the factory town on the outskirts of watauga, to find work. sometimes the road wound a little upward for a quarter of a mile or so; but the general tendency was persistently down. in the gray dawn of sunday morning she had stepped from the door of that room where the three beds occupied three corners, and a rude table was rigged in the fourth. it might almost seem that the same hounds were quarrelling under the floor that had scrambled there eighteen years before when she was born. at first the way was entirely familiar to her. it passed few habitations, and of those the dwellers were not yet abroad, since it was scarce day. as time went on she got to the little settlement at the foot of the first mountain, and had to explain to everybody her destination and ambition. beyond this, she stopped occasionally for direction, she met more people; yet she was still in the heart of the mountains when noon found her, and she crept up a wayside bank and sat down alone to eat her bite of corn pone. guided by the instinct--or the wood-craft--of the mountain born and bred, she had sought out one of the hermit springs of beautiful freestone water that hide in these solitudes. when she had slaked her thirst at its little ice-cold chalice, she raised her head with a low exclamation of rapture. there, growing and blowing beside the cool thread of water which trickled from the spring, was a stately pink moccasin flower. she knelt and gazed at it with folded hands, as one before a shrine. what is it in the sweeping dignity of these pointed, oval, parallel-veined leaves, sheathed one within another, the clean column of the bloom stalk rising a foot and a half perhaps above, and at its tip the wonderful pink, dreaming buddha of the forest, that so commands the heart? it was not entirely the beauty of the softly glowing orchid that charmed johnnie consadine's eyes; it was the significance of the flower. somehow the finding this rare, shy thing decking her path toward labour and enterprise spoke to her soul of success. for a long time she knelt, her bright uncovered head dappled by a ray of sunlight which filtered through the deep, cool green above her, her face bent, her eyes brooding, as though she prayed. when she had finished her dinner of corn pone and fried pork, she rose and parted with almost reverent fingers the pink wonder from its stalk, sought out a coarse, clean handkerchief from her bundle and, steeping it in the icy water of the spring, lapped it around her treasure. not often in her eighteen summers had she found so fine a specimen. then she took up her journey, comforted and strangely elated. "looks like it was waiting right there to tell me howdy," she murmured to herself. the keynote of johnnie consadine's character was aspiration. in her cabin home the wings of desire were clipped, because she must needs put her passionate young soul into the longing for food, to quiet the cravings of a healthy stomach, which generally clamoured from one blackberry season to the other; the longing for shoes, when her feet were frostbitten; the yet more urgent wish to feed the little ones she loved; the pressing demand, when the water-bucket gave out and they had to pack water in a tin tomato can with a string bail; the dull ache of mortification when she became old enough to understand their position as the borrowing passmores. yet all human desire is sacred, and of god; to desire--to want--to aspire--thus shall the individual be saved; and surely in this is the salvation of the race. and johnnie felt vaguely that at last she was going out into a world where she should learn what to desire and how to desire it. now as she tramped she was conning over her present plans. again she saw the cabin at home in that pitchy black which precedes the first leavening of dawn, and herself getting up to start early on the long walk. her mother would get up too, and that was foolish. she saw the slight figure stooping to rake together the embers in the broad chimney's throat that the coffee-pot might be set on. she remonstrated with the little mother, saying that she aimed not to disturb anybody--not even uncle pros. "uncle pros!" laurella echoed from the hearthstone, where she sat on her heels, like a little girl playing at mud-pies. johnnie smiled at the memory of how her mother laughed over the suggestion, with a drawing of slant brows above big, tragic dark eyes, a look of suffering from the mirth which adds the crown to joyousness. "your uncle pros he got a revelation 'long 'bout midnight as to just whar that thar silver mine is that's been dodgin' him for more'n forty year. he come a-shakin' me by the shoulder--like i reckon he's done fifty times ef he's done it once--and telling me that he's off to make all our fortunes inside of a week. he said if you still would go down to that thar old fool cotton mill and hire out, to name it to you that shade buckheath would stand some watchin'. your uncle pros has got sense--in streaks. why in the world you'll pike out and go to work in a cotton mill is more than i can cipher." "to take care of you and the children," the girl had said, standing tall and straight, deep-bosomed and red-lipped, laughing back at her little mother. "somebody's got to take care of you-all, and i just love to be the one." laurella consadine, commonly called in mountain fashion by her maiden name of laurella passmore, scrambled to her feet and tossed the dark curls out of her eyes. "aw--law--huh!" she returned carelessly. "we'll get along; we always have. how do you reckon i made out before you was born, you great big somebody? what's the matter with you? did you fail to borry a frock for the dance over at rainy gap? try again, honey--i'll bet s'lomy buckheath would lend you one o' her'n." that was it; borrowing--borrowing--borrowing till they were known as the borrowing passmores and became the jest of the neighbourhood. "no, i couldn't stand it," the girl justified herself. "i had obliged to get out and go where money could be earned--me, that's big and stout and able." and sighingly--yet light-heartedly, for with laurella consadine and johnnie there was always the quaint suggestion of a little girl with a doll quite too big for her--the mother let her go. it had been just so when johnnie would have her time for every term of the "old field hollerin' school," where she learned to read and write; even when she persisted in going to rainy gap where some charitably inclined northern church maintained a little school, and pushed her education to dizzy heights that to mountain vision appeared "plumb foolish." that morning she had cautioned her mother to be careful lest they waken the children, for if the little ones roused and began, as the mountain phrase has it, "takin' on," she scarcely knew how she should find heart to leave them. the children--there was the thing that drove. four small brothers and sisters there were; with little deanie, the youngest, to make the painfully strong plea of recent babyhood. consadine, who never could earn money, and used to be from home following one wild scheme or another most of the time, was gone these two years upon his last dubious, adventurous journey; there was not even his intermittent assistance to depend upon. johnnie was the man of the family, and she shouldered her burden bravely, declaring to herself that she would yet have a chance, which the little ones could share. she had kissed her mother, picked up her bundle and got as far as the door, when there came a spat of bare feet meeting the floor, a pattering rush, and deanie's short arms went around her knees, almost tripping her up. "i wasn't 'sleep--i was 'wake the whole time," whispered the baby, lifting a warm, pursed mouth for a kiss. "deanie'll be good an' let you go, sis' johnnie. an' then when you get down thar whar it's all so sightly, you'll send for deanie, 'cause deed and double you couldn't live without her, now could ye?" and she looked craftily up into the face bent above her, bravely choking back the tears that wanted to drown her long speech. johnnie dropped her bundle and caught up the child, crushing the warm, soft, yielding little form against her breast in a very passion of tenderness. "deed and double i couldn't," she whispered back. "sister's goin' to earn money, and deanie shall have plenty of good things to eat next winter, and some shoes. she shan't be housed up every time it snows. sis's goin' to--" she broke off abruptly and kissed the small face with vehemence. "good-bye," she managed to whisper, as she set the baby down and turned to her mother. the kindling touch of that farewell warmed her resolution yet. she was not going down to cottonville to work in the mill merely; she was going into the storehouse of possibilities, to find and buy a chance in the world for these poor little souls who could never have it otherwise. before she kissed her mother, took up her bundle and trudged away in the chill, gray dawn, she declared an intention to come home and pay back every one to whom they were under obligations. now her face dimpled as she remembered the shriek of dismay laurella sent after her. "good land, johnnie consadine! if you start in to pay off all the borryin's of the passmore family since you was born, you'll ruin us--that's what you'll do--you'll ruin us." these things acted themselves over and over in johnnie's mind as, throughout the fresh april afternoon, her long, free, rhythmic step, its morning vigour undiminished, swung the miles behind her; still present in thought when, away down in render's gap, she settled herself on a rock by the wayside where a little stream crossed the road, to wash her feet and put on the shoes which she had up to this time carried with her bundle. "i reckon i must be near enough town to need 'em," she said regretfully, as she drew the big, shapeless, cowhide affairs on her slim, brown, carefully washed and dried feet, and with a leathern thong laced down a wide, stiff tongue. she had earned the money for these shoes picking blackberries at ten cents the gallon, and uncle pros had bought them at the store at bledsoe according to his own ideas. "get 'em big enough and there won't be any fussin' about the fit," the old man explained his theory: and indeed the fit of those shoes on johnnie's feet was not a thing to fuss over--it was past considering. the sun was westering; the gap began to be in shadow, although the point at which she sat was well above the valley. the girl was all at once aware that she was tired and a little timid of what lay before her. she had written to shade buckheath, a neighbour's boy with whom she had gone to school, now employed as a mechanic or loom-fixer in one of the cotton mills, and from whom she had received a reply saying that she could get work in cottonville if she would come down. mavity bence, who had given johnnie her first clothes, was a weaver in the hardwick mill at cottonville, watauga's milling suburb; her father, gideon himes, with whom shade buckheath learned his trade, was a skilled mechanic, and had worked as a loom-fixer for a while. at present he was keeping a boarding-house for the hands, and it was here johnnie was to find lodging. shade himself was reported to be doing extremely well. he had promised in his letter that if johnnie came on a sunday evening he would walk up the road a piece and meet her. she now began to hope that he would come. then, waiting for him, she forgot him, and set herself to imagine what work in the cotton mill and life in town would be like. to shade buckheath, strolling up the road, in the expansiveness of his holiday mood and the dignity of his sunday suit, the first sight of johnnie came with a little unwelcome shock. he had left her in the mountains a tall, thin, sandy-haired girl in the growing age. he got his first sight of her profile relieved against the green of the wayside bank, with a bunch of blooming azaleas starring its verdure behind her bright head. he was not artist enough to appreciate the picture at its value; he simply had the sudden resentful feeling of one who has asked for a hen and been offered a bird of paradise. she was tall and lithe and strong; her thick, fair hair, without being actually curly, seemed to be so vehemently alive that it rippled a bit in its length, as a swift-flowing brook does over a stone. it rose up around her brow in a roll that was almost the fashionable coiffure. those among whom she had been bred, laconically called the colour red; but in fact it was only too deep a gold to be quite yellow. johnnie's face, even in repose, was always potentially joyous. the clear, wide, gray eyes, under their arching brows, the mobile lips, held as it were the smile in solution; when one addressed her it broke swiftly into being, the pink lips lifting adorably above the white teeth, the long fringed eyes crinkling deliciously about the corners. johnnie loved to laugh, and the heart of any reasonable being was instantly moved to give her cause. for himself, the young man was a prevalent type among his people. brown, well built, light on his feet, with heavy black hair growing low on his forehead, and long blackish-gray eyes, there was something latin in the grace of his movements and in his glance. life ran strong in shade buckheath. he stepped with an independent stride that was almost a swagger, and already felt himself a successful man; but that one of the tribe of borrowing passmores should presume to such opulence of charm struck him as well-nigh impudent. the pure outlines of johnnie's features, their aristocratic mould, the ruddy gold of her rich, clustering hair, those were things it seemed to him a good mill-hand might well have dispensed with. then the girl turned, saw him, and flashed him a swift smile of greeting. "it's mighty kind of you to come up and meet me," she said, getting to her feet a little awkwardly on account of the shoes, and picking up her bundle. "i 'lowed you might get lost," bantered the young fellow, not offering to carry the packet as they trudged away side by side. "how's everybody back on unaka? has your uncle pros found his silver mine yet?" "no," returned johnnie seriously, "but he's lookin' for it." shade threw back his head and laughed so long and loud that it would have been embarrassing to any one less sound and sweet-natured than this girl. "i reckon he is," said buckheath. "i reckon pros passmore will be lookin' for that silver mine when gabriel blows. it runs in the family, don't it?" johnnie looked at him and shook her head. "you've been learnin' town ways, haven't you?" she asked simply. "you mean my makin' game of the passmores?" he inquired coolly. "no, i never learned that in the settlement; i learned it in the mountains. i just forgot your name was passmore, that's all," he added sarcastically. "are you goin' to get mad about it?" johnnie had put on her slat sunbonnet and pulled it down so he could not see her face. "no," she returned evenly, "i'm not goin' to get mad at anything. and my name's not passmore, either. my name is consadine, and i aim to be called that. uncle pros passmore is my mother's uncle, and one of the best men that ever lived, i reckon. if all the folks he's nursed in sickness or laid out in death was numbered over it would be a-many a one; and i never heard him take any credit to himself for anything he did. why, shade, the last three years of your father's life uncle pros didn't dare hunt his silver mine much, because your father was paralysed and had to have close waitin' on, and--and there wasn't nobody but uncle pros, since all his boys was gone and--" "oh, say it. speak out," urged shade hardily. "you mean that all us chaps had cut out and left the old man, and there wasn't a cent of money to pay anybody, and no one but pros passmore would 'a' been fool enough to do such hard work without pay. well, i reckon you're about right. you and me come of a mighty poor nation of folks; but i'm goin' to make my pile and have my share, if lookin' out for number one'll do it." johnnie turned and regarded him curiously. it was characteristic of the mountain girl, and of her people, that she had not on first meeting stared, village fashion, at his brave attire; and she seemed now concerned only with the man himself. "i reckon you'll get it," she said meditatively. "i reckon you will. sometimes i think we always get just what we deserve in this here world, and that the only safe way is to try to deserve something good. i hope i didn't say too much for uncle pros; but he's so easy and say-nothin' himself, that i just couldn't bear to hear you laughin' at him and not answer you." "i declare, you're plenty funny!" buckheath burst put boisterously. "no, i ain't mad at you. i kind o' like you for stickin' up for the old man. you and me'll get along, i reckon." as they moved forward, the man and the girl fell into more general chat, the feeling of irritation at johnnie's beauty, her superior air, growing rather than diminishing in the young fellow's mind. how dare pros passmore's grandniece carry a bright head so high, and flash such glances of liquid fire at her questioner? shade looked sidewise sometimes at his companion as he asked the news of their mutual friends, and she answered. yet when he got, along with her mild responses, one of those glances, he was himself strangely subdued by it, and fain to prop his leaning prejudices by contrasting her scant print gown, her slat sunbonnet, and cowhide shoes with the apparel of the humblest in the village which they were approaching. chapter iii a peak in darien so walking, and so desultorily talking, they came out on a noble white highway that wound for miles along the bluffy edge of the upland overlooking the valley upon the one side, fronted by handsome residences on the other. it was johnnie's first view of a big valley, a river, or a city. she had seen the shoestring creek bottoms between the endless mountains among which she was born and bred, the high-hung, cup-like depressions of their inner fastnesses; she was used to the cool, clear, boulder-checked mountain creeks that fight their way down those steeps like an armed man beating off assailants at every turn; she had been taken a number of times to bledsoe, the tiny settlement at the foot of unaka old bald, where there were two stores, a blacksmith shop, the post-office and the church. below her, now beginning to glow in the evening light, opened out one of the finest valleys of the southern appalachees. lapped in it, far off, shrouded with rosy mist which she did not identify as transmuted coal smoke, a city lay, fretted with spires, already sparkling with electric lights, set like a glittering boss of jewels in the broad curve of a shining river. directly down the steep at their feet was the cotton-mill town, a suburb clustered about a half-dozen great factories, whose long rows of lighted windows defined their black bulk. there was a stream here, too; a small, sluggish thing that flowed from tank to tank among the factories, spanned by numerous handrails, bridged in one place for the wagon-road to cross. mills, valley, town, distant rimming mountains, river and creek, glowed and pulsed, dissolved and relimned themselves in the uprolling glory of sunset. "oh, wait for me a minute, shade," pleaded the girl, pulling off her sunbonnet.... "i want to look.... never in my life did i see anything so sightly!" "good land!" laughed the man, with a note of impatience in his voice. "you and me was raised on mountain scenery, as a body may say. i should think we'd both had enough of it to last us." "but this--this is different," groped johnnie, trying to explain the emotions that possessed her. "look at that big settlement over yon. i reckon it's a city. it must be watauga. it looks like the--the mansions of the blest, in the big bible that preacher drane has, down at bledsoe." "i reckon they're blest--they got plenty of money," returned shade, with the cheap cynicism of his kind. "so many houses!" the girl communed with herself. "there's bound to be a-many a person in all them houses," she went on. one could read the loving outreach to all humanity in her tones. "there is," put in shade caustically. "there's many a rogue. you want to look out for them tricky town folks--a girl like you." had he been more kind, he would have said, "a pretty girl like you." but johnnie did not miss it; she was used to such as he gave, or less. "come on," he urged impatiently. "we won't get no supper if you don't hurry." supper! johnnie drew in her breath and shook her head. with that scene unrolled there, as though all the kingdoms of earth were spread before them to look upon, she was asked to remember supper! sighing, but submissively, she moved to follow her guide, a reluctant glance across her shoulder, when there came a cry something like that which the wild geese make when they come over in the spring; and a thing with two shining, fiery eyes, a thing that purred like a giant cat, rounded a curve in the road and came to a sudden jolting halt beside them. shade stopped immediately for that. johnnie did not fail to recognize the vehicle. illustrated magazines go everywhere in these days. in the automobile rode a man, bare-headed, dressed in a suit of white flannels, strange to johnnie's eyes. beside him sat a woman in a long, shimmering, silken cloak, a great, misty, silver-gray veil twined round head and hat and tied in a big bow under the chin. johnnie had as yet seen nothing more pretentious than the starched and ruffled flummeries of a small mountain watering-place. this beautiful, peculiar looking garb had something of the picturesque, the poetic, about it, that appealed to her as the frocks worn at chalybeate springs or bledsoe had never done. she had not wanted them. she wanted this. the automobile was stopped, the young fellow in it calling to shade: "i wonder if you could help me with this thing, buckheath? it's on a strike again. show me what you did to it last time." along the edge of the road at this point, for safety's sake, a low stone wall had been laid. setting down her bundle, johnnie leaned upon this, and shared her admiration between the valley below and these beautiful, interesting newcomers. her bonnet was pushed far back; the wind ruffled the bright hair about her forehead; the wonder and glory and delight of it all made her deep eyes shine with a child's curiosity and avid wishfulness. her lips were parted in unconscious smiles. white and red, tremulous, on tiptoe, the eager soul looking out of her face, she was very beautiful. the man in the automobile observed her kindly; the woman's features she could not quite see, though the veil was parted. neither johnnie nor the driver of the car saw the quick, resentful glance her companion shot at the city man as shade noted the latter's admiring look at the girl. buckheath displayed an awesome familiarity with the machine and its workings, crawling under the body, and tapping it here and there with a wrench its driver supplied. they backed it and moved it a little, and seemed to be debating the short turn which would take them into the driveway leading up to a house on the slope above the road. johnnie continued to watch with fascinated eyes; shade was on his feet now, reaching into the bowels of the machine to do mysterious things. "it's a broken connection," he announced briefly. "is the wire too short to twist together?" inquired the man in the car. "will you have to put in a new piece?" "uh-huh," assented buckheath. "there's a wire in that box there," directed the other. shade worked in silence for a moment. "now she'll go, i reckon," he announced, and once more the driver started up his car. it curved perilously near the bundle she had set down, with the handkerchief containing her cherished blossom lying atop; the mud-guard swept this latter off, and buckheath set a foot upon it as he followed the machine in its progress. "take care--that was a flower," the man in the auto warned, too late. shade answered with a quick, backward-flung glance and a little derisive laugh, but no words. the young fellow stopped the machine, jumped down, and picked up the coarse little handkerchief which showed a bit of drooping green stem at one end and a glimpse of pink at the other. "i'm sorry," he said, presenting it to johnnie with exactly the air and tone he had used in speaking to the lady who was with him in the car. "if i had seen it in time, i might have saved it. i hope it's not much hurt." buckheath addressed himself savagely to his work at the machine. the woman in the auto glanced uneasily up at the house on the slope above them. johnnie looked into the eyes bent so kindly upon her, and could have worshipped the ground on which their owner trod. kindness always melted her heart utterly, but kindness with such beautiful courtesy added--this was the quality in flower. "it doesn't make any differ," she said softly, turning to him a rapt, transfigured face. "it's just a bloom i brought from the mountains--they don't grow in the valley, and i found this one on my way down." the man wondered a little if it were only the glow of the sunset that lit her face with such shining beauty; he noted how the fires of it flowed over her bright, blown hair and kindled its colour, how it lingered in the clear eyes, and flamed upon the white neck and throat till they had almost the translucence of pearl. "i think this thing'll work now--for a spell, anyhow," shade buckheath's voice sounded sharply from the road behind them. "are you afraid to attempt it, miss sessions?" the young man called to his companion. "if you are, we'll walk up, i'll telephone at the house for a trap and we'll drive back:--buckheath will take the machine in for us." the voice was even and low-toned, yet every word came to johnnie distinctly. she watched with a sort of rapture the movements of this party. the man's hair was dark and crisp, and worn a little long about the temples and ears; he had pleasant dark eyes and an air of being slightly amused, even when he did not smile. the lady apparently said that she was not afraid, for her companion got in, the machine negotiated the turn safely and began to move slowly up the steep ascent. as it did so, the driver gave another glance toward where the mountain girl stood, a swift, kind glance, and a smile that stayed with her after the shining car had disappeared in the direction of the wide-porched building where people were laughing and calling to each other and moving about--people dressed in beautiful garments which johnnie would fain have inspected more closely. buckheath stood gazing at her sarcastically. "come on," he ordered, as she held back, lingering. "they ain't no good in you hangin' 'round here. that was mr. gray stoddard, and the lady he's beauin' is miss lydia sessions, mr. hardwick's sister-in-law. he's for such as her--not for you. he's the boss of the bosses down at cottonville. no use of you lookin' at him." johnnie scarcely heard the words. her eyes were on the wide porch of the house above them. "what is that place?" she inquired in an awestruck whisper, as she fell into step submissively, plodding with bent head at his shoulder. "the country club," shade flung back at her. "did you 'low it was heaven?" heaven! johnnie brooded on that for a long time. she turned her head stealthily for a last glimpse of the portico where a laughing girl tossed a ball to a young fellow on the terrace below. after all, heaven was not so far amiss. she had rather associated it with the abode of the blest. the people in it were happy; they moved in beautiful raiment all day long; they spoke to each other kindly. it was love's home, she was sure of that. then her mind went back to the dress of the girl in the auto. "i'm a-going to have me a frock like that before i die," she said, half unconsciously, yet with a sudden passion of resolution. "yes, if i live i'm a-goin' to have me just such a frock." shade wheeled in his tracks with a swift narrowing of the slate-gray eyes. he had been more stirred than he was willing to acknowledge by the girl's beauty, and by a nameless power that went out from the seemingly helpless creature and laid hold of those with whom she came in contact. it was the open admiration of young stoddard which had roused the sullen resentment he was now spending on her. "ye air, air ye?" he demanded sharply. "you're a-goin' to have a frock like that? and what man's a-goin' to pay for it, i'd like to know?" such talk belonged to the valley and the settlement. in the mountains a woman works, of course, and earns her board and keep. she is a valuable industrial possession or chattel to the man, who may profit by her labour; never a luxury--a bill of expense. as she walked, johnnie nodded toward the factory in the valley, beginning to blaze with light--her bridge of toil, that was to carry her from the island of nowhere to the great mainland of life, where everything might be had for the working, the striving. "i didn't name no man," she said mildly. "i don't reckon anybody's goin' to give me things. ain't there the factory where a body may work and earn money for all they need?" "well, i reckon they might, if they was good and careful to need powerful little," allowed shade. at the moment they came to the opening of a small path which plunged abruptly down the steep side of the ridge, curving in and out with--and sometimes across--a carriage road. as they took the first steps on this the sun forsook the valley at last, and lingered only on the mountain top where was that palace of pleasure into which he and she had vanished, before which the strange chariot waited. and all at once the little brook that wound, a golden thread, between the bulk of the mills, flowed, a stream of ink, from pool to pool of black water. the way down turned and turned; and each time that shade and johnnie got another sight of the buildings of the little village below, they had changed in character with the changing point of view. they loomed taller, they looked darker in spite of the pulsing light from their many windows. and now there burst out a roar of whistles, like the bellowing of great monsters. somehow it struck cold upon the girl's heart. they were coming down from that wonderful highland where she had seemed to see all the kingdoms of earth spread before her, hers for the conquering; they were descending into the shadow. as they came quite to the foot they saw groups of women and children, with here and there a decrepit man, leaving the cottages and making their way toward the lighted mills. from the doors of little shanties tired-faced women with boys and girls walking near them, and, in one or two cases, very small ones clinging to their skirts and hands, reinforced the crowd which set in a steady stream toward the bridges and the open gates in the high board fences. "what are they a-goin' to the factory for on sunday evening?" johnnie inquired. "night turn," replied buckheath briefly. "sunday's over at sundown." "oh, yes," agreed johnnie dutifully, but rather disheartened. "trade must be mighty good if they have to work all night." "them that works don't get any more for it," retorted shade harshly. "what's the little ones goin' to the mill for?" johnnie questioned, staring up at him with apprehensive eyes. "why, to play, i reckon," returned the young fellow ironically. "folks mostly does go to the mill to play, don't they?" the girl ran forward and clasped his arm with eager fingers that shook. "shade!" she cried; "they can't work those little babies. that one over there ain't to exceed four year old, and i know it." the man looked indifferently to where a tiny boy trotted at his mother's heels, solemn, old-faced, unchildish. he laughed a little. "that thar chap is the oldest feller in the mills," he said. "that's benny tarbox. he's too short to tend a frame, but his maw lets him help her at the loom--every weaver has obliged to have helpers wait on 'em. you'll get used to it." get used to it! she pulled the sunbonnet about her face. the gold was all gone from the earth, and from her mood as well. she raised her eyes to where the last brightness lingered on the mountain-top. up there they were happy. and even as her feet carried her forward to pap himes's boarding-house, her soul went clamouring, questing back toward the heights, and the sunlight, the love and laughter, she had left behind. "the power and the glory--the power and the glory," she whispered over and over to herself. "is it all back there?" again she looked wistfully toward the heights. "but maybe a body with two feet can climb." chapter iv of the use of feet the suburb of cottonville bordered a creek, a starveling, wet-weather stream which offered the sole suggestion of sewerage. the village was cut in two by this natural division. it clung to the shelving sides of the shallow ravine; it was scattered like bits of refuse on the numerous railroad embankments, where building was unhandy and streets almost impossible, to be convenient to the mills. six big factories in all, some on one side of the state line and some on the other, daily breathed in their live current of operatives and exhaled them again to fill the litter of flimsy shanties. the road which wound down from the heights ran through the middle of the village and formed its main street. across the ravine from it, reached by a wooden bridge, stood a pretentious frame edifice, a boarding-house built by the gloriana mill for the use of its office force and mechanics. men were lounging on the wide porches of this structure in sabbath-afternoon leisure, smoking and singing. the young southern male of any class is usually melodious. across the hollow came the sounds of a guitar and a harmonica. "listen a minute, shade. ain't that pretty? i know that tune," said johnnie, and she began to hum softly under her breath, her girlish heart responding to the call. "hush," admonished buckheath harshly. "you don't want to be runnin' after them fellers. it's some of the loom-fixers." in silence he led the way past the great mill buildings of red brick, square and unlovely but many-windowed and glowing, alight, throbbing with the hum of pent industry. johnnie gazed steadily up at those windows; the glow within was other than that which gilded turret and pinnacle and fairy isle in the western sky, yet perchance this light might be a lamp to the feet of one who wished to climb that way. her adventurous spirit rose to the challenge, and she said softly, more to herself than to the man: "i'm a-goin' to be a boss hand in there. i'm goin' to get the highest wages of any girl in the mill, time i learn my trade, because i'm goin' to try harder 'n anybody." shade looked around at her, curiously. her beauty, her air of superiority, still repelled him--such fancy articles were not apt to be of much use--but this sounded like a woman who might be valuable to her master. johnnie returned his gaze with the frank good will of a child, and suddenly he forgot everything but the adorable lift of her pink lip over the shining white teeth. the young fellow now halted at the step of a big frame house. the outside was of an extent to seem fairly pretentious; yet so mean was the construction, so sparing of window and finish, that the building showed itself instantly for what it was--the cheap boarding-house of a mill town. a group of tired-looking girls sitting on the step in blessed sunday idleness and cheap sunday finery stared as he and johnnie ascended and crossed the porch. one of these, a tall lank woman of perhaps thirty years, got up and followed a few hesitating paces, apparently more as a matter of curiosity than with any hospitable intent. a man with a round red face and a bald pate whose curly fringe of grizzled, reddish hair made him look like a clown in a pantomime, motioned them with a surly thumb toward the back of the house, where clattering preparations for supper were audible and odoriferous. the old fellow sat in a splint-bottomed chair of extra size and with arms. this he had kicked back against the wall of the house, so that his short legs did not reach the floor, the big carpet-slippered feet finding rest on the rung of the chair. his attitude was one of relaxation. the face, broad, flat, small of eye and wide of mouth, did indeed suggest the clown countenance; yet there was in it, and in the whole personality, something of the eastern idol, the journeyman attempt of crude humanity to represent power. and the potential cruelty of the type slept in his placid countenance as surely as ever in the dreaming face of shiva, the destroyer. "mrs. bence--aunt mavity," called shade, advancing into the narrow hall. in answer a tired-faced woman came from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her checked apron. "good lord, if it ain't johnnie! i was 'feared she wouldn't git here to-night," she ejaculated when she saw the girl. "take her out on the porch, shade; i ain't got a minute now. pap's poorly again, and i'm obliged to put the late supper on the table for them thar gals--the night shift's done eat and gone. i'll show her whar she's to sleep at, after while. i don't just rightly know whar pap aimed to have her stay," she concluded hastily, as something boiled over on the stove. johnnie set her bundle down in the corner of the kitchen. "i'll help," she said simply, as she drew the excited coffee-pot to a corner of the range and dosed it judiciously with cold water. "well, now, that's mighty good of you," panted worried mavity bence. "how queer things comes 'round," she ruminated as they dished up the biscuits and fried pork. "i helped you into the very world, johnnie. i lived neighbour to your maw, and they wasn't nobody else to be with her when you was born, and i went over. i never suspicioned that you would be helpin' me git supper down here in the settlement inside o' twenty year." johnnie ran and fetched and carried, as though she had never done anything else in her life, intent on the one task. she was alive in every fibre of her young body; she saw, she heard, as these words cannot always be truthfully applied to people. "did shade tell you anything about louvania?" inquired the woman at length. "no," replied johnnie softly, "but i seen it in the paper." louvania bence, the only remaining child of the widow, had, two weeks before, left her work at the mill, taken the trolley in to watauga, walked out upon the county bridge across the tennessee and jumped off. johnnie had read the published account, passed from hand to hand in the mountains where pap himes and mavity bence had troops of kin and where louvania was born. the statement ran that there was no love affair, and that the girl's distaste for her work at the cotton mill must have been the reason for the suicide. "that there talk in the newspaper wasn't right," louvania's mother choked. "they wasn't a word of truth in it. you know in reason that if louvany hated to work in the mill as bad as all that she'd have named it to me--her own mother--and she never did. she never spoke a word like it, only to say now and ag'in, as we all do, that it was hard, and that she'd--well, she did 'low she'd ruther be dead, as gals will; but she couldn't have meant it. do you think she could have meant it, johnnie?" the faded eyes, clouded now by tears, stared up into johnnie's clear young orbs. "of course she couldn't have meant it," johnnie comforted her. "why, i'm sure it's fine to work in the mill. if she didn't feel so, she'd have told you the thing. she must have been out of her mind. people always are when they--do that." "that's what i keep a-thinkin'," the poor mother said, clinging pathetically to that which gave her consolation and cheer. "i say to myself that it must have been some brain disease took her all of a sudden and made her crazy that-a-way; because god knows she had nothing to fret her nor drive her to such." by this time the meal was on the table, and the girls trooped in from the porch. the old man with the bald pate was seating himself at the head of the board, and johnnie asked the privilege of helping wait on table. "no, you ain't a-goin' to," mrs. bence said hospitably, pushing her into a seat. "if you start in to work in the morning, like i reckon you will, you ain't got no other time to get acquainted with the gals but right now. you set down. we don't take much waitin' on. we all pass things, and reach for what we want." in the smoky illumination of the two ill-cleaned lamps which stood one at each end of the table, johnnie's fair face shone out like a star. the tall woman who had shown a faint interest in them on the porch was seated just opposite. her bulging light-blue eyes scarcely left the newcomer's countenance as she absent-mindedly filled her mouth. she was a scant, stringy-looking creature, despite her height; the narrow back was hooped like that of an old woman and the shoulders indrawn, so that the chest was cramped, and sent forth a wheezy, flatted voice that sorted ill with her inches; her round eyes had no speculation in them; her short chin was obstinate without power; the thin, half-gray hair that wanted to curl feebly about her lined forehead was stripped away and twisted in a knot no bigger than a walnut, at the back of a bent head. for some time the old man at the end of the table stowed himself methodically with victuals; his air was that of a man packing a box; then he brought his implements to half-rest, as it were, and gave a divided attention to the new boarder. "what did i hear them call yo' name?" he inquired gruffly. johnnie repeated her title and gave him one of those smiles that went with most of her speeches. it seemed to suggest things to the old sinner. "huh," he grunted; "i riccollect ye now. yo' pap was a consadine, but you're old virgil passmore's grandchild. one of the borryin' passmores," he added, staring coolly at johnnie. "virge was a fine, upstandin' old man. you've got the favour of him--if you wasn't a gal." he evidently shared schopenhauer's distaste for "the low-statured, wide-hipped, narrow-shouldered sex." the girls about the table were all listening eagerly. johnnie had the sensation of a freshman who has walked out on the campus too well dressed. "virge was a great beau in his day," continued pap, reminiscently. "he liked to wear good clothes, too. i mind how he borried abner wimberly's weddin' coat and wore it something like ten year--showed it off fine--it fitted him enough sight better than it ever fitted little old ab. then he comes back to wimberly at the end of so long a time with the buttons. he says, says he, 'looks like that thar cloth yo' coat was made of wasn't much 'count, ab,' says he. 'i think jeeters cheated ye on it. but the buttons was good. the buttons wore well. and them i'm bringin' back, 'caze you may have use for 'em, and i have none, now the coat's gone. also, what i borry i return, as everybody knows.' that was your granddaddy." there was a tremendous giggling about the board as the old man made an end. johnnie herself smiled, though her face was scarlet. she had no words to tell her tormentor that the borrowing trait in her tribe which had earned them the name of the borrowing passmores proceeded not from avarice, which ate into pap himes's very marrow, but from its reverse trait of generosity. she knew vaguely that they would have shared with a neighbour their last bite or dollar, and had thus never any doubt of being shared with nor any shame in the asking. "yes," pursued himes, surveying johnnie chucklingly, "i mind when you was born. has your uncle pros found his silver mine yet?" "my mother has often told me how good you and mrs. bence was to us when i was little," answered johnnie mildly. "no, sir, uncle pros hasn't found his silver mine yet--but he's still a-hunting for it." the reply appeared to delight himes. he laughed immoderately, even as buckheath had done. "i'll bet he is," he agreed. "pros passmore's goin' to hunt that there silver mine till he finds another hole in the ground about six feet long and six feet deep--that's what he's a-goin' to do." the hasty supper was well under way now. mrs. bence brought the last of the hot bread, and shuffled into a seat. the old man at the head of the board returned to his feeding, but with somewhat moderated voracity. at length, pretty fully gorged, he raised his head from over his plate and looked about him for diversion. again his attention was directed to the new girl. "air ye wedded?" he challenged suddenly. she shook her head and laughed. "got your paigs sot for to git any one?" he followed up his investigations. johnnie laughed more than ever, and blushed again. "how old air ye?" demanded her inquisitor. "eighteen? 'most nineteen? good lord! you're a old maid right now. well, don't you let twenty go by without gittin' your hooks on a man. my experience is that when a gal gits to be twenty an' ain't wedded--or got her paigs sot for to wed--she's left. left," he concluded impressively. that quick smile of johnnie's responded. "i reckon i'll do my best," she agreed reasonably; "but some folks can do that and miss it." himes nodded till he set the little red curls all bobbing around the bare spot. "uh-huh," he approved, "i reckon that's so. women is plenty, and men hard to git. here's mandy meacham, been puttin' in her best licks for thirty year or more, an' won't never make it." johnnie did not need to be told which one was mandy. the sallow cheek of the tall woman across from her reddened; the short chin wabbled a bit more than the mastication of the biscuit in hand demanded; a moisture appeared in the inexpressive blue eyes; but she managed a shaky laugh to assist the chorus which always followed pap himes's little jokes. the old man held a sort of state among these poor girls, and took tribute of admiration, as he had taken tribute of life and happiness from daughter and granddaughter. gideon himes was not actively a bad man; he was as without personal malice as malaria. when it makes miserable those about it, or robs a girl of her pink cheeks, her bright eyes, her joy of life, wearing the elasticity out of her step and making an old woman of her before her time, we do not fly into a rage at it--we avoid it. the pap himeses of this world are to be avoided if possible. mandy stared at her plate in mortified silence. johnnie wished she could think of something pleasant to say to the poor thing, when her attention was diverted by the old man once more addressing herself. "you look stout and hearty; if you learn to weave as fast as you ort, and git so you can tend five or six looms, i'll bet you git a husband," he remarked in a burst of generosity. "i'll bet you do; and what's more, i'll speak a good word for ye. a gal that's a peart weaver's mighty apt to find a man. you learn your looms if you want to git wedded--and i know in reason you do--it's about all gals of your age thinks of." when supper was over johnnie was a little surprised to see the tall woman approach pap himes like a small child begging a favour of a harsh taskmaster. "can't that there new girl bunk with me?" she inquired earnestly. "i had the intention to give her louvany's bed," pap returned promptly. "as long as nobody's with you, i reckon i don't care; but if one comes in, you take 'em, and she goes with mavity, mind. i cain't waste room, poor as i am." piloted by the tall girl, johnnie climbed the narrow stair to a long bare room where a row of double beds accommodated eight girls. the couch she was to occupy had been slept in during the day by a mill hand who was on night turn, and it had not been remade. deftly johnnie straightened and spread it, while her partner grumbled. "what's the use o' doin' that?" mandy inquired, stretching herself and yawning portentously. "we'll jist muss it all up in about two minutes. when you've worked in a mill as long as i have you'll git over the notion of makin' your bed, for hit's _but_ a notion." johnnie laughed across her shoulder. "i'd just as soon do it," she reassured her companion. "i do love smooth bedclothes; looks like i dream better on 'em and under 'em." mandy sat down on the edge of the bed, interfering considerably with the final touches johnnie was putting to it. "you're a right good gal," she opined patronizingly, "but foolish. the new ones always is foolish. i can put you up to a-many a thing that'll help you along, though, and i'm willin' to do it." again johnnie smiled at her, that smile of enveloping sweetness and tenderness. it made something down in the left side of poor mandy's slovenly dress-bodice vibrate and tingle. "i'll thank you mightily," said johnnie consadine, "mightily." and knew not how true a word she spoke. "you see," counselled mandy from the bed into which she had rolled with most of her clothes on, "you want to get in with miss lydia sessions and the uplift ladies, and them thar swell folks." johnnie nodded, busily at work making a more elaborated night toilet than the others, who were going to bed all about them, paying little attention to their conversation. "miss lyddy she ain't as young as she once was, and the boys has quit hangin' 'round her as much as they used to; so now she has took up with good works," the girl on the bed explained with a directness which miss sessions would not perhaps have appreciated. "her and some other of the nobby folks has started what they call a uplift club amongst the mill girls. thar's a big room whar you dance--if you can--and whar they give little suppers for us with not much to eat; and thar's a place where they sorter preach to ye--lecture she calls it. i don't know what-all miss lyddy hain't got for her club. but you jist go, and listen, and say how much obliged you are, an she'll do a lot for you, besides payin' your wages to get you out of the mill any day she wants you for the upliftin' business." mandy had a gasp, which occurred between sentences and at the end of certain words, with grotesque effect. johnnie was to find that this gasp was always very much to the fore when mandy was being uplifted. it then served variously as the gasp of humility, gratitude, admiration; the gasp of chaste emotion, the gasp of reprobation toward others who did not come forward to be uplifted. "did you say there was books at that club?" inquired johnnie out of the darkness--she had now extinguished the light. "can a body learn things from the lectures?" "uh-huh," agreed mandy sleepily; "but you don't have to read 'em--the books. they lend 'em to you, and you take 'em home, and after so long a time you take 'em back sayin' how much good they done you. that's the way. if mr. stoddard's 'round, he'll ask you questions about 'em; but miss lyddy won't--she hates to find out that any of her plans ain't workin'." for a long time there was silence. mandy was just dropping off into her first heavy sleep, when a whispering voice asked, "is mr. stoddard--has he got right brown eyes and right brown hair, and does he ride in one of these--one of these--" "good land!" grumbled the addressed, "i thought it was mornin' and i had to git up! you ort to been asleep long ago. yes, mr. stoddard's got sorter brown eyes and hair, and he rides in a otty-mobile. how did you know?" but mandy was too tired to stay awake to marvel over that. her rhythmic snores soon proved that she slept, while johnnie lay thinking of the various proffers she had that evening received of a lamp to her feet, a light on her path. and she would climb--yes, she would climb. not by the road pap himes pointed out; not by the devious path mandy meacham suggested; but by the rugged road of good, honest toil, to heights where was the power and the glory, she would certainly strive. she conned over the new things which this day had brought. again she saw the auto swing around the curve and halt; she got the outline of the man's bent head against the evening sky. they were singing again over at the mechanics' boarding-house; the sound came across to her window; the vibrant wires, the chorus of deep male voices, even the words she knew they were using but could not distinguish, linked themselves in some fashion with memory of a man's eyes, his smile, his air of tender deference as he cherished her broken flower. something caught in her throat and choked. her mind veered to the figures on the porch of that palace of pleasure; the girl with the ball tossing it to the young fellow below on the lawn. in memory she descended the hill, coming down into the shadows with each step, looking back to the heights and the light. well, she had said that if one had feet one might climb, and to-night the old man had tried to train her to his pace for attaining heart's desire. in the midst of a jumble of autos and shining mill windows, she watched the room grow ghostly with the light of a late-risen moon. suddenly afar off she heard the "honk! honk! honk!" which had preceded the advent of the car on the ridge road. getting up, she stole, to the one window which the long room afforded. it gave upon the main street of the village. "honk! honk! honk!" she gazed toward the steep from which the sounds seemed to come. there, flashing in and out of the greenery, appeared half a dozen pairs of fiery eyes. a party of motorists were going in to watauga, starting from the country club on the ridge crest. johnnie watched them, fascinated. as the foremost car swept down the road and directly beneath her window, its driver, whom she recognized with a little shiver, by the characteristic carriage of his head, swerved the machine out and stopped it at the curb below. the others passed, calling gay inquiries to him. "we're all right," she heard a well-remembered voice reply. "you go ahead--we'll be there before you." the slim, gray-clad figure in the seat beside him laughed softly and fluttered a white handkerchief as the last car went on. "now!" exulted the voice. "i'll put on my goggles and cap and we'll show them what running is. 'it's they'll take the high road and we'll take the low, and we'll be in watauga befo-o-ore them!'" even as he spoke he adjusted his costume, and johnnie saw the car shoot forward like a living creature eager on the trail. she sighed as she looked after them. feet--of what use were feet to follow such a flight as that? chapter v the moccasin flower johnnie was used to hardship and early rising, but in an intermittent fashion; for the passmores and consadines were a haggard lot that came to no lure but their own pleasure. they might--and often did--go hungry, ill-clad, ill-housed; they might sometimes--in order to keep soul and body together--have to labour desperately at rude tasks unsuited to them; but these times were exceptions, and between such seasons, down to the least of the tribe, they had always followed the vision, pursuing the flying skirts of whatever ideal was in their shapely heads. the little cabin in the gash of the hills owned for domain a rocky ravine that was the standing jest of the mountain-side. "sure, hit's good land--fine land," the mountaineers would comment with their inveterate, dry, lazy humour. "nothing on earth to hender a man from raisin' a crap off 'n it--ef he could once git the leathers on a good stout, willin' pa'r o' hawks or buzzards, an' a plough hitched to 'em." and johnnie could remember the other children teasing her and saying that her folks had to load a gun with seed corn and shoot it into the sky to reach their fields. yet, the unmended roof covered much joy and good feeling. they were light feet that trod the unsecured puncheons. the passmores were tender of each other's eccentricities, admiring of each other's virtues. a wolf race nourished on the knees of purple kings, how should they ever come down to wearing any man's collar, to slink at heel and retrieve for him? one would have said that to the daughter of such the close cotton-mill room with its inhuman clamour, its fetid air, its long hours of enforced, monotonous, mechanical toil, would be prison with the torture added. but johnnie looked forward to her present enterprise as a soldier going into a new country to conquer it. she was buoyantly certain, and determinedly delighted with everything. when, the next morning after her arrival, mandy meacham shook her by the shoulder and bade her get up, the room was humming with the roar of mill whistles, and the gray dawn leaking in at its one window in a churlish, chary fashion, reminded her that they were under the shadow of a mountain instead of living upon its top. "i don't see what in the world could 'a' made me sleep so!" johnnie deprecated, as she made haste to dress herself. "looks like i never had nothing to do yesterday, except walking down. i've been on foot that much many a time and never noticed it." the other girls in the room, poor souls, were all cross and sleepy. nobody had time to converse with johnnie. as they went down the stairs another contingent began to straggle up, having eaten a hasty meal after their night's work, and making now for certain of the just-vacated beds. johnnie ran into the kitchen to help mrs. bence get breakfast on the table, for pap himes was bad off this morning with a misery somewhere, and his daughter was sending word to the cotton mill to put a substitute on her looms till dinner time. almost as much to her own surprise as to that of everybody else, mandy meacham proposed to stay and take johnnie in to register for a job. when the others were all seated at table, the new girl from the mountains took her cup of coffee and a biscuit and dropped upon the doorstep to eat her breakfast. the back yard was unenclosed, a litter of tin cans and ashes running with its desert disorder into a similar one on either side. but there were no houses back of the himes place, the ground falling away sharply to the rocky creek bed. across the ravine half a dozen strapping young fellows were lounging, waiting for breakfast; loom-fixers and mechanics these, whose hours were more favourable than those of the women and children workers. "it's lots prettier out here than it is in the house," she returned smilingly, when mavity bence offered to get her a chair. "i do love to be out-of-doors." "huh," grunted mandy with her mouth full of biscuit, "i reckon a cotton mill'll jest about kill you. what makes you work in one, anyhow? i wouldn't if i could help it." johnnie eyed the tall girl gravely. "i've got to earn some money," she said at length. "ma and the children have to be taken care of. i don't know of any better way than the mill." "an' i don't know of any worse," retorted mandy sourly, as they went out together. johnnie began to feel timid. there had been a secret hope that she would meet shade on the way to the mill, or that mrs. bence would finally get through in time to accompany her. she was suddenly aware that there was not a soul within sound of her voice who had belonged to her former world. with a little gasp she looked about her as they entered the office. the hardwick mill to which they now came consisted of a number of large, red brick buildings, joined by covered passage-ways, abutting on one of those sullen pools johnnie had noted the night before, the yard enclosed by a tight board fence, so high that the operatives in the first-and second-floor rooms could not see the street. this for the factory portion; the office did not front on the shut-in yard, but opened out freely on to the street, through a little grassy square of its own, tree-shadowed, with paved walks and flower beds. as with all the mills in its district, the suggestion was dangerously apt of a penitentiary, with its high wooden barrier, around all the building, the only free approach from the world to its corridors through the seemly, humanized office, where abided the heads, the bosses, the free men, who came and went at will. the walls were already beginning to wear that garment of green which the american ivy flings over so many factory buildings. as the two girls came up, johnnie looked at the wide, clear, plate windows, the brass railing that guarded the heavy granite approach, the shining name "hardwick" deep-set in brazen lettering on the step over which they entered. inside, the polished oak and metal of office fittings carried on the idea of splendour, if not of luxury. back of the crystal windows were the tempering shades, all was spacious, ordered with quiet dignity, and there was no sense of hurry in the well-clad, well-groomed figures of men that sat at the massive desks or moved about the softly carpeted floors. the corridor was long, but cleanly swept, and, at its upper portion, covered with a material unfamiliar to johnnie, but which she recognized as suited to its purpose. down at the further end of that corridor, something throbbed and moaned and roared and growled--the factory was awake there and working. the contrast struck cold to the girl's heart. here, yet more sharply defined, was the same difference she had noted between the palace of pleasure on the heights and the mills at the foot of the mountain. would the people think she was good enough? would they understand how hard she meant to try? for a minute she had a desperate impulse to turn and run. then she heard mandy's thin, flatted tones announcing: "this hyer girl wants to git a job in the mill. miz bence, she cain't come down this morning--you'll have to git somebody to tend her looms till noon; pap, he's sick, and she has obliged to wait on him--so i brung the new gal." "all right," said the man she addressed. "she can wait there; you go on to your looms." johnnie sat on the bench against the wall where newcomers applying for positions were placed. the man she was to see had not yet come to his desk, and she remained unnoticed and apparently forgotten for more than an hour. the offices were entered from the other side, yet a doorway close by johnnie commanded a view of a room and desk. to it presently came one who seated himself and began opening and reading letters. johnnie caught her breath and leaned a little forward, watching him, her heart in her eyes, hands locked hard together in her lap. it was the young man of the car. he was not in white flannels now, but he looked almost as wonderful to the girl in his gray business suit, with the air of easy command, and the quiet half-smile only latent on his face. shade buckheath had spoken of gray stoddard as the boss of the bosses down at cottonville. indeed, his position was unique. inheritor of large holdings in eastern cotton-mill stock, he had returned from abroad on the death of his father, to look into this source of his very ample income. the mills in which he was concerned were not earning as they should, so he was told; and there was discussion as to whether they be moved south, or a southern mill be established which might be considered in the nature of a branch, and where the coarser grades of sheeting would be manufactured, as well as all the spinning done. but stoddard was not of the blood that takes opinions second-hand. upon his mother's side he was the grandson of one of the great anti-slavery agitators. the sister of this man, gray's great-aunt, had stood beside him on the platform when there was danger in it; and after the negro was freed and enfranchised, she had devoted a long life to the cause of woman suffrage. the mother who bore him died young. she left him to the care of a conservative father, but the blood that came through her did not make for conservatism. perhaps it was some admixture of his father's traits which set the young man to investigating the cotton-mill situation in his own fashion. to do this as he conceived it should be done, he had hired himself to the hardwick spinning company in an office position which gave him a fair outlook on the business, and put him in complete touch with the practical side of it; yet the facts of the case made the situation evident to those under him as well as his peers. whatever convictions and opinions he was maturing in this year with the hardwicks, he kept to himself; but he was supposed to hold some socialistic ideas, and lydia sessions, james hardwick's sister-in-law, made her devoir to these by engaging zealously in semi-charitable enterprises among the mill-girls. he was a passionate individualist. the word seems unduly fiery when one remembers the smiling, insouciant manner of his divergences from the conventional type; yet he was inveterately himself, and not some schoolmaster's or tailor's or barber's version of gray stoddard; and in this, though johnnie did not know it, lay the strength of his charm for her. the moments passed unheeded after he came into her field of vision, and she watched him for some time, busy at his morning's work. it took her breath when he raised his eyes suddenly and their glances encountered. he plainly recognized her at once, and nodded a cheerful greeting. after a while he got up and came out into the hall, his hands full of papers, evidently on his way to one of the other offices. he paused beside the bench and spoke to her. "waiting for the room boss? are they going to put you on this morning?" he asked pleasantly. "yes, i'm a-going to get a chance to work right away," she smiled up at him. "ain't it fine?" the smile that answered hers held something pitying, yet it was a pity that did not hurt or offend. "yes--i'm sure it's fine, if you think so," said stoddard, half reluctantly. then his eye caught the broken pink blossom which johnnie had pinned to the front of her bodice. "what's that?" he asked. "it looks like an orchid." he was instantly apologetic for the word; but johnnie detached the flower from her dress and held it toward him. "it is," she assented. "it's an orchid; and the little yellow flower that we-all call the whippoorwill shoe is an orchid, too." stoddard thrust his papers into his coat pocket and took the blossom in his hand. "that's the pink moccasin flower," johnnie told him. "they don't bloom in the valley at all, and they're not very plenty in the mountains. i picked this one six miles up on white oak ridge yesterday. i reckon i haven't seen more than a dozen of these in my life, and i've hunted flowers all over unaka." "i never had the chance to analyze one," observed stoddard. "i'd like to get hold of a good specimen. "i'm sorry this one's broken," johnnie deprecated. then her clouded face cleared suddenly with its luminous smile. "if it hadn't been for you i reckon it would have been knocked over the edge of the road," she added. "that's the flower i had in my handkerchief yesterday evening." stoddard continued to examine the pink blossom with interest. "you said it grew up in the mountains--and didn't grow in the valley," he reminded her. she nodded. "of course i'm not certain about that," and while she spoke he transferred his attention from the flower to the girl. "i really know mighty little about such things, and i've not been in the valley to exceed ten times in my life. miss baird, that taught the school i went to over at rainy gap, had a herbarium, and put all kinds of pressed flowers in it. i gathered a great many for her, and she taught me to analyze them--like you were speaking of--but i never did love to do that. it seemed like naming over and calling out the ways of your friends, to pull the flower all to pieces and press it and paste it in a book and write down all its--its--ways and faults." again she smiled up at him radiantly, and the young man's astonished glance went from her dusty, cowhide shoes to the thick roll of fair hair on her graceful head. what manner of mill-girls did the mountains send down to the valley? "but i--" began stoddard deprecatingly, when johnnie reddened and broke in hastily. "oh, i don't mean that for you. miss baird taught me for three years, and i loved her as dearly as i ever could any one. you may keep this flower if you want to; and, come sunday, i'll get you another one that won't be broken." "why sunday?" asked stoddard. "well, i wouldn't have time to go after them till then, and the ones i know of wouldn't be open before sunday. i saw just three there by the spring. that's the way they grow, you know--two or three in a place, and not another for miles." "you saw them growing?" repeated stoddard. "i should like to see one on its roots, and maybe make a little sketch of it. couldn't you just as well show me the place sunday?" for no reason that she could assign, and very much against her will, johnnie's face flushed deeply. "i reckon i couldn't," she answered evasively. "hit's a long ways up--and--hit's a long ways up." "and yet you're going to walk it--after a week's work here in the mill?" persisted stoddard. "you'd better tell me where they grow, and let me go up in my car." "i wish't i could," said johnnie, embarrassed. "but you'd never find it in the world. they isn't one thing that i could tell you to know the place by: and you have to leave the road and walk a little piece--oh, it's no use--and i don't mind, i'd just love to go up there and get the flowers for you." "are you the new girl?" inquired a voice at johnnie's shoulder. they turned to find a squat, middle-aged man regarding them dubiously. "yes," answered johnnie, rising. "i've been waiting quite a while." "well, come this way," directed the man and, turning, led her away. down the hall they went, then up a flight of wooden stairs which carried them to a covered bridge, and so to the upper story of the factory. "that's an unusual-looking girl." old andrew macpherson made the comment as he received the papers from stoddard's hands. "the one i was speaking to in the hall?" inquired stoddard rather unnecessarily. "yes; she seems to have an unusual mind as well. these mountain people are peculiar. they appear to have no idea of class, and therefore are in a measure all aristocrats." "well, that ought to square with your socialistic notions," chaffed macpherson, sorting the work on his desk and pushing a certain portion of it toward stoddard. "sit down here, if you please, and we'll go over these now. the girl looked a good deal like a fairy princess. i don't think she's a safe topic for susceptible young chaps like you and me," the grizzled old scotchman concluded with a chuckle. "your socialistic hullabaloo makes you liable to foregather with all sorts of impossible people." gray shook his head, laughing, as he seated himself at the desk beside the other. "oh, i'm only a theoretical socialist," he deprecated. "hum," grunted the older man. "a theoretical socialist always seemed to me about like a theoretical pickpocket--neither of them stands to do much harm. for example, here you are, one of the richest young fellows of my acquaintance, living along very contentedly where every tenet you profess to hold is daily outraged. you're not giving away your money. you take a healthy interest in a good car, a good dinner, the gals; i'm even told you have a fad for old porcelains--and yet you call yourself a socialist." "these economic conditions are not a pin," answered gray, smiling. "i don't have to jump and say 'ouch!' the minute i find they prick me. worse conditions have always been, and no doubt bad ones will survive for a time, and pass away as mankind outgrows them. i haven't the colossal conceit to suppose that i can reform the world--not even push it much faster toward the destination of good to which it is rolling. but i want to know--i want to understand, myself; then if there is anything for me to do i shall do it. it may be that the present conditions are the best possible for the present moment. it may be that if a lot of us got together and agreed, we could better them exceedingly. it is not certain in my mind yet that any growth is of value to humanity which does not proceed from within. this is true of the individual--must it not be true of the class?" "no doubt, no doubt," agreed macpherson, indifferently. "most of the men who are loud in the leadership of socialism have made a failure of their own lives. we'll see what happens when a man who is a personal and economic success sets up to teach." "if you mean that very complimentary description for me," said gray with sudden seriousness, "i will say to you here and now that there is no preacher in me. but when i am a little clearer in my own mind as to what i believe, i shall practise. the only real creed is a manner of life. if you don't live it, you don't really believe it." chapter vi weavers and weft the hardwick mill was a large one; to the mountain-bred girl it seemed endless, while its clamour and roar was a thing to daunt. they passed through the spinning department, in which the long lines of frames were tended by children, and reached the weaving-rooms whose looms required the attention of women, with here and there a man who had failed to make a success of male occupations and sunk to the ill-paid feminine activities. in a corner of one of these, johnnie's guide stopped before two silent, motionless looms, and threw on the power. he began to instruct her in their operation, all communication being in dumb show; for the clapping thunder of the weaving-room instantly snatches the sound from one's lips and batters it into shapelessness. johnnie had been an expert weaver on the ancient foot-power looms of the mountains; but the strangeness of the new machine, the noise and her surroundings, bewildered her. when the man saw that she was not likely to injure herself or the looms, he turned away with a careless nod and left her to her fate. it was a blowy april day outside, with a gay blue sky in which the white clouds raced, drawing barges of shadow over the earth below. but the necessity of keeping dust out of the machinery, the inconvenience of having flying ends carried toward it, closed every window in the big factory, and the operatives gasped in the early heat, the odour of oil, the exhausted air. there was a ventilating system in the hardwick mill, and it was supposed to be exceptionally free from lint; but the fagged children crowded to the casements with instinctive longing for the outdoor air which could not of course enter through the glass; or plodded their monotonous rounds to tend the frames and see that the thread was running properly to each spool, and that the spools were removed, when filled. by noon every nerve in johnnie's body quivered with excitement and overstrain; yet when mandy came for her at the dinner hour she showed her a face still resolute, and asked that a snack be brought her to the mill. "i don't see why you won't come along home and eat your dinner," the meacham woman commented. "the lord knows you get time enough to stay in the mill working over them old looms. say, i seen you in the hall--did you know who you was talking to?" the red flooded johnnie's face as she knelt before her loom interrogating its workings with a dexterous hand; even the white nape of her neck showed pink to mandy's examining eye; but she managed to reply in a fairly even tone: "yes, that was mr. stoddard. i saw him yesterday evening when i was coming down the ridge with shade." "but did you know 'bout him? say--johnnie consadine--turn yourself round from that old loom and answer me, i was goin' a-past the door, and when i ketched sight o' you and him settin' there talkin' as if you'd knowed each other all your lives, why you could have--could have knocked me down with a feather." johnnie sat up on her heels and turned a laughing face across her shoulder. "i don't see any reason to want to knock you down with anything," she evaded the direct issue. "go 'long, mandy, or you won't have time to eat your dinner. tell aunt mavity to send me just a biscuit and a piece of meat." "good land, johnnie consadine, but you're quare!" exclaimed mandy, staring with bulging light eyes. "if it was me i'd be all in a tremble yet--and there you sit and talk about meat and bread!" johnnie did not think it necessary to explain that the tremor of that conversation with stoddard had indeed lasted through her entire morning. "there was nothing to tremble about," she remarked with surface calm. "he'd never seen a pink moccasin flower, and i gave him the one i had and told him where it grew." "well, he wasn't looking at no moccasin flower when i seed him," mandy persisted. "he was lookin' at you. he jest eyed you as if you was miss lydia sessions herself--more so, if anything." johnnie inwardly rebuked the throb of joy which greeted this statement. "i reckon his looks are his own, mandy," she said soberly. "you and me have no call to notice them." "ain't got no call to notice 'em? well, i jest wish't i could get you and him up in front of miss sessions, and have her see them looks of his'n," grumbled mandy as she turned away. "i bet you there'd be some noticin' done then!" when in the evening mandy came for johnnie, she found the new mill hand white about the mouth with exhaustion, heavy-eyed, choking, and ready to weep. "uh-huh," said the meacham woman, "i know just how you feel. they all look that-a-way the first day or two--then after that they look worse." nervelessly johnnie found her way downstairs in the stream of tired girls and women. there was more than one kindly greeting for the new hand, and occasionally somebody clapped her on the shoulder and assured her that a few days more would get her used to the work. the mill yard was large, filled with grass-plots and gravel walks; but it was shut in by a boarding so tall that the street could not be seen from the windows of the lower floor. to johnnie, weary to the point where aching muscles and blood charged with uneliminated waste spelled pessimism, that high board fence seemed to make of the pretty place a prison yard. a man was propping open the big wooden gates, and through them she saw the street, the sidewalk, and a carriage drawn up at the curb. in this vehicle sat a lady; and a gentleman, hat in hand, talked to her from the sidewalk. "come on," hissed mandy, seizing her companion's arm and dragging her forward. "thar's miss lydia sessions right now, and that's mr. stoddard a-talkin' to her. i'll go straight up and give you a knockdown--i want to, anyway. she's the one that runs the uplift club. if she takes a shine to you it'll be money in your pocket." she turned over her shoulder to glance at johnnie, who was pulling vigorously back. there was no hint of tiredness or depression in the girl's face now. her deep eyes glowed; red was again in the fresh lips that parted over the white teeth in an adorable, tremulous smile. mandy stared. "hurry up--he'll be gittin' away," she admonished. "oh, no," objected the new girl. "wait till some other time, i--i don't want to--" but her remonstrance came too late; mandy had yanked her forward and was performing the introduction she so euphoniously described. gray stoddard turned and bowed to both girls. he carried the broken orchid in his hand, and apparently had been speaking of it to miss sessions. mandy eyed him narrowly to see if any of the looks she had apprehended as offensive to miss sessions went in johnnie's direction. and she was not disappointed. stoddard's gaze lingered long on the radiant countenance of the girl from unaka. not so the young women looked after a few months of factory life. he was getting to know well the odd jail-bleach the cotton mill puts on country cheeks, the curious, dulled, yet resentful expression of the eyes, begotten by continuous repetition of excessive hours of trivial, monotonous toil. would this girl come at last to that favour? he was a little surprised at the strength of protest in his own heart. then macpherson, coming down the office steps, called to him; and, with courteous adieux, the two men departed in company. johnnie was a bit grieved to find that the removal from miss sessions of the shrouding, misty veil revealed a countenance somewhat angular in outline, with cheekbones a trifle hard and high, and a lack of colour. she fancied, too, that miss sessions was slightly annoyed about something. she wondered if it was because they had interrupted her conversation with mr. stoddard and driven him away. yet while she so questioned, she was taking in with swift appreciation the trim set of the driving coat miss lydia wore, the appropriate texture of the heavy gloves on the small hands that held the lines, and a certain indefinable air of elegance hard to put into words, but which all women recognize. "ain't she swell?" inquired mandy, as they passed on. "she's after mr. stoddard now--it used to be the preacher that had the big church in watauga, but he moved away. i wish i had her clothes." "yes," returned johnnie absently. she had already forgotten her impression of miss sessions's displeasure. gone was the leaden weariness of her day's toil something intimate and kind in the glance stoddard had given her remained warm at her heart, and set that heart singing. meantime, stoddard and macpherson were walking up the ridge toward the country club together, intending to spend the night on the highlands. the scotchman returned once more to the subject he had broached that morning. "this is a great country," he opened obliquely, "a very great country. but you americans will have to learn that generations of blood and breeding are not to be skipped with impunity. see the sons and daughters of your rich men. if the hope of the land lay in them it would be a bad outlook indeed." "is that peculiar to america?" asked stoddard mildly. they were coming under the trees now. he took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair to enjoy the coolness. "my impression was that the youthful aristocracy of every country often made of itself a spectacle unseemly." the scotchman laughed. then he looked sidewise at his companion. "i'm not denying," he pursued, again with that odd trick of entering his argument from the side, "that a young chap like yourself has my good word. a man with money who will go to work to find out how that money was made, and to live as his father did, carries an old head on young shoulders. i put aside your socialistic vapourings of course--every fellow to his fad--i see in you the makings of a canny business man." it was stoddard's turn to laugh, and he did so unrestrainedly, throwing back his head and uttering his mirth so boyishly that the other smiled in sympathy. "you talk about what's in the blood," gray said finally, "and then you make light of my socialistic vapourings, as you call them. my mother's clan--and it is from the spindle side that a man gets his traits--are all come-outers as far back as i know anything about them. they fought with cromwell--some of them; they came over and robbed the indians in true sanctimonious fashion, and persecuted the quakers; and down the line a bit i get some quaker blood that stood for its beliefs in the stocks, and sacrificed its ears for what it thought right. i'm afraid the socialistic vapourings are the true expression of the animal." macpherson grunted incredulously. "i give you ten years to be done with it," he said. "it is a disease of youth. but don't let it mark your affairs. it is all right to foregather with these workingmen, and find out about their trades-unions and that sort of thing--such knowledge will be useful to you in your business. but when it comes to women"--macpherson paused and shook his gray head--"to young, pretty women--a man must stick to his own class." "you mean the girl in the corridor," said stoddard with that directness which his friends were apt to find disconcerting. "i haven't classified her yet. she's rather an extraordinary specimen." "well, she's not in your class, and best leave her alone," returned macpherson doggedly. "it wouldn't matter if the young thing were not so beautiful, and with such a winning look in her eyes. this america beats me. that poor lass would make a model princess--according to common ideals of royalty--and here you find her coming out of some hut in the mountains and going to work in a factory. miss lydia sessions is a well-bred young woman, now; she's been all over europe, and profited by her advantages of travel. i call her an exceedingly well-bred person." "she is," agreed stoddard without enthusiasm. "and i'm sure you must admire her altruistic ideas--they'd just fall in with yours, i suppose, now." stoddard shook his head. "not at all," he said briefly. "if you were enough interested in socialism to know what we folks are driving at, i could explain to you why we object to charitable enterprises--but it's not worth while." "indeed it is not," assented macpherson hastily. "though no doubt we might have a fine argument over it some evening when we have nothing better to talk about. i thought you and miss sessions were fixing up a match of it, and it struck me as a very good thing, too. the holdings of both of you are in cotton-mill property, i judge. that always makes for harmony and stability in a matrimonial alliance." stoddard smiled. he was aware that miss lydia's holdings consisted of a complaisant brother-in-law in whose house she was welcome till she could marry. but he said nothing on this head. "macpherson," he began very seriously, "i wonder a little at you, i know you old-world people regard these things differently; but could you look at mrs. hardwick's children, and seriously recommend mrs. hardwick's sister as a wife for a friend?" old macpherson stopped in the way, thrust his hands deep in his pockets and stared at the younger man. "well!" he ejaculated at last; "that's a great speech for a hot-headed young fellow! your foresight is worthy of a scotchman." gray stoddard smiled. "i am not a hot-headed person," he observed. "nobody but you ever accused me of such a thing. marriage concerns the race and a man's whole future. if the children of the marriage are likely to be unsatisfactory, the marriage will certainly be so. we moderns bedeck and bedrape us in all sorts of meretricious togas, till a pair of fine eyes and a dashing manner pass for beauty; but when life tries the metal--when nature applies her inevitable test--the degenerate or neurotic type goes to the wall." again macpherson grunted. "no doubt you're sound enough; but it is rather uncanny to hear a young fellow talk like his grandfather," the scotchman said finally. "are there many of your sort in this astonishing land?" "a good many," stoddard told him. "the modern young man of education and wealth is doing one of two things--burning up his money and going to the dogs as fast as he can; or putting in a power of thinking, and trying, while he saves his own soul, to do his part in the regeneration of the world." "yes. well, it's a big job. it's been on hand a long time. the young men of america have their work cut out for them," said macpherson drily. "no doubt," returned stoddard with undisturbed cheerfulness. "but when every man saves his own soul, the salvation of the world will come to pass." chapter vii above the valley all week in johnnie the white flame of purpose burned out every consciousness of weariness, of bodily or mental distaste. the preposterously long hours, the ill-ventilated rooms, the savage monotony of her toil, none of these reached the girl through the glow of hope and ambition. physically, the finger of the factory was already laid upon her vigorous young frame; but when sunday morning came, though there was no bellowing whistle to break in on her slumbers, she waked early, and while nerve and muscle begged achingly for more sleep, she rose with a sense of exhilaration which nothing could dampen. she had seen a small mountain church over the ridge by the spring where her moccasin flowers grew; and if there were preaching in it to-day, the boys and girls scouring the surrounding woods during the intermissions would surely find and carry away the orchids. there was no safety but to take the road early. the room was dark. mandy slept noisily beside her. all the beds were full, because the night-turn workers were in. she meant to be very careful to waken nobody. poor souls, they needed this one day of rest when they could all lie late. searching for something, she cautiously struck a match, and in the flaring up of its small flame got a glimpse of mandy's face, open-mouthed, pallid, unbeautiful, against the tumbled pillow. a great rush of pity filled her eyes with tears, but then she was in a mood to compassionate any creature who had not the prospect of a twelve-mile walk to get a flower for gray stoddard. it was in that black hour before dawn that johnnie let herself out the front door, finding the direction by instinct rather than any assistance from sight, since fences, trees, houses, were but vague blots of deeper shadow in the black. she was well on her way before a light here and there in a cabin window showed that, sunday morning as it was, the earliest risers were beginning to stir. her face was set to the east, and after a time a pallid line showed itself above the great bulk of mountains which in this quarter backed up the ramparts of the circling ridges about watauga. the furthest line was big unaka, but this passionate lover of her native highlands gave it neither thought nor glance, as she tramped steadily with lifted face, following unconsciously the beckoning finger of fate. it was a dripping-sweet spring morning, dew-drenched, and with the air so full of moisture that it gathered and pattered from the scant leafage. she was two miles up, swinging along at that steady pace her mountain-bred youth had given her, when the sky began to flush faintly, and the first hint of dawn rested on her upraised countenance. rain-laden mists swept down upon her from the heights, and she walked through them unnoting; the pale light from the eastern sky shone on an aspect introverted, rapt away from knowledge of its surroundings. she was going to get something for him. she had promised him the flowers, and he would be pleased with them. he would smile when he thanked her for them, and look at her as he had when she gave him the broken blossom. a look like that was to the girl in her present mood as the sword's touch on the shoulder of the lad who is being knighted by his king--it made her want to rise up and be all that such a man could ever demand of her. twelve miles of walking after a week's toil in the mill was a very small offering to put before so worshipful a divinity. she sought vaguely to conjecture just what his words would be when next they spoke together. her lips formed themselves into tender, reminiscent half-smiles as she went over the few and brief moments of her three interviews with stoddard. johnnie was not inexperienced in matters of the heart. mating time comes early in the mountains. had her dreams been of shade buckheath, or any of the boys of her own kind and class, she would have been instantly full of self-consciousness; but gray stoddard appeared to her a creature so apart from her sphere that this overwhelming attraction he held for her seemed no more than the admiration she might have given to miss lydia sessions. and so the dream lay undisturbed under her eyelashes, and she breasted the slope of the big mountain with a buoyant step, oblivious of fatigue. she reached the little wayside spring before even the early-rising mountain folk were abroad, found three pink blossoms in full perfection, plucked them and wrapped them carefully in damp cloths disposed in a little hickory basket that uncle pros had made for her years ago. it was a tiny thing, designed to hold a child's play-pretties or a young girl's sewing, but shaped and fashioned after the manner of mountain baskets, and woven of stout white hickory withes shaved down to daintier size and pliancy by the old man's jack-knife. life was very sweet to johnnie consadine as she straightened up, basket in hand, and turned toward the home journey. it was nearly nine o'clock when she reached the gap above cottonville. she was singing a little, softly, to herself, as she footed it down the road, and wishing that she might see gray's face when he got her flowers. she planned to put them in a glass on his desk monday morning, and of course she would be at her loom long before he should reach the office. she was glad they were such fine specimens--all perfect. lovingly she pulled aside the wet cloth and looked in at them. she began to meet people on the road, and the cabins she passed were open and thronged with morning life. the next turn in the road would bring her to the spring where she had rested that evening just a week ago, and where shade had met her. suddenly, she caught the sheen of something down the road between the scant greenery. it was a carriage or an automobile. now, it was more likely to be the former than the latter; also, there were a half-dozen cars in cottonville; yet from the first she knew, and was prepared for it when the shining vehicle came nearer and showed her gray stoddard driving it. they looked at each other in silence. stoddard brought the machine to a halt beside her. she came mutely forward, a hesitating hand at her basket covering, her eyes raised to his. with the mountaineer's deathless instinct for greeting, she was first to speak. "howdy," she breathed softly. "i--i was looking for--i got you--" she fell silent again, still regarding him, and fumbling blindly at the cover of the basket. "well--aren't you lost?" inquired stoddard with a rather futile assumption of surprise. he was strangely moved by the direct gaze of those clear, wide-set gray eyes, under the white brow and the ruffled coronet of bright hair. "no," returned johnnie gently, literally. "you know i said i'd come up here and get those moccasin flowers for you this morning. this is my road home, anyhow. i'm not as near lost on it as i am at a loom, down in the factory." stoddard continued to stare at the hand she had laid on the car. "it'll be an awfully long walk for you," he said at last, choosing his words with some difficulty. "won't you get in and let me take you up to the spring?" johnnie laughed softly, exultantly. "oh, i picked your flowers before day broke. i'll bet there have been a dozen boys over from sunday-school to drink out of that spring before this time. you wouldn't have had any blooms if i hadn't got up early." again she laughed, and, uncovering the orchids, held them up to him. "these are beauties," he exclaimed with due enthusiasm, yet with a certain uneasy preoccupation in his manner. "were you up before day, did you tell me, to get these? that seems too bad. you needed your sleep." johnnie flushed and smiled. "i love to do it," she said simply. "it was mighty sweet out on the road this morning, and you don't know how pretty the blooms did look, standing there waiting for me. i 'most hated to pick them." stoddard's troubled eyes raised themselves to her face. here was a royal nature that would always be in the attitude of the giver. he wanted to offer her something, and, as the nearest thing in reach, sprang down from the automobile and, laying a hand on her arm, said, almost brusquely: "get in. come, let me help you. i want to go up and see the spring where these grow. i'll get you back to cottonville in time for church, if that's what you're debating about." both of them knew that johnnie's reluctance had nothing to do with the question of church-time. stoddard himself was well aware that a factory girl could not with propriety accept a seat in his car; yet when once they were settled side by side, and the car resumed that swift, tireless climb which is the wonder and delight of the mechanical vehicle, it was characteristic that both put aside definitely and completely all hesitations and doubts. the girl was freely, innocently, exultantly blissful. stoddard noticed her intent examination of the machine, and began explaining its workings to her. "was that what you were doing," she asked, alluding to some small item of the operating, "when you stopped by the side of the road, sunday night, when miss lydia was with you?" he looked his astonishment. "you were right under my window when you stopped," johnnie explained to him. "i watched you-all when you started away. i was sure you would beat." "we did," stoddard assured her. "but we came near missing it. that connection buckheath put in for me the evening you were with him on the ridge worked loose. but i discovered the trouble in time to fix it." remembrance of that evening, and of the swift flight of the motors through the dusk moonlight, made johnnie wonder at herself and her present position. she was roused by stoddard's voice asking: "are you interested in machinery?" "i love it," returned johnnie sincerely. "i never did get enough of tinkerin' around machines. if i was ever so fortunate as to own a sewing machine i could take it all apart and clean it and put it together again. i did that to the minister's wife's sewing machine down at bledsoe when it got out of order. she said i knew more about it than the man that sold it to her." "would you like to run the car?" came the next query. would she like to! the countenance of simple rapture that she turned to him was reply sufficient. "well, look at my hands here on the steering-wheel. get the position, and when i raise one put yours in its place. there. no, a little more this way. now you can hold it better. the other one's right." smilingly he watched her, like a grown person amusing a child. "you see what the wheel does, of course--guides. now," when they had run ahead for some minutes, "do you want to go faster?" johnnie laughed up at him, through thick, fair lashes. "looks like anybody would be hard to suit that wanted to go faster than this," she apologized. "but if the machine can make a higher speed, there wouldn't be any harm in just running that way for a spell, would there?" it was stoddard's turn to laugh. "no manner of harm," he agreed readily. "well, you advance your spark and open the throttle--that speeds her up. this is the spark and this the gas, here. then you shove your shifting lever--see, here it is--over to the next speed. remember that, any time you shift the gears, you'll have to pull the clutch. the machine has to gain headway on one speed before it can take the next." johnnie nodded soberly. her intent gaze studied the mechanism before her intelligently. "we're going a heap faster now," she suggested in a moment. "can i move that--whatever it is--over to the third speed?" "yes," agreed stoddard. "here's a good, long, straight stretch of road for us to take it on. i'll attend to the horn when we come to the turn up there. we mustn't make anybody's horse run away." so the lesson proceeded. he showed her brake and clutch. he gave her some theoretical knowledge of cranking up, because she seemed to enjoy it as a child enjoys exploiting the possibilities of a new toy. up and up they went, the sky widening and brightening above them. hens began to lead forth their broods. overhead, a hawk wheeled high in the blue, uttering his querulous cry. "i'm mighty glad i came," the girl said, more to herself than to the man at her side. "this is the most like flying of anything that ever chanced to me." from time to time stoddard had sent swift, sidelong glances at his companion, noting the bright, bent head, the purity of line in the profile above the steering-wheel, the intelligent beauty of the intent, down-dropped eyes, with long lashes almost on the flushed cheeks. he wondered at her; born amid these wide, cool spaces, how had she endured for a week the fetid atmosphere of the factory rooms? how, having tested it, could she look forward to a life like that? something in her innocent trust choked him. he began some carefully worded inquiries as to her experience in the mill and her opinion of the work. the answers partook of that charm which always clung about johnnie. she told him of mandy and, missing no shade of the humour there was in the meacham girl, managed to make the description pathetic. she described pap himes and his boarding-house, aptly, deftly, and left it funny, though a sympathetic listener could feel the tragedy beneath. presently they met the first farm-wagon with its load of worshippers for the little mountain church beyond. as these came out of a small side road, and caught sight of the car, the bony old horses jibbed and shied, and took all the driver's skill and a large portion of his vocabulary to carry them safely past, the children staring, the women pulling their sunbonnets about their faces and looking down. something in the sight brought home to johnnie the incongruity of her present position. on the instant, a drop of rain splashed upon the back of her hand. "there!" she cried in a contrite voice. "i knew mighty well and good that it was going to rain, and i ought to have named it to you, because you town folks don't understand the weather as well as we do. i ought not to have let you come on up here." "we'll have to turn and run for it," said stoddard, laughing a little. "i wish i'd had the hood put on this morning," as he surveyed the narrow way in which he had to turn. "is it wider beyond here, do you remember?" "there's a bluff up about a quarter of a mile that you could run under and be as dry as if you were in the shed at home," said johnnie. "this won't last long. do you want to try it?" "you are the pilot," stoddard declared promptly, resigning the wheel once more to her hands. "if it's a bad place, you might let me take the car in." rain in the mountains has a trick of coming with the suddenness of an overturned bucket. johnnie sent the car ahead at what she considered a rapid pace, till stoddard unceremoniously took the wheel from her and shoved the speed clutch over to the third speed. "i'm mighty sorry i was so careless and didn't warn you about the rain," she declared with shining eyes, as her hair blew back and her colour rose at the rapid motion. "but this is fine. i believe that if i should ever be so fortunate as to own an automobile i'd want to fly like this every minute of the time i was in it." as she spoke, they swept beneath the overhanging rocks, and a great curtain of virginia creeper and trumpet-vine fell behind them, half screening them from the road, and from the deluge which now broke more fiercely. for five minutes the world was blotted out in rain, with these two watching its gray swirls and listening to its insistent drumming, safe and dry in their cave. nothing ripens intimacy so rapidly as a common mishap. also, two people seem much to each other as they await alone the ceasing of the rain or the coming of the delayed boat. "this won't last long," johnnie repeated. "we won't dare to start out when it first stops; but there'll come a little clearing-up shower after that, and then i think we'll have a fair day. don't you know the saying, 'rain before seven, quit before eleven?' well, it showered twice just as day was breaking, and i had to wait under a tree till it was over." the big drops lengthened themselves, as they came down, into tiny javelins and struck upon the rocks with a splash. the roar and drumming in the forest made a soft, blurring undertone of sound. the first rain lasted longer than johnnie had counted on, and the clearing-up shower was slow in making its appearance. the two talked with ever-growing interest. strangely enough johnnie consadine, who had no knowledge of any other life except through a few well-conned books, appreciated the values of this mountain existence with almost the detached view of an outsider. her knowledge of it was therefore more assorted and available, and stoddard listened to her eagerly. "but what made you think you'd like to work in a cotton mill?" he asked suddenly. "after all, weren't you maybe better off up in these mountains?" and then and there johnnie strove to put into exact and intelligent words what she had possessed and what she had lacked in the home of her childhood. unconsciously she told him more than was in the mere words. he got the situation as to the visionary, kindly father with a turn for book learning and a liking for enterprises that appealed to his imagination. uncle pros and the silver mine were always touched upon with the tender kindness johnnie felt for the old man and his life-long quest. but the little mother and the children--ah, it was here that the listener found johnnie's incentive. "mr. stoddard," she concluded, "there wasn't a bit of hope of schooling for the children unless i could get out and work in the factory. i think it's a splendid chance for a girl. i think any girl that wouldn't take such a chance would be mighty mean and poor-spirited." gray stoddard revolved this conception of a chance in the world in his mind for some time. "i did get some schooling," she told him. "you wouldn't think it to hear me talk, because i'm careless, but i've been taught, and i can do better. yet if i don't see to it, how am i to know that the children will have as much even as i've had? mountain air is mighty pure and healthy, and the water up here is the finest you ever drank; but that's only for the body. of course there's beauty all about you--there was never anything more sightly than big unaka and the ridges that run from it, and the sky, and the big woods--and all. and yet human beings have got to have more than that. i aim to make a chance for the children." "are you going to bring them down and let them work in the mills with you?" stoddard asked in a perfectly colourless tone. johnnie looked embarrassed. her week in the cotton mill had fixed indelibly on her mind the picture of the mill child, straggling to work in the gray dawn, sleepy, shivering, unkempt; of the young things creeping up and down the aisles between the endlessly turning spools, dully regarding the frames to see that the threads were not fouled or broken; of the tired little groups as they pressed close to the shut windows, neglecting their work to stare out into a world of blue sky and blowing airs--a world they could see but not enter, and no breath of which could come in to them. and so she looked embarrassed. she was afraid that memory of those tired little faces would show in her own countenance. her hands on the steering-wheel trembled. she remembered that mr. stoddard was, as shade had said, one of the bosses in the hardwick mill. it seemed too terrible to offend him. he certainly thought no ill of having children employed; she must not seem to criticize him; she answered evasively: "well, of course they might do that. i did think of it--before i went down there." "before you went to work in the mills yourself," supplied stoddard, again in that colourless tone. "ye--yes," hesitated johnnie; "but you mustn't get the idea that i don't love my work--because i do. you see the children haven't had any schooling yet, and--well, i'm a great, big, stout somebody, and it looks like i'm the one to work in the mill." she turned to him fleetingly a countenance of appeal and perplexity. it seemed indeed anything but certain that she was one to work in the mill. there was something almost grotesque in the idea which made stoddard smile a little at her earnestness. "i'd like to talk it over with you when you've been at work there longer," he found himself saying. "you see, i'm studying mill conditions from one side, and you're studying them from the opposite--perhaps we could help each other." "i sure will tell you what i find out," agreed johnnie heartily. "i reckon you'll want to know how the work seems to me at the side of such as i was used to in the mountains; but i hope you won't inquire how long it took me to learn, for i'm afraid i'm going to make a poor record. if you was to ask me how much i was able to earn there, and how much back on unaka, i could make a good report for the mill on that, because that's all that's the matter with the mountains--they're a beautiful place to live, but a body can't hardly earn a cent, work as they may." johnnie forgot herself--she was always doing that--and she talked freely and well. it was as inevitable that she should be drawn to gray stoddard as that she should desire the clothing and culture miss lydia possessed. for the present, one aspiration struck her as quite as innocent as the other. stoddard had not yet emerged from the starry constellations among which she set him, to take form as a young man, a person who might indeed return her regard. her emotions were in that nebulous, formative stage when but a touch would be needed to show her whither the regard tended, yet till that touch should come, she as unashamedly adored gray as any child of five could have done. it was not till they were well down the road to cottonville that she realized the bald fact that she, a mill girl, was riding in an automobile with one of the mill owners. she was casting about for some reasonable phrase in which to clothe the statement that it would be better he should stop the car and let her out; she had parted her lips to ask him to take the wheel, when they rounded a turn and came upon a company of loom-fixers from the village below. behind them, in a giggling group, strolled a dozen mill girls in their sunday best. johnnie had sight of mandy meacham, fixing eyes of terrified admiration upon her; then she nodded in reply to shade buckheath's angry stare, and a rattle of wheels apprized her that a carriage was passing on the other side. this vehicle contained the entire hardwick family, with lydia sessions turning long to look her incredulous amazement back at them from her seat beside her brother-in-law. it was all over in a moment. the loom-fixers had debouched upon the long, wooden bridge which crossed the ravine to their quarters; the girls were going on, mandy meacham hanging back and staring; a tree finally shut out miss sessions's accusing countenance. "please stop and let me out here," said johnnie, in a scarcely audible voice. when stoddard would have remonstrated, or asked why, his lips were closed by sight of her daunted, miserable face. he knew as well as she the mad imprudence of the thing which they had done, and blamed himself roundly with it all. "i'll not forget to bring the books we were talking of," he made haste to say. he picked up the little basket from the floor of the car. "you'd better keep the flowers in that," johnnie told him lifelessly. her innocent dream was broken into by a cruel reality. she was struggling blindly under the weight of all her little world's disapprobation. "you'll let me return the basket when i bring you the books," gray suggested, helplessly. "i don't know," johnnie hesitated. then, as a sudden inspiration came to her, "mandy meacham said she'd try to get me into a club for girls that miss sessions has. she said miss sessions would lend me books. maybe you might just leave them with her. i'm sure i should be mighty proud to have them. i know i'll love to read them; but--well, you might just leave them with her." a little satiric sparkle leaped to life in stoddard's eyes. he looked at the innocent, upraised face in wonder. the most experienced manoeuverer of society's legion could not have handled a difficult situation more deftly. "the very thing," he said cheerily. "i'll talk to miss sessions about it to-morrow." chapter viii of the use of wings "i told you i'd speak a good word for you," shouted mandy meacham, putting her lips down close to johnnie's ear where she struggled and fought with her looms amid the deafening clamour of the weaving room. the girl looked up, flushed, tired, but eagerly receptive. "yes," her red lips shaped the word to the other's eyes, though no sound could make itself heard above that din except such eldritch shrieks as mandy's. "i done it. i got you a invite to some doin's at the uplift club a-wednesday." again johnnie nodded and shaped "yes" with her lips. she added something which might have been "thank you"; the adorable smile that accompanied it said as much. mandy watched her, fascinated as the lithe, strong young figure bent and strained to correct a crease in the web where it turned the roll. "they never saw anything like you in their born days, i'll bet," she yelled. "i never did. you're awful quare--but somehow i sorter like ye." and she scuttled back to her looms as the room boss came in. a weaver works by the piece, but mandy had been reproved too often for slovenly methods not to know that she might be fined for neglect. her looms stood where she could continually get the newcomer's figure against the light, with its swift motion, its supple curves, and the brave carriage of the well-formed head. the sight gave mandy a curious satisfaction, as though it uttered what she would fain have said to the classes above her. hers was something the feeling which the private in the ranks has for the standard-bearer who carries the colours aloft, or the dashing officer who leads the charge. johnnie was the challenge she would have flung in the face of the enemy. "i'll bet if you'd put one of miss lyddy's dresses on her she'd look nobby," mandy ruminated, addressing her looms. "that's what she would. she'd have 'em all f--fa--faded away, as the feller says." and so it came about that the next day johnnie consadine did not go to the mill at all, but spent the morning washing and ironing her one light print dress. it was as coarse almost as flour-sacking, and the blue dots on it had paled till they made a suspicious speckle not unlike mildew; yet when she had combed her thick, fair hair, rolled it back from the white brow and braided it to a coronet round her head as she had seen that of the lady on the porch at the palace of pleasure; when, cleansed and smooth, she put the frock on, one forgot the dress in the youth of her, the hope, the glorious expectation there was in that eager face. the ladies assisting in miss lydia sessions's uplift club for work among the mill girls, were almost all young and youngish women. the mothers in israel attacked the more serious problems of orphanages, winter's supplies of coal, and clothing for the destitute. "but their souls must be fed, too," miss lydia asserted as she recruited her helpers for the uplift work. "their souls must be fed; and who can reach the souls of these young girls so well as we who are near their own age, and who have had time for culture and spiritual growth?" it was a good theory. perhaps one may say that it remains a good theory. the manner of uplifting was to select a certain number of mill girls whom it was deemed well to help, approach them on the subject, and, if they appeared amenable, pay a substitute to take charge of their looms while those in process of being uplifted attended a meeting of the club. the gathering to which johnnie was bidden was held in honour of a lady from london who had written a book on some subject which it was thought ought to appeal to workingwomen. this lady intended to address the company and to mingle with them and get their views. most of those present being quite unfurnished with any views whatever on the problem she discussed, her position was something that of a pick-pocket in a moneyless crowd; but of this she was fortunately and happily unaware. mandy meacham regarded johnnie's preparation for the function with some disfavour. "ef you fix up like that," she remonstrated, "you're bound to look too nice to suit miss lyddy. they won't be no men thar. i'm goin' to wear my workin' dress, and tell her i hadn't nary minute nor nary cent to do other." johnnie laughed a little at this, as though it were intended for a joke. "but i did have time," she objected. "miss sessions would pay a substitute for the whole day though i told her i'd only need the afternoon for the party. i think it was mighty good of her, and it's as little as i can do to make myself look as nice as i can." "you ain't got the sense you was born with!" fretted mandy. "them thar kind ladies ain't a-carin' for you to look so fine. they'll attend to all the fine lookin' theirselves. what they want is to know how bad off you air, an' to have you say how much what they have did or give has helped you." such interchange of views brought the two girls to the door of the little frame chapel, given over for the day to uplift work. within it rose a bustle and clatter, a hum of voices that spoke, a frilling of nervous, shrill laughter to edge the sound, and back of that the clink of dishes from a rear room where refreshments were being prepared. miss sessions, near the door, had a receiving line, quite in the manner of any reception. she herself, in a blouse of marvellous daintiness and sweeping skirts, stood beside the visitor from london to present her. to this day johnnie is uncertain as to where the wonderful blue silk frock of that lady from abroad was fastened, though she gave the undivided efforts of sharp young eyes and an inquiring mind to the problem a good portion of the time while it was within her view. the englishwoman was called mrs. archbold, and on her other hand stood a tall, slim lady with long gray-green eyes, prematurely gray hair which had plainly been red, and an odd little twist to her smile. this was mrs. hexter, wife of the owner of the big woollen mills across the creek, and only bidden in to assist the uplift work because the position of her husband gave her much power. these, with the misses burchard, daughters of the rector, formed the reception committee. "i am so charmed to see you here to-day," miss lydia smiled as they entered. it was part of her theory to treat the mill girls exactly as she would members of her own circle. mandy, being old at the business, possessed herself of the high-held hand presented; but johnnie only looked at it in astonishment, uncertain whether miss lydia meant to shake hands or pat her on the head. yet when she did finally divine what was intended, the quality of her apologetic smile ought to have atoned for her lapse. "i'm sure proud to be here with you-all," she said. "looks like to me you are mighty kind to strangers." the ineradicable dignity of the true mountaineer, who has always been as good as the best in his environment, preserved johnnie from any embarrassment, any tendency to shrink or cringe. her beauty, in the fresh-washed print gown, was like a thing released and, as miss sessions might have put it, rampant. gray stoddard had gone directly to lydia sessions, with his proffers of books, and his suggestions for johnnie. the explanation of how the girl came to be riding in his car that sunday morning was neither as full nor as penitent as miss lydia could have wished; yet it did recognize the impropriety of the act, and was, in so far, satisfactory. miss sessions made haste to form an alliance with the young man for the special upliftment of johnnie consadine. she would have greatly preferred to interest him in mandy meacham, but beggars can not be choosers, and she took what she could get. "whom have we here?" demanded the lady from london, leaning across and peering at johnnie with friendly, near-sighted eyes. "why, what a blooming girl, to be sure! you haven't been long from the country, i'll venture to guess, my dear." johnnie blushed and dimpled at being so kindly welcomed. the mountain people are undemonstrative in speech and action; and that "my dear" seemed wonderful. "i come from away up in the mountains," she said softly. "from away up in the mountains," repeated the englishwoman, her smiling gaze dwelling on johnnie's radiant face. "why yes--so one would conceive. well, you mustn't lose all those pretty roses in the mill down here." she was a visitor, remember; residents of cottonville never admitted that roses, or anything else desirable, could be lost in the mills. "i'll not," said johnnie sturdily. "i'm goin' to earn my way and send for mother and the children, if hard work'll do it; but i'm a mighty big, stout, healthy somebody, and i aim to keep so." mrs. archbold patted the tall young shoulder as she turned to mandy meacham whom miss lydia was eager to put through her paces for the benefit of the lady from london. "isn't that the girl mr. stoddard was speaking to me about?" she inquired in a whisper as johnnie moved away. "i think it must be. he said she was such a beauty, and i scarcely believe there could be two like her in one town." "such a type,' were mr. stoddard's exact words i believe," returned miss sessions a little frostily. "yes, john consadine is quite a marked type of the mountaineer. she is, as she said to you, a stout, healthy creature, and, i understand, very industrious. i approve of john." she approved of john, but she addressed herself to exploiting mandy; and the lady in the blue silk frock learned how poor and helpless the meacham woman had been before she got in to the mill work, how greatly the uplift club had benefited her, with many interesting details. yet as the english lady went from group to group in company with miss lydia and t.h. hexter's wife, her quick eyes wandered across the room to where a bright head rose a little taller than its fellows, and occasional bursts of laughter told that johnnie was in a merry mood. the threadbare attempt at a reception was gotten through laboriously. the girls were finally settled in orderly rows, and mrs. archbold led to the platform. the talk she had prepared for them was upon aspiration. it was an essay, in fact, and she had delivered it successfully before many women's clubs. she is not to be blamed that the language was as absolutely above the comprehension of her hearers as though it had been greek. she was a busy woman, with other aims and activities than those of working among the masses; miss lydia had heard her present talk, fancied it, and thought it would be the very thing for the uplift club. for thirty minutes johnnie sat concentrating desperately on every sentence that fell from the lips of the lady from london, trying harder to understand than she had ever tried to do anything in her life. she put all her quick, young mind and avid soul into the struggle to receive, though piercingly aware every instant of the difference between her attire and that of the women who had bidden her there, noting acutely variations between their language and hers, their voices, their gestures and hers. these were the women of gray stoddard's world. such were his feminine associates; here, then, must be her models. mandy and her likes got from the talk perhaps nothing at all, except that rich people might have what they liked if they wanted it--that at least was miss meacham's summing up of the matter when she went home that night. but to johnnie some of the sentences remained. "you struggle and climb and strive," said mrs. archbold earnestly, "when, if you only knew it, you have wings. and what are the wings of the soul? the wings of the soul are aspiration. oh, that we would spread them and fly to the heights our longing eyes behold, the heights we dream of when we cannot see them, the heights we foolishly and mistakenly expect to climb some day." again johnnie saw herself coming down the ridge at shade's side; descending into the shadow, stepping closer to the droning mills; while above her the palace of pleasure swam in its golden glory, and these who were privileged to do so went out and in and laughed and were happy. were such heights as that what this woman meant? johnnie had let it typify to her the heights to which she intended to climb. was it indeed possible to fly to them instead? the talk ended. she sat so long with bent head that miss sessions finally came round and took the unoccupied chair beside her. "are you thinking it over, john?" she inquired with that odd little note of hostility which she could never quite keep out of her voice when she addressed this girl. "yes'm," replied johnnie meekly. several who were talking together in the vicinity relinquished their conversation to listen to the two. mrs. hexter shot one of her quaint, crooked smiles at the lady from london and, with a silent gesture, bade her hearken. "i think these things are most important for you girls who have to earn your daily bread," miss sessions condescended. "daily bread," echoed johnnie softly. she loved fine phrases as she loved fine clothes. "i know where that comes from. it's in the prayer about 'daily bread,' and 'the kingdom and the power and the glory.' don't you think those are beautiful words, miss lydia--the 'power and the glory'?" miss sessions's lips sucked in with that singular, half-reluctant expression of condemnation which was becoming fairly familiar to johnnie. "oh, john!" she said reprovingly, 'daily bread' is all we have anything to do with. don't you remember that it says 'thine be the kingdom and the power and the glory'? thine, john--thine." "yes'm," returned johnnie submissively. but it was in her heart that certain upon this earth had their share of kingdoms and powers and the glories. and, although she uttered that submissive "yes'm," her high-couraged young heart registered a vow to achieve its own slice of these things as well as of daily bread. "didn't you enjoy mrs. archbold's talk? i thought it very fine," miss sessions pursued. "it sure was that," sighed johnnie. "i don't know as i understand it all--every word. i tried to, but maybe i got some of it wrong." "what is it you don't understand, john?" inquired miss lydia patronizingly. "ask me. i'll explain anything you care to know about." johnnie turned to her, too desperately in earnest to note the other listeners to the conversation. "why, that about stretching out the wings of your spirit and flying. do you believe that?" "i certainly do," miss sessions said brightly, as delighted at johnnie's remembering part of the visitor's words as a small boy when he has taught his terrier to walk on its hind legs. "then if a body wants a thing bad enough, and keeps on a-wanting it--oh, just awful--is that aspiration? will the thing you want that-a-way come to pass?" "we-e-ell," miss sessions deemed it necessary to qualify her statement to this fiery and exact young questioner. "you have to want the right thing, of course, john. you have to want the right thing." "yes'm," agreed johnnie heartily. "and i'd 'low it was certainly the right thing, if it was what good folks--like you--want." miss sessions flushed, yet she looked pleased, aware, if johnnie was not, of the number of listeners. here was her work of uplift among the mill girls being justified. "i--oh, really, i couldn't set myself up as a pattern," she said modestly. "but you are," johnnie assured her warmly. "there ain't anybody in this room i'd rather go by as by you." the fine gray eyes had been travelling from neck to belt, from shoulder to wrist of the lady who was enlightening her, "i think i never in all my life seen anything more sightly than that dress-body you're a-wearin'," she murmured softly. "where--how might a person come by such a one? if you thought that my wishing and--aspiring--would ever bring me such as that, i'd sure try." there rose a titter about the two. it spread and swelled till the whole assembly was in a gale of laughter. miss sessions's becoming blush deepened to the tint of angry mortification. she looked about and assumed the air of a schoolmistress with a room full of noisy pupils; but johnnie, her cheeks pink too, first swept them all with an astonished gaze which flung the long lashes up in such a wide curve of innocence as made her eyes bewitching, then joined it, and laughed as loud as any of them at she knew not what. it was the one touch to put her with the majority, and leave her mentor stranded in a bleak minority. miss sessions objected to the position. "oh, john!" she said severely, so soon as she could be heard above the giggles. "how you have misunderstood me, and mrs. archbold, and all we intended to bring to you! what is a mere blouse like this to the uplift, the outlook, the development we were striving to offer? i confess i am deeply disappointed in you." this sobered johnnie, instantly. "i'm sorry," she said, bending forward to lay a wistful, penitent hand on that of miss sessions. "i'll try to understand better. i reckon i'm right dumb, and you'll have to have a lot of patience with me. i don't rightly know what to aspire after." the amende was so sweetly made that even lydia sessions, still exceedingly employed at being pictorially chagrined over the depravity of her neophyte, could but be appeased. "i'll try to furnish you more suitable objects for your ambition," she murmured virtuously. but the lady with the gray hair and the odd little twist to her smile now leaned forward and took a hand in the conversation. "see here, lydia," mrs. hexter remonstrated in crisp tones, "what's the matter with the girl's aspiring after a blouse like yours? you took a lot of trouble and spent a lot of money to get that one. i noticed you were careful to tell me it was imported, because i couldn't see the neck-band and find out that detail for myself. that blouse is a dream--it's a dream. if it's good enough aspiration for you or me, why not for this girl?" "oh, but mrs. hexter," murmured the mortified miss sessions, glancing uneasily toward the mill-girl contingent which was listening eagerly, and then at the speaker of the day, "i am sure mrs. archbold will agree with me that it would be a gross, material idea to aspire after blouses and such-like, when the poor child needs--er--other things so much more." "yes'm, i do that," conceded johnnie dutifully, those changeful eyes of hers full of pensive, denied desire, as they swept the dainty gowns of the women before her. "i do--you're right. i wouldn't think of spending my money for a dress-body like that when i'm mighty near as barefoot as a rabbit this minute, and the little 'uns back home has to have every cent i can save. i just thought that if beautiful wishes was ever really coming true--if it was right and proper for a person to have beautiful wishes--i'd like--" her voice faltered into discouraged silence. tears gathered and hung thick on her lashes. miss sessions sent a beseeching look toward the lady from london. mrs. archbold stepped accommodatingly into the breach. "all aspiration is good," she said gently. "i shouldn't be discouraged because it took a rather concrete form." johnnie's eyes were upon her face, trying to understand. a "concrete form" she imagined might allude to the fact that miss sessions had a better figure than she. mrs. hexter, glad of an ally, tossed that incorrigible gray head of hers and dashed into the conversation once more. "if i were you, johnnie, i'd just aspire as hard as i could in that direction," she said recklessly, her mischievous glance upon the flowing lines of johnnie's young shoulders and throat. "a blouse like that would be awfully fetching on you. you'd look lovely in it. why shouldn't you aspire to it? maybe you'll have one just as pretty before the style changes. i am sure you're nice enough, and good-looking enough, for the best in the way of purple and fine linen to come to you by the law of attraction--don't you believe in the law of attraction, mrs. archbold?" lydia sessions got up and moved away in shocked silence. mrs. hexter was a good deal of a thorn in her flesh, and she only tolerated her because of mr. hexter and his position. after the retreating and disaffected hostess came mrs. archbold's voice, with a thread of laughter in it. "i believe in the law of such attraction as this girl has," she said kindly. "what is it your walt whitman says about the fluid and attaching character? that all hearts yearn toward it, that old and young must give it love. that is, my dear," turning explainingly to johnnie, "the character which gives much love, takes much interest in those about it, makes itself one with other people and their affairs--do you get my meaning?" "i think i understand," half whispered johnnie, glowing eyes on the face of the speaker. "do you mean that i am anything like that? i do love everybody--most. but how could i help it, when everybody is so good and kind to me?" the glances of the older women met across the bright head. "she won't have much use for feet to climb with," mrs. hexter summed it up, taking her figure from the talk earlier in the afternoon. "she's got wings." and puzzled johnnie could only smile from one to the other. "wings!" whispered mandy meacham to herself. mandy was not only restricted to the use of spiritual feet; she was lame in the soul as well, poor creature, "wings--air they callin' her a angel?" chapter ix a bit of metal in the valleys of tennessee, spring has a trick of dropping down on the world like a steaming wet blanket. the season that johnnie consadine went to work in the mills at cottonville, may came in with warm rains. stifling nights followed sultry, drenching days, till vegetation everywhere sprouted unwholesomely and the mountain slopes had almost the reek of tropic jungles. yet the girl performed the labours of a factory weaver with almost passionate enthusiasm and devotion. always and always she was looking beyond the mere present moment. if tending loom was the road which led to the power and the glory, what need to complain that it--the mere road--was but dull earth? she tried conscientiously, to do and be exactly what lydia sessions seemed to want. gray stoddard's occasional spoken word, or the more lengthy written messages he had taken to putting in the books he sent her, seemed to demand of her nothing, but always inspired to much. for all his disposition to keep hands off the personal development of his friends, perhaps on account of it, gray made an excellent teacher, and these writings--the garnered grain, the gist, of his own wide culture--were the very sinews for the race johnnie was setting out on. she began to intelligently guard her speech, her manner, her very thoughts, conforming them to what she knew of his ideals. miss session's striving to build up an imitation lady on the sincere foundation johnnie offered appealed less to the girl, and had therefore less effect; but she immediately responded to stoddard's methods, tucking in to the books she returned written queries or records of perplexity, which gradually expanded into notes, expressions of her own awakened thought, and even fancies, which held from the first a quaint charm and individuality. the long, hot days at the foot of the hills did seem to the mountain-bred creature interminable and stifling. perspiration dripped from white faces as the operatives stood listlessly at their looms, or the children straggled back and forth in the narrow lanes between the frames, tending the endlessly turning spools. the hardwick mill had both spinning and weaving departments. administrative ability is as much a native gift as the poet's voice or the actor's grace, and the managers of any large business are always on the lookout for it. before johnnie consadine had been two months in the factory she was given charge of a spinning room. but the dignity of the new position--even the increase of pay--had a cloud upon it. she was beginning to understand the enmity there is between the soulless factory and the human tide that feeds its life. she knew now that the tasks of the little spinners, which seemed less than child's play, were deadly in their monotony, their long indoor hours, and the vibrant clamour amid which they were performed. her own vigorous young frame resisted valiantly; yet the saturday half-holiday, the sunday of rest, could scarcely renew her for the exorbitant hours of mechanical toil. as she left the mill those sultry evenings, with the heat mists still tremulous over the valley and heat lightnings bickering in the west, she went with a lagging step up the village street, not looking, as had been her wont, first toward the far blue mountains, and then at the glorious state of the big valley. the houses of the operatives were set up haphazard and the village was denied all beauty. most of the yards were unfenced, and here and there a row of shanties would be crowded so close together that speech in one could be heard in the other. "and then if any ketchin' disease does break out, like the dipthery did last year," mavity bence said one evening as she walked home with johnnie, "hit's sartin shore to go through 'em like it would go through a family." johnnie looked curiously at the dirty yards with their debris of lard buckets and tin cans. space--air, earth and sky--was cheap and plentiful in the mountains. it seemed strange to be sparing of it, down here where people were so rich. "what makes 'em build so close, aunt mavity?" she asked. "hit's the company," returned mrs. bence lifelessly. "they don't want to spend any more than they have to for land. besides they want everything to be nigh to the mill. lord--hit don't make no differ. only when a fire starts in a row of 'em hit cleans up the company's property same as it does the plunder of the folks that lives in 'em. you just got to be thankful if there don't chance to be one or more baby children locked up in the houses and burned along with the other stuff. i've knowed that to happen more than oncet." johnnie's face whitened. "miss lydia says she's going to persuade her brother-in-law to furnish a kindergarten and a day nursery for the hardwick mill," she offered hastily. "they have one at some other mill down in georgia, and she says it's fine the way they take care of the children while the mothers are at work in the factory." "uh-uh," put in mandy meacham slowly, speaking over the shoulders of the two, "but i'd a heap ruther take care of my own child--ef i had one. an' ef the mills can afford to pay for it the one way, they can afford to pay for it t'other way. miss liddy's schemes is all for the showin' off of the swells and the rich folks. i reckon that, with her, hit'll end in talk, anyhow--hit always does." "aunt mavity," pursued johnnie timidly, "do you reckon the water's unhealthy down here in cottonville? looks like all the children in the mill have the same white, puny look. i thought maybe the water didn't agree with them." mavity bence laughed out mirthlessly. "the water!" she echoed in a tone of amused contempt. "johnnie, you're mighty smart about some things; cain't you see that a cotton mill is bound to either kill or cripple a child? them that don't die, sort o' drags along and grows up to be mis'able, undersized, sickly somebodies. hit's true the hardwick mill won't run night turn; hit's true they show mo' good will about hirin' older children; but if you can make a cotton mill healthy for young-uns, you can do more than god a'mighty." she wiped her eyes furtively. "lou was well growed before ever she went in the mill. i know in reason hit never hurt her. i mean these here mammies that i see puttin' little tricks to work that ort to be runnin' out o' doors gettin' their strength and growth--well, po' souls, i reckon they don't know no better, god forgive 'em!" "but if they got sick or anything, there's always the hospital," johnnie spoke up hopefully, as they passed the clean white building standing high on its green slope. "the hospital!" echoed mandy, with a half-terrified glance over her shoulder. "yes, ef you want to be shipped out of town in a box for the student doctors to cut up, i reckon the hospital is a good place. it's just like everything else the rich swells does--it's for their profit, not for our'n. they was a lot of big talk when they built that thar hospital, and every one of us was axed to give something for beds and such. we was told that if we got hurt in the mill we could go thar free, and if we fell sick they'd doctor us for little or nothin'. they can afford it--considerin' the prices they git for dead bodies, i reckon." "now, mandy, you don't believe any such as that," remonstrated johnnie, with a half-smile. "believe it--i know it to be true!" mandy stuck to her point stubbornly. "thar was lura dawson; her folks was comin' down to git the body and bury hit, and when they got here the hospital folks couldn't tell 'em whar to look--no, they couldn't. atlas dawson 'lows he'll git even with 'em if it takes him the rest of his natural life. his wife was a bushares and her whole tribe is out agin the hospital folks and the mill folks down here. i reckon you live too far up in the mountains to hear the talk, but some of these swells had better look out." as the long, hot days followed each other, johnnie noticed how mandy failed. her hand was forever at her side, where she had a stitch-like pain, that she called "a jumpin' misery." even broad, seasoned mavity bence grew pallid and gaunt. only pap himes thrived. his trouble was rheumatism, and the hot days were his best. of evenings he would sit on the porch in his broad, rush-bottomed chair, the big yellow cat on his knees, and smoke his pipe and, if he cared to do so, banter unkindly with the girls on the steps. early in the season as it was, the upstairs rooms were terribly hot; and sometimes the poor creatures sat or lay on the porch till well past midnight. across the gulch were songs and the strumming of banjos or guitars, where the young fellows at the inn waked late. the rich people on top of the hill were beginning to make their preparations to flit to the seashore or mountains. lydia sessions left for two weeks, promising to return in june, and the uplift work drooped, neglected. there seems to be an understanding that people do not need uplifting so much during hot weather. gray stoddard was faithful in the matter of books. he carried them to lydia sessions and discussed with that young lady a complete course of reading for johnnie. lydia was in the position of one taking bad medicine for good results. she could not but delight in any enterprise which brought stoddard intimately to her, yet the discussion of johnnie consadine, the admiration he expressed for the girl's character and work, were as so much quinine. johnnie herself was dumb and abashed, now, in his presence. she sought vainly for the poise and composure which were her natural birthright in most of the situations of life. yet her perturbation was not that of distress. the sight of him, the sound of his voice, even if he were not saying good morning to her, would cheer her heart for one whole, long, hot day: and if he spoke to her, if he looked at her, nothing could touch her with sadness for hours afterward. she asked no questions why this was so; she met it with a sort of desperate bravery, accepting the joy, refusing to see the sorrow there might be in it. and she robbed herself of necessary sleep to read stoddard's books, to study them, to wring from them the last precious crumb of help or information that they might have for her. the mountain dweller is a mental creature. an environment which builds lean, vigorous bodies, is apt to nourish keen, alert minds. johnnie crowded into her few months of night reading a world, of ripening culture. ever since the sunday morning of the automobile ride, shade buckheath had been making elaborate pretense of having forgotten that such a person as johnnie consadine existed. if he saw her approaching, he turned his back; and when forced to recognize her, barely growled some unintelligible greeting. then one evening she came suddenly into the machine room. she walked slowly down the long aisle between pieces of whirring machinery, carrying all eyes with her. it was an offence to buckheath to note how the other young fellows turned from their tasks to look after her. she had no business down here where the men were. that was just like a fool girl, always running after--. she paused at his bench. "shade," she said, bending close so that he might hear the words, "i got leave to come in and ask you to make me a thing like this--see?" showing a pattern for a peculiarly slotted strip of metal. buckheath returned to the surly indifference of demeanour which was natural to him. yet he smiled covertly as he examined the drawing she had made of the thing she wanted. he divined in this movement of johnnie's but an attempt to approach himself, and, as she explained with some particularity, he paid more attention to the girl than to her words. "i want a big enough hole here to put a bolt through," she repeated. "shade--do you understand? you're not listening to one word i say." buckheath turned and grinned broadly at her. "what's the use of this foolishness, johnnie?" he inquired, clinking the strips of metal between his fingers. "looks like you and me could find a chance to visit without going to so much trouble." johnnie opened her gray eyes wide and stared at him. "foolishness!" she echoed. "mr. stoddard didn't call it foolishness when i named it to him. he said i was to have anything i wanted made, and that one of the loom-fixers could attend to it." "mr. stoddard--what's he got to do with it?" demanded shade. "he hasn't anything; but that i spoke to him about it, and he told me to try any plan i wanted to." "well, the less you talk to the bosses--a girl like you, working here in the mill--the better name you'll bear," shade told her, twisting the drawing in his hands and regarding her from under lowered brows. "don't tear that," cautioned johnnie impatiently. "i have to speak to some of the people in authority sometimes--the same as you do. what's the matter with you, shade buckheath?" "there's nothing the matter with me," buckheath declared wagging his head portentously, and avoiding her eye. then the wrath, the sense of personal injury, which had been simmering in him ever since he saw her sitting beside stoddard in the young mill owner's car, broke forth. "when i see a girl riding in an automobile with one of these young bosses," he growled, close to her ear, "i know what to think--and so does everybody else." it was out. he had said it at last. he stared at her fiercely. the red dyed her face and neck at his words and look. for a desperate moment she took counsel with herself. then she lifted her head and looked squarely in buckheath's face. "oh, _that's_ what has been the matter with you all this time, is it?" she inquired. "well, i'm glad you spoke and relieved your mind." then she went on evenly, "mr. stoddard had been up in the mountains that sunday to get a flower that he wanted, like the one you stepped on and broke the day i came down. i was up there and showed him where the things grow. then it rained, and he brought me down in his car. that's all there was to it." "mighty poor excuse," grunted shade, turning his shoulder to her. "it's not an excuse at all," said johnnie. "you have no right to ask excuses for what i do--or explanations, either, for that matter. i've told you the truth about it because we were old friends and you named it to me; but i'm sorry now that i spoke at all. give me that drawing and those patterns back. some of the other loom-fixers can make what i want." "you get mad quick, don't you?" buckheath asked, turning to her with a half-taunting, half-relenting smile on his face. "red-headed people always do." "no, i'm not mad," johnnie told him, as she had told him long ago. "but i'll thank you not to name mr. stoddard to me again. if i haven't the right to speak to anybody i need to, why it certainly isn't your place to tell me of it." "go 'long," said buckheath, surlily; "i'll fix 'em for you." and without another word the girl left him. after johnnie was gone, buckheath chewed for some time the bitter cud of chagrin. he was wholly mistaken, then, in the object of her visit to the mechanical department? yet he was a cool-headed fellow, always alert for that which might bring him gain. pushing, aspiring, he subscribed for and faithfully studied a mechanics' journal which continually urged upon its readers the profit of patenting small improvements on machinery already in use. indeed everybody, these days, in the factories, is on the lookout for patentable improvements. why might not johnnie have stumbled on to something worth while? that passmore and consadine tribe were all smart fools. he made the slotted strips she wanted, and delivered them to her the next day with civil words. when, after she had them in use on the spinning jennies upstairs for a week, she came down bringing them for certain minute alterations, his attitude was one of friendly helpfulness. "you say you use 'em on the frames? what for? how do they work?" he asked her, examining the little contrivance lingeringly. "they're working pretty well," she told him, "even the way they are--a good deal too long, and with that slot not cut deep enough, i'm right proud of myself when i look at them. any boy or girl tending a frame can go to the end of it and see if anything's the matter without walking plumb down. when you get them fixed the way i want them, i tell you they'll be fine." the next afternoon saw shade buckheath in the spooling room, watching the operation of johnnie consadine's simple device for notifying the frame-tender if a thread fouled or broke. "let me take 'em all down to the basement," he said finally when he had studied them from every point of view for fifteen minutes. "they ain't as well polished as i'd like to have 'em and i think they might be a little longer in the shank. there ought to be a ring of babbit metal around that slot, too--i reckon i could get it in watauga. if you'll let me take 'em now, i'll fix 'em up for you soon as i can, so that they'll do fine." johnnie remonstrated, half-heartedly, as he gathered the crude little invention from the frames; but his proposition wore a plausible face, and she suffered him to take them. "they ain't but five here," he said to her sharply. "i know i made you six. where's the other one?" he looked so startled, he spoke so anxiously, that she laughed. "i think that must be the one i carried home," she said carelessly. "i had a file, and was trying to fix it myself one evening, and i reckon i never brought it back." "johnnie," said shade, coming close, and speaking in a low confidential tone that was almost affectionate, "if i was you i wouldn't name this business to anybody. wait till we get it all fixed right," he pursued, as he saw the rising wonder in her face. "no need to tell every feller all you know--so he'll be jest as smart as you are. ain't that so? and you git me that other strip. i don't want it layin' round for somebody to get hold of and--you find me that other strip. hunt it up, won't you?" "well, you sure talk curious to-day!" johnnie told him. "i don't see anything to be ashamed of in my loving to fool with machinery, if i _am_ a girl. but i'll get you the strip, if i can find it. i'm mighty proud of being a room boss, and i aim to make my room the best one in the mill. shade, did you know that i get eight dollars a week? i've been sending money home to mother, and i've got a room to myself down at pap himes's. and mr. sessions says they'll raise me again soon. i wanted 'em to see this thing working well." "look here!" broke in shade swiftly; "don't you say anything to the bosses about this"--he shook the strips in his hand--"not till i've had a chance to talk to you again. you know i'm your friend, don't you johnnie?" "i reckon so," returned truthful johnnie, with unflattering moderation. "you get me those things done as quick as you can, please, shade." after this the matter dropped. two or three times johnnie reminded shade of his promise to bring the little strips back, and always he had an excuse ready for her: he had been very busy--the metal he wanted was out of stock--he would fix them for her just as soon as he could. with every interview his manner toward herself grew kinder--more distinctly that of a lover. the loom-fixers and mechanics, belonging, be it remembered, to a trades-union, were out of all the mills by five o'clock. it was a significant point for any student of economic conditions to note these strapping young males sitting at ease upon the porches of their homes or boarding houses, when the sweating, fagged women weavers and childish spinners trooped across the bridges an hour after. johnnie was surprised, therefore, one evening, nearly two weeks later, to find shade waiting for her at the door of the mill. "i wish't you'd walk a piece up the gap road with me, i want to have speech with you," the young fellow told her. "i can't go far; i 'most always try to be home in time to help aunt mavity put supper on the table, or anyway to wash up the dishes for her," the girl replied to him. "all right," agreed buckheath briefly. "wait here a minute and let me get some things i want to take along." he stopped at a little shed back of the offices, sometimes called the garage because stoddard's car stood in it. johnnie dropped down on a box at the door and the young fellow went inside and began searching the pockets of a coat hanging on a peg. he spoke over his shoulder to her. "what's the matter with you here lately since you got your raise? 'pears like you won't look at a body." "haven't i seemed friendly?" johnnie returned, with a deprecating smile. "i reckon i'm just tired. seems like i'm tired every minute of the day--and i couldn't tell you why. i sure don't have anything hard to do. i think sometimes i need the good hard work i used to have back in the mountains to get rested on." she laughed up at him, and buckheath's emotional nature answered with a dull anger, which was his only reply to her attraction. "i was going to invite you to go to a dance in at watauga, saturday night," he said sullenly; "but i reckon if you're tired all the time, you don't want to go." he had hoped and expected that she would say she was not too tired to go anywhere that he wished her to. his disappointment was disproportionate when she sighingly agreed: "yes, i reckon i hadn't better go to any dances. i wouldn't for the world break down at my work, when i've just begun to earn so much, and am sending money home to mother." inside the offices lydia sessions stood near her brother's desk. she had gone down, as she sometimes did, to take him home in the carriage. "oh, here you are, miss sessions," said gray stoddard coming in. "i've brought those books for johnnie. there are a lot of them here for her to make selection from. as you are driving, perhaps you wouldn't mind letting me set them in the carriage, then i won't go up past your house." miss sessions glanced uneasily at the volumes he carried. "do you think it's wise to give an ignorant, untrained girl like that the choice of her own reading?" she said at length. stoddard laughed. "it's as far as my wisdom goes," he replied promptly. "i would as soon think of getting up a form of prayer for a fellow creature as laying out a course of reading for him." "well, then," suggested miss sessions, "why not let her take up a chatauqua course? i'm sure many of them are excellent. she would be properly guided, and--and encroach less on your time." "my time!" echoed stoddard. "never mind that feature. i'm immensely interested. it's fascinating to watch the development of so fine a mind which has lain almost entirely fallow to the culture of schools. i quite enjoy looking out a bunch of books for her, and watching to see which one will most appeal to her. her instinct has proved wholly trustworthy so far. indeed, if it didn't seem exaggerated, i should say her taste was faultless." miss sessions flushed and set her lips together. "faultless," she repeated, with an attempt at a smile. "i fancy johnnie finds out what you admire most, and makes favourites of your favourites." stoddard looked a bit blank for an instant. then, "well--perhaps--she does," he allowed, hesitatingly. his usual tolerant smile held a hint of indulgent tenderness, and there was a vibration in his voice which struck to lydia sessions's heart like a knife. "no, you are mistaken," he added after a moment's reflection. "you don't realize how little i've talked to the child about books--or anything else, for that matter. it does chance that her taste is mine in very many cases; but you underrate our protégé when you speak of her as ignorant and uncultured. she knows a good deal more about some things than either of us. it is her fund of nature lore that makes thoreau and white of selborne appeal to her. now i love them because i know so little about what they write of." lydia sessions instantly fastened upon the one point. she protested almost anxiously. "but surely you would not call her cultured--a factory girl who has lived in a hut in the mountains all her life? she is trying hard, i admit; but her speech is--well, it certainly is rather uncivilized." stoddard looked as though he might debate that matter a bit. then he questioned, instead: "did you ever get a letter from her? she doesn't carry her quaint little archaisms of pronunciation and wording into her writing. her letters are delicious." miss sessions turned hastily to the window and looked out, apparently to observe whether her brother was ready to leave or not. johnnie consadine's letters--her letters. what--when--? of course she could not baldly question him in such a matter; and the simple explanation of a little note of thanks with a returned book, or the leaf which reported impressions from its reading tucked in between the pages occurred to her perturbed mind. "you quite astonish me," she said finally. "well--that _is_ good hearing. mr. stoddard," with sudden decision, "don't you believe that it would be well worth while, in view of all this, to raise the money and send john consadine away to a good school? there are several fine ones in new england where she might partially work her way; and really, from what you say, it seems to me she's worthy of such a chance." stoddard glanced at her in surprise. "why, miss sessions, doesn't this look like going squarely back on your most cherished theories? if it's only to bestow a little money, and send her away to some half-charity school, what becomes of your argument that people who have had advantages should give of themselves and their comradeship to those they wish to help?" there was a boyish eagerness in his manner; his changeful gray-brown eyes were alight; he came close and laid a hand on her arm--quite an unusual demonstration with gray stoddard. "you mustn't discourage me," he said winningly. "i'm such a hopeful disciple. i've never enjoyed anything more in my life than this enterprise you and i have undertaken together, providing the right food for so bright and so responsive a mind." miss lydia looked at him in a sort of despair. "yes--oh, yes. i quite understand that," she agreed almost mechanically. "i don't mean to go back on my principles. but what john needs is a good, sound education from the beginning. don't you think so?" "no," said stoddard promptly. "indeed i do not. development must come from within. to give it a chance--to lend it stimulus--that's all a friend can do. a ready-made education plastered on the outside cultivates nobody. moreover, johnnie is in no crying need of mere schooling. you don't seem to know how well provided she has been in that respect. but the thing that settles the matter is that she would not accept any such charitable arrangement. unless you're tired of our present method, i vote to continue it." lydia sessions had been for some moments watching johnnie consadine who sat on her box at the door of the little garage. she had refrained from mentioning this fact to her companion; but now shade buckheath stepped out to join johnnie, and instantly lydia turned and motioned stoddard to her. "look there," she whispered. "don't they make a perfect couple? you and i may do what we choose about cultivating the girl's mind--she'll marry a man of her own class, and there it will end." "why should you say that?" asked stoddard abruptly. "those two do not belong to the same class. they--" "oh, mr. stoddard! they grew up side by side; they went to school together, and i imagine were sweethearts long before they came to cottonville." "do you think that makes them of the same class?" asked stoddard impatiently. "i should say the presumption was still greater the other way. i was not alluding to social classes." "you're so odd," murmured lydia sessions. "these mountaineers are all alike." * * * * * the village road was a smother of white dust; the weeds beside it drooped powdered heads; evil odours reeked through the little place; but when shade and johnnie had passed its confines, the air from the mountains greeted them sweetly; the dusty white road gave place to springy leaf-mould, mixed with tiny, sharp stones. a young moon rode low in the west. the tank-a-tank of cowbells sounded from homing animals. up in the dusky gap, whip-poor-wills were beginning to call. "i'm glad i came," said johnnie, pushing the hair off her hot forehead. she was speaking to herself, aware that buckheath paid little attention, but walked in silence a step ahead, twisting a little branch of sassafras in his fingers. the spicy odour of the bark was afterward associated in johnnie's mind with what he had then to say. "johnnie," he began, facing around and barring her way, when they were finally alone together between the trees, "do you remember the last time you and me was on this piece of road here--do you?" he had intended to remind her of the evening she came to cottonville: but instead, recollection built for her once more the picture of that slope bathed in sabbath sunshine. there was the fork where the hardwick carriage had turned off; to this side went shade and his fellows, with mandy and the girls following; and down the middle of the road she herself came, seated in the car beside stoddard. for a moment memory choked and blinded johnnie. she could neither see the path before them, nor find the voice to answer her questioner. the bleak pathos of her situation came home to her, and tears of rare self-pity filled her eyes. why was it a disgrace that stoddard should treat her kindly? why must she be ashamed of her feeling for him? shade's voice broke in harshly. "do you remember? you ain't forgot, have you? ever since that time i've intended to speak to you--to tell you--" "well, you needn't do it," she interrupted him passionately. "i won't hear a word against mr. stoddard, if that's what you're aiming at." buckheath fell back a pace and stared with angry eyes. "stoddard--gray stoddard?" he repeated. "what's a swell like that got to do with you and me, johnnie consadine? you want to let gray stoddard and his kind alone--yes, and make them let you alone, if you and me are going to marry." it was johnnie's turn to stare. "if we're going to marry!" she echoed blankly--"going to marry!" the girl had had her lovers. despite hard work and the stigma of belonging to the borrowing passmore family, johnnie had commanded the homage of more than one heart. she was not without a healthy young woman's relish for this sort of admiration; but shade buckheath's proposal came with so little grace, in such almost sinister form, that she scarcely recognized it. "yes, if we're going to wed," reiterated buckheath sullenly. "i'm willin' to have you." johnnie's tense, almost tragic manner relaxed. she laughed suddenly. "i didn't know you was joking, shade," she said good-humouredly. "i took you to be in earnest. you'll have to excuse me." "i am in earnest," buckheath told her, almost fiercely. "i reckon i'm a fool; but i want you. any day"--he spoke with a curious, half-savage reluctance--"any day you'll say the word, i'll take you." his eyes, like his voice, were resentful, yet eager. he took off his hat and wiped the perspiration from his brow, looking away from her now, toward the road by which they had climbed. johnnie regarded him through her thick eyelashes, the smile still lingering bright in her eyes. after all, it was only a rather unusual kind of sweethearting, and not a case of it to touch her feelings. "i'm mighty sorry," she said soberly, "but i ain't aimin' to wed any man, fixed like i am. mother and the children have to be looked after, and i can't ask a man to do for 'em, so i have it to do myself." "of course i can't take your mother and the children," buckheath objected querulously, as though she had asked him to do so. "but you i'll take; and you'd do well to think it over. you won't get such a chance soon again, and i'm apt to change my mind if you put on airs with me this way." johnnie shook her head. "i know it's a fine chance, shade," she said in the kindest tone, "but i'm hoping you will change your mind, and that soon; for it's just like i tell you." she turned with evident intention of going back and terminating their interview. buckheath stepped beside her in helpless fury. he knew she would have other, opportunities, and better. he was aware how futile was this threat of withdrawing his proposition. hot, tired, angry, the dust of the way prickling on his face and neck, he was persistently conscious of a letter in the pocket of his striped shirt, over his heavily beating heart, warm and moist like the shirt itself, with the sweat of his body. good lord! that letter which had come from washington this morning informing him that the device this girl had invented was patentable, filled her hands with gold. it was necessary that he should have control of her, and at once. he put from him the knowledge of how her charm wrought upon him--bound him the faster every time he spoke to her. cold, calculating, sluggishly selfish, he had not reckoned with her radiant personality, nor had the instinct to know that, approached closely, it must inevitably light in him unwelcome and inextinguishable fires. "johnnie," he said finally, "you ain't saying no to me, are you? you take time to think it over--but not so very long--i'll name it to you again." "please don't, shade," remonstrated the girl, walking on fast, despite the oppressive heat of the evening. "i wish you wouldn't speak of it to me any more; and i can't go walking with you this way. i have obliged to help aunt mavity; and every minute of time i get from that, and my work, i'm putting in on my books and reading." she stepped ahead of him now, and buckheath regarded her back with sullen, sombre eyes. what was he to do? how come nearer her when she thus held herself aloof? "johnnie consadine!" the girl checked her steps a bit at a new sound in his voice. "i'll tell you just one thing, and you'd better never forget it, neither. i ain't no fool. i know mighty well an' good your reason for treating me this-a-way. your reason's got a name. hit's called mr. gray stoddard. you behave yo'self an' listen to reason, or i'll get even with him for it. damn him--i'll fix him!" chapter x the sandals of joy "come in here, johnnie," mavity bence called one day, as johnnie was passing a strange little cluttered cubbyhole under the garret stairs and out over the roof of the lean-to kitchen. it was a hybrid apartment, between a large closet and a small room; one four-paned window gave scant light and ventilation; all the broken or disused plunder about the house was pitched into it, and in the middle sat a tumbled bed. it was the woman's sleeping place and her dead daughter had shared it with her during her lifetime. johnnie stopped at the door with a hand on each side of its frame. "reddin' up things, aunt mavity?" she asked, adding, "if i had time i'd come in and help you." "i was just puttin' away what i've got left that belonged to lou," said the woman, sitting suddenly down on the bed and gazing up into the bright face above her with a sort of appeal. johnnie noticed then that mrs. bence had a pair of cheap slippers in her lap. it came back vividly to the girl how the newspapers had said that louvania bence had taken off her slippers and left them on the bridge, that she might climb the netting more easily to throw herself into the water. the mother stared down at these, dry-eyed. "she never had 'em on but the once," mavity bence breathed. "and i--and i r'ared out on her for buyin' of 'em. i said that with pap so old and all, we hadn't money to spend for slippers. lord god!"--she shivered--"we had to find money for the undertaker, when he come to lay her out." she turned to johnnie feverishly, like a thing that writhes on the rack and seeks an easier position. "i had the best for her then--i jest would do it--there was white shoes and stockin's, and a reg'lar shroud like they make at watauga; we never put a stitch on her that she'd wore--hit was all new-bought. for once i said my say to pap, and made him take money out of the bank to do it. he's got some in thar for to bury all of us--he says--but he never wanted to use any of it for lou." johnnie came in and sat down on the bed beside her hostess. she laid a loving hand over mavity's that held the slippers. "what pretty little feet she must have had," she said softly. "didn't she?" echoed the mother, with a tremulous half-smile. "i couldn't more'n get these here on my hand, but they was a loose fit for her. they're as good as new. johnnie, ef you ever get a invite to a dance i'll lend 'em to you. hit'd pleasure me to think some gal's feet was dancin' in them thar slippers. lou, she never learned to dance--looked like she could never find time." louvania, be it remembered had found time in which to die. so johnnie thanked poor mavity, and hurried away, because the warning whistle was blowing. the very next wednesday miss sessions gave a dance to the members of her uplift club. these gaieties were rather singular and ingenious affairs, sterilized dances, mrs. hexter irreverently dubbed them. miss lydia did not invite the young men employed about the mill, not having as yet undertaken their uplifting; and feeling quite inadequate to cope with the relations between them and the mill girls, which would be something vital and genuine, and as such, quite foreign--if not inimical--to her enterprise. she contented herself with bringing in a few well-trained young males of her own class, who were expected to be attentive to the girls, treating them as equals, just as miss lydia did. for the rest, the members were encouraged to dance with each other, and find such joy as they might in the supper, and the fact that miss sessions paid for a half-day's work for them on the morrow, that they might lie late in bed after a night's pleasuring. johnnie consadine had begun to earn money in such quantities as seemed to her economic experience extremely large. she paid her board, sent a little home to her mother, and had still wherewith to buy a frock for the dance. she treated herself to a trolley ride in to watauga to select this dress, going on the saturday half-holiday which the mills gave their workers, lest the labour laws regulating the hours per week which women and children may be employed be infringed upon. there was grave debate in johnnie's mind as to what she should buy. colours would fade--in cheap goods, anyhow--white soiled easily. "but then i could wash and iron it myself any evening i wanted to wear it," she argued to mandy meacham, who accompanied her. "i'd be proud to do it for you," returned mandy, loyally. ordinarily the meacham woman was selfish; but having found an object upon which she could centre her thin, watery affections, she proceeded to be selfish for johnnie instead of toward her, a spiritual juggle which some mothers perform in regard to their children. the store reached, johnnie showed good judgment in her choice. there was a great sale on at the biggest shopping place in watauga, and the ready-made summer wear was to be had at bargain rates. not for her were the flaring, coarse, scant garments whose lack of seemliness was supposed to be atoned for by a profusion of cheap, sleazy trimming. after long and somewhat painful inspection, since most of the things she wanted were hopelessly beyond her, johnnie carried home a fairly fine white lawn, simply tucked, and fitting to perfection. "but you've got a shape that sets off anything," said the saleswoman, carelessly dealing out the compliments she kept in stock with her goods for purchasers. "you're mighty right she has," rejoined mandy, sharply, as who should say, "my back is not a true expression of my desires concerning backs. look at this other--she has the spine of my dreams." the saleswoman chewed gum while they waited for change and parcel, and in the interval she had time to inspect johnnie more closely. "working in the cotton mill, are you?" she asked as she sorted up her stock, jingling the bracelets on her wrists, and patting into shape her big, frizzy pompadour. "that's awful hard work, ain't it? i should think a girl like you would try for a place in a store. i'll bet you could get one," she added encouragingly, as she handed the parcel across the counter. but already johnnie knew that the spurious elegance of this young person's appearance was not what she wished to emulate. the night of the dance johnnie adjusted her costume with the nice skill and care which seem native to so many of the daughters of america. mandy, dressing at the same bureau, scraggled the parting of her own hair, furtively watching the deft arranging of johnnie's. "let me do it for you, and part it straight," johnnie remonstrated. "aw, hit'll never be seen on a gallopin' hoss," returned mandy carelessly. "everybody'll be so tuck up a-watchin' you that they won't have time to notice is my hair parted straight, nohow." "but you're not a galloping horse," objected johnnie, laughing and clutching the comb away from her. "you've got mighty pretty hair, mandy, if you'd give it a chance. why, it's curly! let me do it up right for you once." so the thin, graying ringlets were loosened around the meagre forehead, and indeed mandy's appearance was considerably ameliorated. "there--isn't that nice?" inquired johnnie, turning her companion around to the glass and forcing her to gaze in it--a thing mandy always instinctively avoided. "i reckon i've looked worse," agreed the tall woman unenthusiastically; "but miss lyddy ain't carin' to have ye fix up much. i get sort of feisty and want to dav-il her by makin' you look pretty. wish't you would wear that breas'-pin o' mine, an' them rings an' beads i borried from lizzie for ye. you might just as well, and then nobody'd know you from one o' the swells." johnnie shook her fair head decidedly. talk of borrowing things brought a reminiscent flush to her cheek. "i'm just as much obliged," she said sweetly. "i'll wear nothing but what's my own. after a while i'll be able to afford jewellery, and that'll be the time for me to put it on." presently came mavity bence bringing the treasured footwear. "i expect they'll be a little tight for me," johnnie remarked somewhat doubtfully; the slippers, though cheap, ill-cut things, looked so much smaller than her heavy, country-made shoes. but they went readily upon the arched feet of the mountain girl, mandy and the poor mother looking on with deep interest. "i wish't lou was here to see you in 'em," whispered mavity bence. "she wouldn't grudge 'em to you one minute. lord, how pretty you do look, johnnie consadine! you're as sightly as that thar big wax doll down at the company store. i wish't lou _could_ see you." the dance was being given in the big hall above a store, which miss lydia hired for these functions of her uplift club. the room was half-heartedly decorated in a hybrid fashion. miss lydia had sent down a rose-bowl of flowers; and the girls, being encouraged to use their own taste, put up some flags left over from last fourth of july. when johnnie and mandy meacham--strangely assorted pair--entered the long room, festivities were already in progress; negro fiddlers were reeling off dance music, and miss lydia was trying to teach some of her club members the two-step. her younger brother, hartley sessions, was gravely piloting a girl down the room in what was supposed to be that popular dance, and two young men from watauga, for whom he had vouched, stood ready for miss sessions to furnish them with partners, when she should have encouraged her learners sufficiently to make the attempt. round the walls sat the other girls, and to johnnie's memory came those words of mandy's, "you dance--if you can." johnnie consadine certainly could dance. many a time back in the mountains she had walked five miles after a hard day's work to get to a dance that some one of her mates was giving, tramping home in the dawn and doing without sleep for that twenty-four hours. the music seemed somehow to get into her muscles, so that she swayed and moved exactly in time to it. "that's the two-step," she murmured to her partner. "i never tried it, but i've seen 'em dance it at the hotel down at chalybeate springs. i can waltz a little; but i love an old-fashioned quadrille the best--it seems more friendly." gray stoddard was talking to an older woman who had come with her daughter--a thin-bodied, deep-eyed woman of forty, perhaps, with a half-sad, tolerant smile, and slow, racy speech. a sudden touch on his shoulder roused him, as one of the young men from town leaned over and asked him excitedly: "who's that girl down at the other end of the room, gray?--the stunning blonde that just came in? she's got one of the mill girls with her." gray looked, and laughed a little. somehow the adjectives applied to johnnie did not please him. "both of them work in the mill," he said briefly. "the one you mean is johnnie consadine. she's a remarkable girl in more ways than merely in appearance." "well, take me down there and give me an introduction," urged the youth from watauga, in a tone of animation which was barred from uplift affairs. "all right," agreed gray, getting to his feet with a twinkle in his eye. "i suppose you want to meet the tall one. i've got an engagement for the first dance with miss consadine myself." "say," ejaculated the other, drawing back, "that isn't fair. miss sessions," he appealed to their hostess as umpire. "here's gray got the belle of the ball mortgaged for all her dances, and won't even give me an introduction. you do the square thing by me, won't you?" lydia sessions had got her neophites safely launched, and they were making a more or less tempestuous progress across the floor. she turned to the two young men a flushed, smiling countenance. in the tempered light and the extremely favouring costume of the hour, she looked almost pretty. "what is it?" she asked graciously. "the belle of the ball? i don't know quite who that is. oh!" with a slight drop in her tone and the temperature of her expression; "do you mean john consadine? really, how well she is looking to-night!" "isn't she!" blundered the watauga man with ill-timed enthusiasm. "i call her a regular beauty, and such an interesting-looking creature. what is she trying to do? good lord, she's going to attempt the two-step with that eiffel tower she brought along!" these frivolous remarks, suited well enough to the ordinary ballroom, did not please miss lydia for an uplift dance. "the girl with john is one in whom i take a very deep interest," she said with a touch of primness. "john consadine is young, and exceptionally strong and healthy. but amanda meacham has--er--disabilities and afflictions that make it difficult for her to get along. she is a very worthy case." the young man from watauga, who had not regarded johnnie as a case at all, but had considered her purely as an exceptionally attractive young woman, looked a trifle bewildered. then gray took his arm and led him across to where the attempt at two-stepping had broken up in laughing disorder. with that absolutely natural manner which miss sessions could never quite achieve, good as her intentions were, he performed the introduction, and then said pleasantly: "mr. baker wants to ask you to dance, miss johnnie. i'll carry on miss amanda's teaching, or we'll sit down here and talk if she'd rather." "no more two-steppin' for me," agreed miss meacham, seating herself decidedly. "i'll take my steps one at a time from this on. i'd rather watch johnnie dance, anyhow; but she would have me try for myself." johnnie and the young fellow from watauga were off now. they halted once or twice, evidently for some further instructions, as johnnie got the step and time, and then moved away smoothly. gray took the seat beside mandy. "ain't she a wonder?" inquired the big woman, staring fondly after the fluttering white skirts. "she is indeed," agreed gray quietly. and then, mandy being thus launched on the congenial theme--the one theme upon which she was ever loquacious--out came the story of the purchase of the dress, the compliments of the saleswoman, the refusal of the borrowed jewellery. "johnnie's quare--she is that--i'll never deny it; but i cain't no more help likin' her than as if she was my own born sister." "that's because she is fond of you, too," suggested gray, thinking of the girl's laborious attempts to teach poor mandy to dance. "do you reckon she is?" asked the tall woman, flushing. "looks like johnnie consadine loves every livin' thing on the top side of this earth. i ain't never seen the human yet that she ain't got a good word for. but i don't know as she cares 'specially 'bout _me_." stoddard could not refuse the assurance for which mandy so naively angled. "you wouldn't be so fond of her if she wasn't fond of you," he asserted confidently. "mebbe i wouldn't," mandy debated; "but i don't know. let johnnie put them two eyes o' hern on you, and laugh in your face, and you feel just like you'd follow her to the ends of the earth--or i know i do. why, she done up my hair this evening and"--the voice sank to a half-shamed whisper--"she said it was pretty." gray turned and looked into the flushed, tremulous face beside him with a sudden tightening in his throat. how cruel humanity is when it beholds only the grotesque in the mandys of this world. her hair was pretty--and johnnie had the eyes of love to see it. he stared down the long, lighted room with unseeing gaze. old andrew macpherson's counsel that he let johnnie consadine alone appealed to him at that moment as cruel good sense. he was recalled from his musings by mandy's voice. "oh, look thar!" whispered his companion excitedly. "the other town feller has asked for a knock-down to johnnie, too. look at him passin' his bows with her just like she was one of the swells!" stoddard looked. charlie conroy was relieving baker of his partner. johnnie had evidently been asked if she was tired, for they saw her laughingly shake her head, and the new couple finished what was left of the two-step and seated themselves a moment at the other side of the room to wait for the next dance to begin. "these affairs are great fun, aren't they?" inquired conroy, fanning his late partner vigorously. "i love to dance better than anything else in the world, i believe," returned johnnie dreamily. "oh, a dance--i should suppose so. you move as though you enjoyed it; but i mean a performance like this. the girls are great fun, don't you think? but then you wouldn't get quite our point of view on that." he glanced again at her dress; it was plain and simple, but good style and becoming. she wore no jewellery, but lots of girls were rather affecting that now, especially the athletic type to which this young beauty seemed to belong. surely he was not mistaken in guessing her to be one of miss sessions's friends. of course he was not. she had dressed herself in this simple fashion for a mill-girl's dance, that she might not embarrass the working people who attended. yes, by george! that was it, and it was a long ways-better taste than the frocks miss sessions and mrs. hexter were wearing. johnnie considered his last remark, her gaze still following the movements of the negro fiddler at the head of the room. understanding him to mean that, being a mill-hand herself, she could not get a detached view of the matter, and thus see the humour of this attempt to make society women of working-girls, johnnie was yet not affronted. her clear eyes came back from watching uncle zeke's manoeuvres and looked frankly into the eyes of the man beside her. "i reckon we are right funny," she assented. "but of course, as you say, i wouldn't see that as quick as you would. sometimes i have to laugh a little at mandy--the girl i was dancing with first this evening --but--but she's so good-natured it never hurts her feelings. i don't mind being laughed at myself, either." "laughed at--you?" inquired conroy, throwing an immense amount of expression into his glance. he was rather a lady's man, and fancied he had made pretty fair headway with this beautiful girl whom he still supposed to be of the circle of factory owners. "oh, you mean your work among the mill girls here. "indeed, i should not laugh at that. i think it's noble for those more fortunate to stretch a hand to help their brothers and sisters that haven't so good a chance. that's what brought me over here to-night. gray stoddard explained the plan to me. he doesn't seem to think much of it--but then, gray's a socialist at heart, and you know those socialists never believe in organized charity. i tell him he's an anarchist." "mr. stoddard is a mighty good man," agreed johnnie with sudden pensiveness. "they've all been mighty good to me ever since i've been here; but i believe mr. stoddard has done more for me than any one else. he not only lends me books, but he takes time to explain things to me." conroy smiled covertly at the simplicity of this young beauty. he debated in his mind whether indeed it was not an affected simplicity. of course gray was devoting himself to her and lending her books; of course he would be glad to assume the position of mentor to a girl who bade fair to be such a pronounced social success, and who was herself so charming. "how long have you been in cottonville, miss consadine?" he asked. "do tell me who you are visiting--or are you visiting here?" "oh, no," johnnie corrected him. "i believe you haven't understood from the first that i'm one of the mill girls. i board at--well, everybody calls it pap himes's boarding-house." there was a moment's silence; but conroy managed not to look quite as deeply surprised as he felt. "i--of course i knew it," he began at length, after having sorted and discarded half a dozen explanations. "there--why, there's our dance!" and he stood up in relief, as the fiddlers began on an old-fashioned quadrille. johnnie responded with alacrity, not aware of having either risen or fallen in her companion's estimation. she danced through the set with smiling enjoyment, prompting her partner, who knew only modern dances. on his part conroy studied her covertly, trying to adjust his slow mind to this astonishing new state of things, and to decide what a man's proper attitude might be toward such a girl. in the end he found himself with no conclusion. "they say they're going to try a plain waltz," he began as he led her back to a seat. he hesitated, glanced about him, and finally placed himself uneasily in the chair beside her. good lord! the situation was impossible. what should he say if anybody--gray stoddard, for instance--chaffed him about being smitten in this quarter? "a waltz?" echoed johnnie helpfully when he did not go on. "i believe i could dance that--i tried it once." "then you'll dance it with me?" conroy found himself saying, baldly, awkwardly, but unable, for the life of him, to keep the eagerness out of his voice. upon the instant the music struck up. the two rose and made ready for the dance; conroy placing johnnie in waltzing position, and instructing her solicitously. gray stoddard looking on, was amazed at the naïf simple jealousy that swept over him at the sight. she had danced with conroy twice already--he ought to be more considerate than to bring the girl into notice that way--a chump like charlie conroy, what would he understand of such a nature as johnnie consadine's? before he fully realized his own intentions, he had paused in front of the two and was speaking. "i think miss johnnie promised me a dance this evening. i'll have to go back to the office in twenty minutes, and--i hate to interrupt you, but i guess i'll have to claim my own." he became suddenly aware that conroy was signalling him across johnnie's unconscious head with masonic twistings of the features. stoddard met these recklessly inconsiderate grimacings with an impassive stare, then looked away. "i want to see you before you go," the man from watauga remarked, as he reluctantly resigned his partner. "don't you forget that there's a waltz coming to me, miss johnnie. i'm going to have it, if we make the band play special for us alone." lydia sessions, passing on the arm of young baker, glanced at johnnie, star-eyed, pink-cheeked and smiling, with a pair of tall cavaliers contending for her favours, and sucked her lips in to that thin, sharp line of reprobation johnnie knew so well. dismissing her escort graciously, she hurried to the little supper room and found another member of the committee. "come here, mrs. hexter. just look at that, will you?" she called attention in a carefully suppressed, but fairly tragic tone, to stoddard and johnnie dancing together, the only couple on the floor. "none of the girls know how to waltz. i am not sure that it would be suitable if they did. when i came past, just now, there were two of the men--two--talking to john consadine, and they were all three laughing. i can't think how it is that girls of that sort manage to stir things up so and get all the men around them." "neither can i," said mrs. hexter wickedly. "if i did know how, i believe i'd do it sometimes myself. what is it you want of me, miss sessions? i must run back and see to supper, if you don't need me." "but i do," fretted lydia. "i want your help. this waltzing and--and such things--ought to be stopped." "all right," rejoined practical mrs. hexter. "the quickest way to do it is to stop the music." she had meant the speech as a jeer, but literal-minded lydia sessions welcomed its suggestion. hurrying down the long room, she spoke to the leader of their small orchestra. the negro raised to her a brown face full of astonishment. his fiddle-bow faltered--stopped. he turned to his two fellows and gave hasty directions. the waltz measure died away, and a quadrille was announced. "that was too bad," said stoddard as they came to a halt; "you were just getting the step beautifully." the girl flashed a swift, sweet look up at him. "i do love to dance," she breathed. "john, would you be so kind as to come and help in the supper room," miss sessions's hasty tones broke in. she was leaning on charlie conroy's arm, and when she departed to hide johnnie safely away in the depths of their impromptu kitchen, it left the two men alone together. conroy promptly fastened upon the other. charlie conroy was a young man who had made up his mind to get on socially. such figures are rarer in america than in the old world. yet charlie conroy with his petty ambitions does not stand entirely alone. he seriously regarded marriage as a stepping-stone to a circle which should include "the best people." that this term did not indicate the noblest or most selfless, need hardly be explained. it meant only that bit of froth which in each community rides high on the top of the cup, and which, in watauga, was augmented by the mill owners of its suburb of cottonville. conroy had been grateful for the opportunity to make an entry into this circle by means of assisting miss sessions in her charitable work. that lady herself, as sister-in-law of jerome hardwick and a descendant of an excellent new england family, he regarded with absolute veneration, quite too serious and profound for anything so assured as mere admiration. "i tried to warn you," he began: "but you were bound to get stung." "i beg your pardon?" returned stoddard in that civil, colourless interrogation which should always check over-familiar speech, even from the dullest. but conroy was not sensitive. "that big red-headed girl, you know," he said, leaning close and speaking in a confidential tone. "i mistook her for a lady. i was going my full length--telling her what fun the mill girls were, and trying to do the agreeable--when i found out." "found out what?" inquired stoddard. "that she was not a lady?" "aw, come off," laughed conroy. "you make a joke of everything." "i knew that she was a weaver in the mill," said stoddard quietly. conroy glanced half wistfully over his shoulder in the direction where johnnie had vanished. "she's a good-looker all right," he said thoughtfully. "and smile--when that girl smiles and turns those eyes on you--by george! if she was taken to new york and put through one of those finishing schools she'd make a sensation in the swagger set." stoddard nodded gravely. he had not conroy's faith in the fashionable finishing school; but what he lacked there, he made up in conviction as to johnnie's deserts and abilities. "there she comes now," said conroy, as the door swung open to admit a couple of girls with trays of coffee cups. "she walks mighty well. i wonder where a girl like that learned to carry herself so finely. by george, she _is_ a good-looker! she's got 'em all beaten; if she was only--. queer about the accidents of birth, isn't it? now, what would you say, in her heredity, makes a common girl like that step and look like a queen?" gray stoddard's face relaxed. a hint of his quizzical, inscrutable smile was upon it as he answered. "nature doesn't make mistakes. i don't call johnnie consadine a common girl--it strikes me that she is rather uncommon." and outside, a young fellow in the sunday suit of a workingman was walking up and down, staring at the lighted windows, catching a glimpse now and again of one girl or another, and cursing under his breath when he saw johnnie consadine. "wouldn't go with me to the dance at watauga--oh no! but she ain't too tired to dance with the swells!" he muttered to the darkness. "and i can't get a word nor a look out of her. lord, i don't know what some women think!" chapter xi the new boarder pap himes was sitting on the front gallery, dozing in the westering sunshine. on his lap the big, yellow cat purred and blinked with a grotesque resemblance in colouring and expression to his master. it was sunday afternoon, when the toilers were all out of the mills, and most of them lying on their beds or gone in to watauga. the village seemed curiously silent and deserted. through the lazy smoke from his cob pipe pap noticed shade buckheath emerge from the store and start up the street. he paid no more attention till the young man's voice at the porch edge roused him from his half-somnolence. "evenin', pap," said the newcomer. "good evenin' yourself," returned himes with unusual cordiality. he liked men, particularly young, vigorous, masterful men. "come in, buck, an' set a spell. rest your hat--rest your hat." it was always pap's custom to call shade by the first syllable of his second name. buck is a common by-name for boys in the mountains, and it could not be guessed whether the old man used it as a diminutive of the surname, or whether he meant merely to nickname this favourite of his. shade threw himself on the upper step of the porch and searched in his pockets for tobacco. "room for another boarder?" he asked laconically. the old man nodded. "i reckon there's always room, ef it's asked for," he returned. "hit's the one way i got to make me a livin', with louvany dyin' off and mavity puny like she is. i have obliged to keep the house full, or we'd see the bottom of the meal sack." "all right," agreed buckheath, rising, and treating the matter as terminated. "i'll move my things in a-monday." "hold on thar--hold on, young feller," objected pap, as shade turned away. it was against all reasonable mountain precedent to trade so quickly; but indeed shade had merely done so with a view to forcing through what he well knew to be a doubtful proposition. "i'm a-holding on," he observed gruffly at last, as the other continued to blink at him with red eyes and say nothing. "what's the matter with what i said? you told me you had room for another boarder and i named it that i was comin' to board at your house. have you got any objections?" "well, yes, i have," himes opened up ponderously. "you set yourself down on that thar step and we'll have this here thing out. my boardin'-house is for gals. i fixed it so when i come here. there ain't scarcely a rowdy feller in cottonville that hain't at one time or another had the notion he'd board with pap himes; but i've always kep' a respectable house, and i always aim to, i am a old man, and i bear a good name, and i'm the only man in this house, and i aim to stay so. now, sir, there's my flatform; and you may take it or leave it." buckheath glanced angrily and contemptuously into the stupid, fatuous countenance above him; he appeared to curb with some difficulty the disposition to retort in kind. instead, he returned, sarcastically: "the fellers around town say you won't keep anything but gals because nothin' but gals would put up with your hectorin' 'em, and crowdin' ten in a room that was intended for four. that's what folks say; but i've got a reason to want to board with you, pap, and i'll pay regular prices and take what you give me." himes looked a little astonished; then an expression of distrust stole over his broad, flat face. "what's bringin' you here?" he asked bluntly. "johnnie consadine," returned shade, without evasion or preamble. "before i left the mountains, johnnie an' me was aimin' to wed. now she's got down here, and doin' better than ever she hoped to, and i cain't get within hand-reach of her." "ye cain't?" inquired pap scornfully. "why anybody could marry that gal that wanted to. but lord! anybody can marry _any_ gal, if he's got the sense he was born with." "all right," repeated shade grimly. "i come to you to know could i get board, not to ask advice. i aim to marry johnnie consadine, and i know my own business--air you goin' to board me?" the old man turned this speech in his mind for some time. "curious," he muttered to himself, "how these here young fellers will get petted on some special gal and break their necks to have her." "shut up--will you?" ejaculated buckheath, so suddenly and fiercely that the old man fairly jumped, rousing the yellow cat to remonstrative squirmings. "i tell you i know my business, and i ask no advice of you--will you board me?" "i cain't do it, buck," returned himes definitely. "i ain't got such a room to give you by yourself as you'd be willin' to take up with; and nobody comes into my room. but i'll tell you what i'll do for you--i'll meal you, ef that will help your case any. i'll meal you for two dollars a week, and throw in a good word with johnnie." buckheath received the conclusion of this speech with a grin. "i reckon your good word 'd have a lot to do with johnnie consadine," he said ironically, as he picked up his hat from the floor. "uh-huh," nodded pap. "she sets a heap of store by what i say. all of 'em does; but johnnie in particular. i don't know but what you're about right. ain't no sense in bein' all tore up concernin' any gal or woman; but i believe if i was pickin' out a good worker that would earn her way, i'd as soon pick out johnnie consadine as any of 'em." and having thus paid his ultimate compliment to johnnie, himes relapsed into intermittent slumber as shade moved away down the squalid, dusty street under the fierce july sun. johnnie greeted the new boarder with a reserve which was in marked contrast to the reception he got from the other girls. shade buckheath was a handsome, compelling fellow, and a good match; this adamless eden regarded him as a rival in glory even to pap himself. when supper was over on the first night of his arrival, shade walked out on the porch and seated himself on the steps. the girls disposed themselves at a little distance--your mountain-bred young female is ever obviously shy, almost to prudery. "whar's johnnie consadine?" asked the newcomer lazily, disposing himself with his back against a post and his long legs stretched across the upper step. "settin' in thar, readin' a book," replied beulah catlett curtly. beulah was but fourteen, and she belonged to the newer dispensation which speaks up more boldly to the masculine half of creation. "johnnie! johnnie consadine!" she called through the casement. "here's mr. buckheath, wishful of your company. better come out." "i will, after a while," returned johnnie absently. "i've got to help aunt mavity some, and then i'll be there." "hit's a sight, the books that gal does read," complained beulah. "looks like a body might get enough stayin' in the house by workin' in a cotton mill, without humpin' theirselves up over a book all evenin'." "mr. stoddard lends 'em to her," announced mandy importantly. "he used to give 'em to miss lyddy sessions, and she'd give 'em to johnnie; but now when miss lyddy's away, he'll bring one down to the mill about every so often, and him an' johnnie'll stand and gas and talk over what's in 'em--i cain't understand one word they say. i tell you johnnie consadine's got sense." her pride in johnnie made her miss the look of rage that settled on buckheath's face at her announcement. the young fellow was glad when pap himes began to speak growlingly. "yes, an' if she was my gal i'd talk to her with a hickory about that there business. a gal that ain't too old to carry on that-a-way ain't too old to take a whippin' for it. huh!" for her own self mandy would have been thoroughly scared by this attack; in johnnie's defence she rustled her feathers like an old hen whose one chick has been menaced. "johnnie consadine is the prettiest-behaved gal i ever seen," she announced shrilly. "she ain't never said nor done the least thing that she hadn't ort. mr. stoddard he just sees how awful smart she is, and he loves to lend her books and talk with her about 'em afterward. for my part i ain't never seen look nor motion about mr. gray stoddard that wasn't such as a gentleman ort to be. i know he never said nothin' he ort not to _me_." the suggestion of stoddard's making advances of unseemly warmth to mandy meacham produced a subdued snicker. even pap smiled, and mandy herself, who had been looking a bit terrified after her bold speaking, was reassured. buckheath had been a week at the himes boarding-house, finding it not unpleasant to show johnnie consadine how many of the girls regarded him with favour, whether she did or not, when he came to supper one evening with a gleam in his eye that spoke evil for some one. after the meal was over, he followed pap out on the porch and sat down beside the old man, the girls being bunched expectantly on the step, for he was apt to delay for a bit of chat with one or another of them before leaving. "you infernal old rascal, i've caught up with you," he whispered, leaning close to his host. himes clutched the pipe in his teeth till it clicked, and stared in helpless resentment at his mealer. "what's the matter with you?" he demanded. "speak lower, so the gals won't hear you, or you'll wish you had," counselled shade. "i sent that there thing on to washington to get a patent on it, and now i find that they was a model of the same there in the name of gideon himes. what do you make of that?" pap stared at the thin strips of metal lying in shade's hard, brown palm. "the little liar!" he breathed. "she told me she got it up herself." he glared at the bits of steel with protruding eyes, and breathed hard. "well, she didn't," shade countered swiftly, taking advantage of the turn things were showing. "i made six of 'em; and when i told her to bring 'em back and i'd give her some that would wear better, she only brought me five. she said she'd lost one here at home, she believed. i might have knowed then that you'd get your claws on it ef i wasn't mighty peart." old gideon was not listening; he had fallen into a brown study, turning the piece of metal in his skilful, wonted, knotty fingers, with their spade tips. "put it out of sight--quick--here she comes!" whispered shade; and the old man looked up to see johnnie consadine in the doorway. a grin of triumph grew slowly upon his face, as he gazed from one to the other. "she did get it up!" he returned in buckheath's face. "you liar! you're a-aimin' to steal it from her. you filed out the pieces like she told you to, and when you found it would work, you tried to get a patent on it for yo'se'f. yes, sir, i'm onto _you!_" shade looked over his shoulder. the girls had forsaken the steps. despairing of his coming, they were strolling two-and-two after johnnie on the sidewalk. "it's you and me for it, pap," he said hardily. "what was _you_ tryin' to do? was you gettin' the patent for johnnie? shall i call her up here and ask her?" "no, no," exclaimed the old man hastily. "they ain't no use of puttin' sich things in a fool gal's hands. she never heard of a patent--wouldn't know one from a hole in the ground. hit's like you say, buck--you and me for it." the two men rose and stood a moment, shade smiling a bit to think what he would do with pap himes and his claim if he could only once get johnnie to say yes to his suit. the thick wits of the elder man apparently realized this feature of the matter not at all. "why that thar girl is crazy to get married," he argued, half angrily. "you know in reason she is--they all are. the fust night when you brung her here i named it to her that she was pretty well along in years, and she'd better be spry about gettin' her hooks on a man, or she was left. she said she'd do the best she could--i never heered a gal speak up pearter--most of 'em would be 'shamed to name it out so free. why, if it was me, i'd walk her down to a justice's office an' wed her so quick her head'd swim. "who's that talking about getting married?" called johnnie's voice from the street, and johnnie herself ran up the steps. "hit was me," harangued pap himes doggedly. "i was tellin' shade how bad you wanted to git off, and that i 'lowed you'd be a good bargain for him." he looked hopefully from one to the other, as though he expected to see his advice accepted and put into immediate practice. johnnie laughed whole-heartedly. "pap," she said with shining eyes, "if you get me a husband, i'll have to give you a commission on it. looks like i can't noways get one for myself, don't it?" she passed into the house, and shade regarded his ally in helpless anger. "that's the way she talks, here lately," he growled, "seems like it would be easy enough to come to something; and by the lord, it would, with any other gal i ever seed--or with johnnie like she was when she first came down here! but these days and times she's got a way of puttin' me off that i can't seem to get around." neither man quite understood the power of that mental culture which johnnie was assimilating so avidly. that reading things in a book should enable her--a child, a girl, a helpless woman--to negative their wishes smilingly, this would have been a thing quite outside the comprehension of either. "aunt mavity wants me to go down to the store for her," johnnie announced, returning. "any of you girls like to come along?" mandy had parted her lips to accept the general invitation, when shade buckheath rose to his feet and announced curtly, "i'll go with you." his glance added that nobody else was wanted, and mandy subsided into a seat on the steps and watched the two walk away side by side. "looks like you ain't just so awful pleased to have me boardin' with pap," shade began truculently, when it appeared that the girl was not going to open any conversation with him. "maybe you wasn't a-carin' for my company down street this evenin'." "no," said johnnie, bluntly but very quietly. "i wish you hadn't come to the house to board. i have told you to let me alone." shade laughed, an exasperated, mirthless laugh. "you know well enough what made me do it," he said sullenly. "if you don't want me to board with pap himes you can stop it any day you say the word. you promise to wed me, and i'll go back to the inn. the lord knows they feed you better thar, and i believe in my soul the gals at pap himes's will run me crazy. but as long as you hang off the way you do about our marryin', and i git word of you carryin' on with other folks, i'm goin' to stay where i can watch you." "other folks!" echoed johnnie, colour coming into her cheeks. "shade, there's no use of your quarrelling with me, and i see it's what you're settin' out to do." "yes, other folks--mr. gray stoddard, for instance. i ain't got no auto to take you out ridin' in, but you're a blame sight safer with me than you are with him; and if i was to carry word to your mother or your uncle pros about your doin's they'd say--" "the last word my uncle pros left with ma to give me was that you'd bear watchin', shade buckheath," laughed johnnie, her face breaking up into sweet, sudden mirth at the folly of it all. "you're not aimin' for my good. i don't see what on earth makes you talk like you wanted to marry me." "because i do," said buckheath helplessly. he wondered if the girl did not herself know her own attractions, forgetful that he had not seen them plainly till a man higher placed in the social scale set the cachet of a gentleman's admiration upon them. chapter xii the contents of a bandanna it was a breathless august evening; all day the land had lain humming and quivering beneath the glare of the sun. it seemed that such heat must culminate in a thunder shower. even pap himes had sought the coolest corner of the porch, his pipe put out, as adding too much to the general swelter, and the hot, yellow cat perched at a discreet distance. the old man's dreamy eyes were fixed with a sort of animal content on the winding road that disappeared in the rise of the gap. if was his boast that god almighty never made a day too hot for him, and to the marrow of them his rheumatic bones felt and savoured the comfort of this blistering weather. high up on the road he had noted a small moving speck that appeared and disappeared as the foliage hid it, or gaps in the trees revealed it. it was not yet time for the mill operatives to be out; but as he glanced eagerly in the direction of the buildings, the gates opened and the loom-fixers streamed forth. pap had matters of some importance to discuss with shade buckheath, and he was glad to see the young man's figure come swinging down the street. the two were soon deep in a whispered discussion, their heads bent close together. the little speck far up the road between the trees announced itself to the eye now as a moving figure, walking down toward cottonville. "well, i'll read it again, if you don't believe me," buckheath said impatiently. "all that alabama mill wants is to have me go over there and put this trick on their jennies, and if it works they'll give us a royalty of--well, i'll make the bargain." "or i will," countered pap swiftly. "you?" inquired shade contemptuously. "time they wrote some of the business down and you couldn't read it, whar'd you be, and whar'd our money be?" the moving speck on the road appeared at this time to be the figure of a tall man, walking unsteadily, reeling from side to side of the road, yet approaching the village. "shade," pacified himes, with a truckling manner that the younger man's aggressions were apt to call out in him, "you know i don't mean anything against you, but i believe in my soul i'd ruther sell out the patent. that man in lowell said he'd give twenty thousand dollars if it was proved to work--now didn't he?" "yes, and by the time it's proved to work we'll have made three times that much out of it. there ain't a spinning mill in the country that won't save money by putting in the indicator, and paying us a good royalty on it. if johnnie and me was wedded, i'd go to work to-morrow advertising the thing." "the gal ain't in the mill this afternoon, is she?" asked old himes. "no, she's gone off somewheres with some folks hardwick's sister-in-law has got here. if you want to find her these days, you've got to hunt in some of the swell houses round on the hills." he spoke with bitterness, and pap nodded comprehendingly; the subject was an old one between them. then shade drew from his pocket a letter and prepared to read it once more to the older man. "whar's johnnie?" himes started so violently that he disturbed the equilibrium of his chair and brought the front legs to the floor with a slam, so that he sat staring straight ahead. shade buckheath whirled and saw pros passmore standing at the foot of the steps--the moving speck come to full size. the old man was a wilder-looking figure than usual. he had no hat on, and a bloody cloth bound around his head confined the straggling gray locks quaintly. the face was ghastly, the clothing in tatters, and his hands trembled as they clutched a bandanna evidently full of some small articles that rattled together in his shaking grasp. "good lord--pros! you mighty nigh scared me out of a year's growth," grumbled pap, hitching vainly to throw his chair back into position. "come in. come in. you look like you'd been seein' trouble." "whar's johnnie?" repeated old pros hollowly. it was the younger man who answered this time, with an ugly lift of the lip over his teeth, between a sneer and a snarl. "she's gone gaddin' around with some of her swell friends. she may be home before midnight, an' then again she may not," he said. the old man collapsed on the lower step. "i wish't johnnie was here," he said querulously. "i--" he looked about him confusedly--"i've found her silver mine." at the words the two on the porch became suddenly rigid. then buckheath sprang down the steps, caught passmore under the arm-pits and half led, half dragged him up to a chair, into which he thrust him with little ceremony. he stood before the limp figure, peering into the newcomer's face with eyes of greed and hands that clenched and unclenched themselves automatically. "you've found the silver mine!" he volleyed excitedly. "whose land is it on? have you got options yet? my grandpappy always said they was a silver mine--" "hush!" pap himes's voice hissed across the loud explosive tones. "no need to tell your business to the town. i'll bet pros ain't thought about no options yit. he may need friends to he'p him out on such matters; and here's you and me, buck--god knows he couldn't have better ones." the old man stared about him in a dazed fashion. "i've got my specimens in this here bandanner," he explained quaveringly. "i fell over the ledge, was the way i chanced upon it at the last, and i lay dead for a spell. my head's busted right bad. but the ore specimens, they're right here in the bandanner, and i aimed to give 'em to johnnie--to put 'em right in her lap--the best gal that ever was--and say to her, 'here's your silver mine, honey, that your good-for-nothin' old uncle found for ye; now you can live like a lady!' that's what i aimed to say to johnnie. i didn't aim that nobody else should tetch them samples till she'd saw 'em." himes and buckheath were exchanging glances across the old man's bent, gray head. common humanity would have suggested that they offer him rest or refreshment, but these two were intent only on what the bandanna held. what is it in the thought of wealth from the ground that so intoxicates, so ravishes away from all reasonable judgment, the generality of mankind? people never seem to conceive that there might be no more than moderate repayal for great toil in a mine of any sort. the very word mine suggests to them tapping the vast treasure-house of the world, and drawing an unlimited share--wealth lavish, prodigal, intemperate. these two were as mad with greed at the thought of the silver mine in the mountains as ever were forty-niners in the golden days of california, or those more recent ignoble martyrs who strewed their bones along the icy trails of the klondike. "ye better let me look at 'em pros," wheedled pap himes. "i know a heap about silver ore. i've worked in the georgia gold mines--and you know you never find gold without silver. i was three months in the mountains with a feller that was huntin' nickel; he l'arned me a heap." the old man turned his disappointed gaze from one face to the other. "i wish't johnnie was here," he repeated his plaintive formula, as he raised the handkerchief and untied the corners. pap glanced apprehensively up and down the street; buckheath ran to the door and shut it, that none in the house might see or overhear; and then the three stared at the unpromising-looking, earthy bits of mineral in silence. finally himes put down a stubby forefinger and stirred them meaninglessly. "le' me try one with my knife," he whispered, as though there were any one to hear him. "all right," returned the old man nervelessly. "but hit ain't soft enough for lead--if that's what you're meanin'. i know that much. a lead mine is a mighty good thing. worth as much as silver maybe; but this ain't lead." a curious tremor had come over pap himes's face as he furtively compared the lump of ore he held in his hand with something which he took from his pocket. he seemed to come to some sudden resolution. "no, 'tain't lead--and 'tain't nothin'," he declared contemptuously, flinging the bit he held back into the handkerchief. "pros passmore--ye old fool--you come down here and work us all up over some truck that wasn't worth turnin' with a spade! you might as well throw them things away. whar in the nation did you git 'em, anyhow?" passmore stumbled to his feet. he had eaten nothing for three days. the fall over the ledge had injured him severely. he was scarcely sane at the moment. "ain't they no 'count?" he asked pitifully. "why, i made shore they was silver. well"--he looked aimlessly about--"i better go find johnnie," and he started down the steps. "leave 'em here, pros, and go in. mavity'll give you a cup of coffee," suggested pap, in a kinder tone. the bandanna slipped rattling from the old man's relaxed fingers. the specimens clattered and rolled on the porch floor. with drooping head he shambled through the door. a woman's face disappeared for a moment from the shadowy front-room window, only to reappear and watch unseen. mavity was listening in a sort of horror as she heard her father's tones. "git down and pick 'em up--every one! don't you miss a one. yo' eyes is younger'n mine. hunt 'em up! hunt 'em up," hissed pap, casting himself upon the handkerchief and its contents. "what is it?" questioned buckheath keenly. "i thort you had some game on hand." and he hastened to comply. "air they really silver?" [illustration: he loomed above them, white and shaking. "you thieves," he roared. "give me my bandanner! give me johnnie's silver mine!"] "no--better'n that. they're nickel. the feller that was here from the north said by the dips and turns of the stratagems an' such-like we was bound to have nickel in these here mountains somewhar. a nickel mine's better'n a gold mine--an' these is nickel. i know 'em by the piece o' nickel ore from the canady mines that i carry constantly in my pocket. we'll keep the old fool out of the knowin' of it, and find whar the mine is at, and we'll--" the two men squatted on the floor, tallying over the specimens they had already collected, and looking about them for more. in the doorway behind them appeared a face, gaunt, grimed, a blood-stained bandage around the brow, and a pair of glowing, burning eyes looking out beneath. uncle pros had failed to find mavity bence, and was returning. too dazed to comprehend mere words, the old prospector read instantly and aright the attitude and expression of the two. as they tied the last knot in the handkerchief, he loomed above them, white and shaking. "you thieves!" he roared. "give me my bandanner! give me johnnie's silver mine!" "yes--yes--yes! don't holler it out that-a-way!" whispered pap himes from the floor, where he crouched, still clutching the precious bits of ore. "we was a-goin' to give 'em to you, uncle pros. we was just foolin'," buckheath attempted to reassure him. the old man bent forward and shot down a long arm to recover his own. he missed the bandanna, and the impetus of the movement sent him staggering a pace or two forward. at the porch edge he strove to recover himself, failed, and with a short, coughing groan, pitched down the steps and lay, an inert mass, at their foot. "cover that handkecher up," whispered himes before either man moved to his assistance. chapter xiii a patient for the hospital when the hardwick carriage drove up in the heavy, ill-odoured august night, and stopped at the gate to let johnnie consadine out, pap himes's boarding-house was blazing with light from window and doorway, clacking and humming like a mill with the sound of noisy footsteps and voices. three or four men argued and talked loudly on the porch. through the open windows of the front room, johnnie had a glimpse of a long, stark figure lying on the lounge, and a white face which struck her with a strange pang of vague yet alarming resemblance. she made her hasty thanks to miss sessions and hurried in. gray stoddard's horse was standing at the hitching post in front, and gray met her at the head of the steps. stoddard looked particularly himself in riding dress. its more unconventional lines suited him well; the dust-brown norfolk, the leathern puttees, gave an adventurous turn to the expression of a personality which was only so on the mental side. he always rode bareheaded, and the brown hair, which he wore a little longer than other men's, was tossed from its masculine primness to certain hyacinthine lines which were becoming. just now his clear brown eyes were luminous with feeling. he put out a swift, detaining hand and caught hers, laying sympathetic fingers over the clasp and retaining it as he spoke. "i'm so relieved that you've come at last," he said. "we need somebody of intelligence here. i just happened to come past a few minutes after the accident. don't be frightened; your uncle came down to see you, and got a fall somehow. he's hurt pretty badly, i'm afraid, and these people are refusing to have him taken to the hospital." on the one side himes and buckheath drew back and regarded this scene with angry derision. in the carriage below lydia sessions, who could hear nothing that was said, stared incredulously, and moved as though to get down and join johnnie. "you'll want him sent to the hospital?" stoddard urged, half interrogatively. "look in there. listen to the noise. this is no fit place for a man with a possible fracture of the skull." "yes--oh, yes," agreed johnnie promptly. "if i could nurse him myself i'd like to--or help; but of course he's got to go to the hospital, first of everything." stoddard motioned the hardwick driver to wait, and called down to the carriage load, "i want you people to drive round by the hospital and send the ambulance, if you'll be so kind. there's a man hurt in here." lydia sessions made this an immediate pretext for getting down and coming in. "did you say they didn't want to send him to the hospital?" she inquired sharply and openly, in her tactless fashion, as she crossed the sidewalk. "that's the worst thing about such people; you provide them with the best, and they don't know enough to appreciate it. have they got a doctor, or done anything for the poor man?" "i sent for millsaps, here--he knows more about broken bones than anybody in cottonville," pap offered sullenly, mopping his brow and shaking his bald head. "millsaps is a decent man. you know what _he's_ a-goin' to do to the sick." "is he a doctor?" asked stoddard sternly, looking the lank, shuffling individual named. "he can doctor a cow or a nag better'n anybody ever saw," pap put forward rather shamefacedly. "a veterinarian," commented stoddard. "well, they've gone for the ambulance, and the surgeon will soon be here now." "i don't know nothin' about veterinarians and surgeons," growled pap, still alternately mopping his bald head and shaking it contemptuously; "but i know that millsaps ain't a-goin' to box up any dead bodies and send 'em to the medical colleges; and i know he made as pretty a job of doctoring old spotty has ever i seen. to be shore the cow died, but he got the medicine down her when it didn't look as if human hands could do it--that's the kind of doctor he is." "i aim to give mr. passmore a teaspoonful of lamp oil--karosene," said the cow doctor, coming forward, evidently feeling that it was time he spoke up himself. "lamp oil is mighty rousin' to them as late like he's doin'. i've used copperas for such--but takes longer. some say a dose of turpentine is better lamp oil--but i 'low both of 'em won't hurt." johnnie pushed past them all into the front room where the women were running about, talking lot and exclaiming. a kerosene lamp without a chimney smoked and flared on the table, filling the room with evil odours. pros passmore's white face thrown up against the lounge cushion was the only quiet, dignified object in sight. "mandy," said johnnie, catching the meacham woman by the elbow as she passed her bearing a small kerosene can, "you go up to my room and get the good lamp i have there. then take this thing away. where's aunt mavity?" "i don't know. she's been carryin' on somethin turrible. yes, johnnie, honey--i'll get the lamp for ye." when johnnie turned to her uncle, she found millsaps bending above him, the small can in his hands, its spout approached to the rigid blue lips of the patient with the unconcern of a man about to fill a lamp. she sprang forward and caught his arm, bringing the can away with a clatter and splash. "you mustn't do that," she said authoritatively. "the doctors will be here in a minute. you mustn't give him anything, mr. millsaps." "oh, all right--all right," agreed millsaps, with decidedly the air that he considered it all wrong. "there is some people that has objections to having their kin-folks cyarved up by student doctors. then agin, there is others that has no better use for kin than to let 'em be so treated. i 'low that a little dosin' of lamp oil never hurt nobody--and it's cured a-many, of most any kind of disease. but just as you say--just as you say." and he shuffled angrily from the room. johnnie went and knelt by the lounge. with deft, careful fingers she lifted the wet cloths above the bruised forehead. the hurt looked old. no blood was flowing, and she wondered a little. catching shade buckheath's eye fixed on her from outside the window, she beckoned him in and asked him to tell her exactly how the trouble came about. buckheath gave her his own version of the matter, omitting, of course, all mention of the bandanna full of ore which lay now carefully hidden at the bottom of old gideon himes's trunk. "and you say he fell down the steps?" asked johnnie. "who was with him? who saw it?" "nobody but me and pap," shade answered, trying to give the reply unconcernedly. "i--i seen it," whispered mavity bence, plucking at johnnie's sleeve. "i was in the fore room here--and i seen it all." she spoke defiantly, but her terrified glance barely raised itself to the menacing countenances of the two men on the other side of the lounge, and fell at once. "i never heard nothin' they was sayin'," she made haste to add. "but i seen pros fall, and i run out and helped pap and shade fetch him in." peculiar as was the attitude of all three, johnnie felt a certain relief in the implied assurance that there had been no quarrel, that her uncle had not been struck or knocked down the steps. "why, pap," she said kindly, looking across at the old man's perturbed, sweating face, "you surely ain't like these foolish folks round here in cottonville that think the hospital was started up to get dead bodies for the student doctors to cut to pieces. you see how bad off uncle pros is; you must know he's bound to be better taken care of there in that fine building, and with all those folks that have learned their business to take care of him, than here in this house with only me. besides, i couldn't even stay at home from the mill to nurse him. somebody's got to earn the money." "i wouldn't charge you no board, johnnie," fairly whined himes. "i'm willin' to nurse pros myself, without he'p, night and day. you speak up mighty fine for that thar hospital. what about lura dawson? everybody knows they shipped her body to cincinnati and sold it. you ort to be ashamed to put your poor old uncle in such a place." johnnie turned puzzled eyes from the rigid face on the lounge--pros had neither moved nor spoken since they lifted and laid him there--to the old man at the window. that pap himes should be concerned, even slightly, about the welfare of any living being save himself, struck her as wildly improbable. then, swiftly, she reproached herself for not being readier to believe good of him. he and uncle pros had been boys together, and she knew her uncle one to deserve affection, though he seldom commanded it. there was a sound of wheels outside, and gray stoddard's voice with that of the doctor's. shade and pap himes still hovered nervously about the window, staring in and hearkening to all that was said, mavity bence had wept till her face was sodden. she herded the other girls back out of the way, but watched everything with terrified eyes. "he'll jest about come to hisself befo' he dies," the older conspirator muttered to shade as the stretcher passed them, and the skilled, white-jacketed attendants laid pros passmore in the vehicle without so much as disturbing his breathing. "he'll jest about come to hisself thar, and them pesky doctors 'll have word about the silver mine. well, in this world, them that has, gits, mostly. ef johnnie consadine had been any manner o' kin to me, i vow i'd 'a' taken a hickory to her when she set up her word agin' mine and let him go out of the house. the little fool! she didn't know what she was sendin' away." and so pros passmore was taken to the hospital. his bandanna full of ore remained buried at the bottom of gideon himes's trunk, to be fished up often by the old sinner, fingered and fondled, and laid back in hiding; while the man who had carried it down the mountains to fling it in johnnie's lap lay with locked lips, and told neither the doctors nor himes where the silver mine was. august sweated itself away; september wore on into october in a procession of sun-robed, dust-sandalled days, and still uncle pros gave no sign of actual recovery. johnnie was working hard in the mill. hartley sessions had become, in his cold, lifeless fashion, very much her friend. inert, slow, he had one qualification for his position: he could choose an assistant, or delegate authority with good judgment; and he found in johnnie consadine an adjutant so reliable, so apt, and of such ability, that he continually pushed more work upon her, if pay and honours did not always follow in adequate measure. for a time, much as she disliked to approach shade with any request, johnnie continued to urge him whenever they met to finish up the indicators and let her have them back again. then hartley sessions promoted her to a better position in the weaving department, and other cares drove the matter from her mind. the condition of uncle pros added fearfully to the drains upon her time and thought. the old man lay in his hospital cot till the great frame had wasted fairly to the big bones, following her movements when she came into the room with strange, questioning, unrecognizing eyes, yet always quieted and soothed by her presence, so that she felt urged to give him every moment she could steal from her work. the hurts on his head, which were mere scalp wounds, healed over; the surgeon at the hospital was unable to find any indentation or injury to the skull itself which would account for the old man's condition. they talked for a long time of an operation, and did finally trephine, without result. they would make an x-ray photograph, they said, when he should be strong enough to stand it, as a means of further investigation. meantime his expenses, though made fairly nominal to her, cut into the money which johnnie could send to her mother, and she was full of anxiety for the helpless little family left without head or protector up in that gash of the wind-grieved mountains on the flank of big unaka. in these days shade buckheath vacillated from the suppliant attitude to the threatening. johnnie never knew when she met him which would be uppermost; and since he had wearied out her gratitude and liking, she cared little. one thing surprised and touched her a bit, and that was that shade used to meet her of an evening when she would be coming from the hospital, and ask eagerly after the welfare of uncle pros. he finally begged her to get him a chance to see the old man, and she did so, but his presence seemed to have such a disturbing effect on the patient that the doctors prohibited further visits. "well, i done just like you told me to, and them cussed sawboneses won't let me go back no more," shade reported to pap himes that evening. "old pros just swelled hisself out like a toad and hollered at me time i got in the room. he's sure crazy all right. he looks like he couldn't last long, but them that heirs what he has will git the writin' that tells whar the silver mine's at. johnnie's liable to find that writin' any day; or he may come to hisself and tell her." "well, for god's sake," retorted pap himes testily, "why don't you wed the gal and be done with it? you wed johnnie consadine and get that writin', and i'll never tell on you 'bout the old man and such; and you and me'll share the mine." shade gave him a black look. "you're a good talker," he said sententiously. "if i could _do_ things as easy as you can _tell_ 'em, i'd be president." "huh!" grunted the old man. "marryin' a fool gal--or any other woman--ain't nothin' to do. if i was your age i'd have her miz himes before sundown." "all right," said buckheath, "if it's so damn' easy done--this here marryin'--do some of it yourself. thar's laurelly consadine; she's a widow; and more kin to pros than johnnie is. you go up in the mountains and wed her, and i'll stand by ye in the business." a slow but ample grin dawned on the old man's round, foolish face. he looked admiringly at shade. "by gosh!" he said finally. "that ain't no bad notion, neither. 'course i can do it. they all want to wed. and thar's laurelly--light-minded fool--ain't got the sense she was born with--up thar without pros nor johnnie--i could persuade her to take off her head and play pitch-ball with it--lord, yes!" "well, you've bragged about enough," put in buckheath grimly. "you git down in the collar and pull." the old man gave him no heed. he was still grinning fatuously. "it 'minds me of zack shalliday, and the way he got wedded," came the unctuous chuckle. "zack was a man 'bout my age, and his daughter was a-keepin' house for him. she was a fine hand to work; the best butter maker on the unakas; zack always traded his butter for a extry price. but old as sis shalliday was--she must 'a' been all of twenty-seven --along comes a man that takes a notion to her. she named it to zack. 'all right,' says he, 'you give me to-morrow to hunt me up one that's as good a butter maker as you air, and i've got no objections.' then he took hisself down to preacher blaylock, knowin' in reason that preachers was always hungry for weddin' fees, and would hustle round to make one. he offered the preacher a dollar to give him a list of names of single women that was good butter makers. blaylock done so. he'd say, 'now this 'n's right fine-looking, but i ain't never tasted her butter. here's one that ain't much to look at, but her butter is prime--jest like your gal's; hit allers brings a leetle extry at the store. this 'n's fat, yet i can speak well of her workin' qualifications,' he named 'em all out to zack, and zack had his say for each one. 'the fat ones is easy keepers,' he says for the last one, 'and looks don't cut much figger in this business--it all depends on which one makes the best butter anyhow.' "well, he took that thar string o' names, and he left. 'long about sundown, here he is back and hollerin' at the fence. 'come out here, preacher--i've got her,' he had a woman in his buggy that blaylock had never put eyes on in all his born days. 'wouldn't none o' them i sent ye to have ye?' the preacher asked zack in a kind of whisper, when he looked at that thar snaggle-toothed, cross-eyed somebody that shalliday'd fetched back. 'i reckon they would,' says zack. 'i reckon any or all of 'em would 'a' had me,' he says. 'i had only named it to three o' the four, and i hadn't closed up with none o' them, becaze i wasn't quite satisfied in my mind about the butter makin'. and as i was goin' along the road toward the last name you give me, i come up with this here woman. she was packin' truck down to the store for to trade it. i offered her a lift and she rid with me a spell. i chanced to tell her of what i was out after, and she let on that she was a widder, and showed me the butter she had--hit was all made off of one cow, and the calf is three months old. i wasn't a-goin' to take nobody's word in such a matter, and hauled her on down to the store and seed the storekeeper pay her extry for that thar butter--and here we air. tie the knot, preacher; yer dollar is ready for ye, and we must be gittin' along home--it's 'most milkin' time,' the preacher he tied the knot, and shalliday and the new miz. shalliday they got along home." the old man chuckled as he had at the beginning of this tale. "well, that was business," agreed shade impatiently. "when are you goin' to start for big unaka?" the old man rolled his great head between his shoulders. "ye-ah," he assented; "business. but it was bad business for zack shalliday. that thar woman never made a lick of that butter she was a packin' to the settlement to trade for her sister that was one o' them widders the preacher had give him the name of. seems shalliday's woman had jest come in a-visitin' from over on big smoky, and she turned out to be the laziest, no-accountest critter on the unakas. she didn't know which end of a churn-dasher was made for use. aw--law--huh! business--there's two kinds of business; but that was a bad business for zack shalliday. i reckon i'll go up on unaka to-morrow, if mavity can run the house without me." chapter xiv wedding bells a vine on mavity bence's porch turned to blood crimson. its leaves parted from the stem in the gay autumn wind, and sifted lightly down to join the painted foliage of the two little maples which struggled for existence against an adverse world, crouching beaten and torn at the curb. in these days johnnie used to leave the mill in the evening and go directly to the hospital. gray stoddard was her one source of comfort--and terror. uncle pros's injuries brought these two into closer relations than anything had yet done. so far, johnnie had conducted her affairs with a judgment and propriety extraordinary, clinging as it were to the skirts of lydia sessions, keeping that not unwilling lady between her and stoddard always. but the injured man took a great fancy to gray. johnnie he had forgotten; shade and pap himes he recognized only by an irritation which made the doctors exclude them from his presence; but something in stoddard's equable, disciplined personality, appealed to and soothed uncle pros when even johnnie failed. the old mountaineer had gone back to childhood. he would lie by the hour murmuring a boy's woods lore to gray stoddard, communicating deep secrets of where a bee tree might be found; where, known only to him, there was a deeply hidden spring of pure freestone water, "so cold it'll make yo' teeth chatter"; and which one of old lead's pups seemed likely to turn out the best coon dog. when stoddard's presence and help had been proffered to herself, johnnie had not failed to find a gracious way of declining or avoiding; but you cannot reprove a sick man--a dying man. she could not for the life of her find a way to insist that uncle pros make less demand on the young mill owner's time. and so the two of them met often at the bedside, and that trouble which was beginning to make johnnie's heart like lead grew with the growing love gray stoddard commanded. she told herself mercilessly that it was presumption, folly, wickedness; she was always going to be done with it; but, once more in his presence, her very soul cried out that she was indeed fit at least to love him, if not to hope for his love in turn. stoddard himself was touched by the old man's fancy, and showed a devotion and patience that were characteristic. if she was kept late at the hospital, mavity put by a bite of cold supper for her, and mandy always waited to see that she had what she wanted. on the day after shade buckheath and gideon himes had come to their agreement, she stopped at the hospital for a briefer stay than usual. her uncle was worse, and an opiate had been administered to quiet him, so that she only sat a while at the bedside and finally took her way homeward in a state of utter depression for which she could scarcely account. it was dusk--almost dark--when she reached the gate, and she noted carelessly a vehicle drawn up before it. "johnnie," called her mother's voice from the back of the rickety old wagon as the girl was turning in toward the steps. "sis' johnnie--sis' johnnie!" crowed deanie; and then she was aware of sober, eleven-year-old milo climbing down over the wheel and trying to help lissy, while pony got in his way and was gravely reproved. she ran to the wheel and put up ready arms. "why, honeys!" she exclaimed. "how come you-all never let me know to expect you? oh, i'm so glad, mother. i didn't intend to send you word to come; but i was feeling so blue. i sure wanted to. maybe uncle pros might know you--or the baby--and it would do him good." she had got little deanie out in her arms now, and stood hugging the child, bending to kiss melissa, finding a hand to pat milo's shoulder and rub pony's tousled poll. "oh, i'm so glad!--i'm so glad to see you-all," she kept repeating. "who brought you?" she looked closely at the man on the driver's seat and recognized gideon himes. "why, pap!" she exclaimed. "i'll never forget you for this. it was mighty good of you." the door swung open, letting out a path of light. "aunt mavity!" cried the girl. "mother and the children have come down to see me. isn't it fine?" mavity bence made her appearance in the doorway, her faded eyes so reddened with weeping that she looked like a woman in a fever. she gulped and stared from her father, where in the shine of her upheld lamp he sat blinking and grinning, to laurella consadine in a ruffled pink-and-white lawn frock, with a big, rose-wreathed hat on her dark curls, and johnnie consadine with the children clinging about her. "have ye told her?" she gasped. and at the tone johnnie turned quickly, a sudden chill falling upon her glowing mood. "what's the matter?" she asked, startled, clutching the baby tighter to her, and conning over with quick alarm the tow-heads that bobbed and surged about her waist. "the children are all right--aren't they?" milo looked up apprehensively. he was an old-faced, anxious-looking, little fellow, already beginning to have a stoop to his thin shoulders--the bend of the burden bearer. "i--i done the best i could, sis' johnnie," he hesitated apologetically. "you wasn't thar, and unc' pros was gone, an' i thest worked the farm and took care of mother an' the little 'uns best i knowed how. but when she--when he--oh, i wish't you and unc' pros had been home to-day." johnnie, her mind at rest about the children, turned to her mother. "was ma sick?" she asked sympathetically. then, noticing for the first time the unwonted gaiety of laurella's costume, the glowing cheeks and bright eyes, she smiled in relief. "you don't look sick. my, but you're fine! you're as spick and span as a bride." the old man bent and spat over the wheel, preparatory to speaking, but his daughter took the words from his mouth. "she is a bride," explained mavity bence in a flatted, toneless voice. "leastways, pap said he was a-goin' up on unaka for to wed her and bring her down--and i know in reason she'd have him." johnnie's terror-stricken eyes searched her mother's irresponsible, gypsy face. "now, johnnie," fretted the little woman, "how long air you goin' to keep us standin' here in the road? don't you think my frock's pretty? do they make em that way down here in the big town? i bought this lawn at bledsoe, with the very first money you sent up. ain't you a bit glad to see us?" the lip trembled, the tragic dark brows lifted in their familiar slant. "come on in the house," said johnnie heavily, and she led the way with drooping head. called by the unusual disturbance, mandy left the supper she was putting on the table for johnnie and ran into the front hall. beulah catlett and one or two of the other girls had crowded behind mavity bence's shoulders, and were staring. mandy joined them in time to hear the conclusion of mavity's explanation. she came through the door and passed the new mrs. himes on the porch. "why, johnnie consadine" she cried. "is that there your ma?" johnnie nodded. she was past speech. "well, i vow! i should've took her for your sister, if any kin. ain't she pretty? beulah--she's johnnie's ma, and her and pap has just been wedded." she turned to follow johnnie, who was mutely starting the children in to the house. "well," she said with a sigh, "some folks gits two, and some folks don't git nary one." and she brought up the rear of the in-going procession. "ain't you goin' to pack your plunder in?" inquired the bridegroom harshly, almost threateningly, as he pitched out upon the path a number of bundles and boxes. "i reckon they won't pester it till you git back from puttin' up the nag," returned laurella carelessly as she swung her light, frilled skirts and tripped across the porch. "you needn't werry about me," she called down to the old fellow where he sat speechlessly glaring. "mavity'll show me whar i can sit, and git me a nice cool drink; and that's all i'll need for one while." pap himes's mouth was open, but no words came. he finally shut it with that click of the ill-fitting false teeth which was familiar--and terrible--to everybody at the boarding-house, shook out the lines over the old horse, and jogged away into the dusk. "and this here's the baby," admired mandy, kneeling in front of little deanie, when the newcomers halted in the front room. "why, johnnie consadine! she don't look like nothin' on earth but a little copy of you. if she's dispositioned like you, i vow i'll just about love her to death." mavity bence was struggling up the porch steps loaded with the baggage of the newcomers. "better leave that for your paw," the bride counselled her. "it's more suited to a man person to lift them heavy things." but mavity had not lived with pap himes for nearly forty years without knowing what was suited to him, in distinction, perhaps, from mankind in general. she made no reply, but continued to bring in the baggage, and johnnie, after settling her mother in a rocking-chair with the cool drink which the little woman had specified, hurried down to help her. "everybody always has been mighty good to me all my life," laurella himes was saying to mandy, beulah and the others. "i reckon they always will. uncle pros he just does for me like he was my daddy, and my children always waited on me. johnnie's the best gal that ever was, ef she does have some quare notions." "ain't she?" returned mandy enthusiastically, as johnnie of the "quare notions" helped mavity bence upstairs with the one small trunk belonging to laurella. "look out for that trunk, johnnie," came her mother's caution, with a girlish ripple of laughter in the tones. "hit's a borried one. now don't you roach up and git mad. i had obliged to have a trunk, bein' wedded and comin' down to the settlement this-a-way. i only borried mildred faidley's. she won't never have any use for it. evelyn toler loaned me the trimmin' o' this hat--ain't it sightly?" johnnie's distressed eyes met the pale gaze of aunt mavity across the little oilcloth-covered coffer. "i would 'a' told you, johnnie," said the poor woman deprecatingly, "but i never knowed it myself till late last night, and i hadn't the heart to name it at breakfast. i thort i'd git a chance this evenin', but they come sooner'n i was expectin' 'em." "never mind, aunt mavity," said johnnie. "when i get a little used to it i'll be glad to have them all here. i--i wish uncle pros was able to know folks." the children were fed, milo, touchingly subdued and apologetic, nestling close to his sister's side and whispering to her how he had tried to get ma to wait and come down to the settlement, and hungrily begging with his pathetic childish eyes for her to say that this thing which had come upon them was not, after all, the calamity he feared. snub-nosed, nine-year-old pony, whose two front teeth had come in quite too large for his mouth, pony, with the quick-expanding pupils, and the temperament that would cope ill with disaster, addressed himself gaily to his supper and saw no sorrow anywhere. little melissa was half asleep; and even deanie, after the first outburst of greeting, nodded in her chair. "i got ready for 'em," mavity told johnnie in an undertone, after her father returned. "i knowed in reason he'd bring her back with him. pap always has his own way, and gits whatever he wants. i 'lowed you'd take the baby in bed with you, and i put a pallet in your room for lissy." johnnie agreed to this arrangement, almost mechanically. is it to be wondered at that her mind was already busy with the barrier this must set between herself and gray stoddard? she had never been ashamed of her origin or her people; but this--this was different. next morning she sent word to the mill foreman to put on a substitute, and took the morning that she might go with her mother to the hospital. passmore was asleep, and they were not allowed to disturb him; but on the steps they met gray stoddard, and he stopped so decidedly to speak to them that johnnie could not exactly run away, as she felt like doing. "your mother!" echoed stoddard, when johnnie had told him who the visitor was. he glanced from the tall, fair-haired daughter to the lithe little gypsy at her side. "why, she looks more like your sister," he said. laurella's white teeth flashed at this, and her big, dark eyes glowed. "johnnie's such a serious-minded person that she favours older than her years," the mother told him. "well, i give her the name of the dead, and they say that makes a body solemn like." it was very evident that stoddard desired to detain them in conversation, but johnnie smilingly, yet with decision, cut the interview short. "i don't see why you hurried me a-past that-a-way," the little mother said resentfully, when they had gone a few steps. "i wanted to stay and talk to the gentleman, if you didn't. i think he's one of the nicest persons i've met since i've been in cottonville. mr. gray stoddard--how come you never mentioned him to me johnnie?" she turned to find a slow, painful blush rising in her daughter's face. "i don't know, ma," said johnnie gently. "i reckon it was because i didn't seem to have any concern with a rich gentleman such as mr. stoddard. he's got more money than mr. hardwick, they say--more than anybody else in cottonville." "has he?" inquired laurella vivaciously. "well, money or no money, i think he's mighty nice. looks like he ain't studying as to whether you got money or not. and if you was meaning that you didn't think yourself fit to be friends with such, why i'm ashamed of you, johnnie consadine. the passmores and the consadines are as good a family as there is on unaka mountains. i don't know as i ever met up with anybody that i found was too fine for my company. and whenever your uncle pros gets well and finds his silver mine, we'll have as much money as the best of 'em." the tears blinded johnnie so that she could scarcely find her way, and the voice wherewith she would have answered her mother caught in her throat. she pressed her lips hard together and shook her head, then laughed out, a little sobbing laugh. "poor ma--poor little mother!" she whispered at length. "you ain't been away from the mountains as i have. things are--well, they're a heap different here in the settlement." "they're a heap nicer," returned laurella blithely. "well, i'm mighty glad i met that gentleman this morning. mr. himes was talking to me of shade buckheath a-yesterday. he said shade was wishful to wed you, johnnie, and wanted me to give the boy my good word. i told him i wouldn't say anything--and then afterward i was going to. but since i've seen this gentleman, and know that his likes are friends of your'n, well--i--johnnie, the buckheaths are a hard nation of people, and that's the truth. if you wedded shade, like as not he'd mistreat you." "oh mother--don't!" pleaded johnnie, scarlet of face, and not daring to raise her eyes. "what have i done now?" demanded laurella with asperity. "you mustn't couple my name with mr. stoddard's that way," johnnie told her. "he's never thought of me, except as a poor girl who needs help mighty bad; and he's so kind-hearted and generous he's ready to do for each and every that's worthy of it. but--not that way--mother, you mustn't ever suppose for a minute that he'd think of me in that way." "well, i wish't i may never!" laurella exclaimed. "did i mention any particular way that the man was supposed to be thinking about you? can't i speak a word without your biting my head off for it? as for what mr. gray stoddard thinks of you, let me tell you, child, a body has only to see his eyes when he's looking at you." "mother--oh, mother!" protested johnnie. "well, if he can look that way i reckon i can speak of it," returned laurella, with some reason. "i want you to promise never to name it again, even to me," said johnnie solemnly, as they came to the steps of the big lead-coloured house. "you surely wouldn't say such a thing to any one else. i wish you'd forget it yourself." "we-ell," hesitated laurella, "if you feel so strong; about it, i reckon i'll do as you say. but there ain't anything in that to hinder me from being friends with mr. stoddard. i feel sure that him and me would get on together fine. he favours my people, the passmores. my daddy was just such an upstanding, dark-complected feller as he is. he's got the look in the eye, too." johnnie gasped as she remembered that the grandfather of whom her mother spoke was virgil passmore, and called to mind the story of the borrowed wedding coat. chapter xv the feet of the children the mountain people, being used only to one class, never find themselves consciously in the society of their superiors. johnnie consadine had been unembarrassed and completely mistress of the situation in the presence of charlie conroy, who did not fail after the uplift dance to make some further effort to meet the "big red-headed girl," as he called her. she was aware that social overtures from such a person were not to be received by her, and she put them aside quite as though she had been, according to her own opinion, above rather than beneath them. the lover-like pretensions of shade buckheath, a man dangerous, remorseless, as careless of the rights of others as any tiger in the jungle, she regarded with negligent composure. but gray stoddard--ah, there her treacherous heart gave way, and trembled in terror. the air of perfect equality he maintained between them, his attitude of intimacy, flattering, almost affectionate, this it was which she felt she must not recognize. the beloved books, which had seemed so many steps upon which to climb to a world where she dared acknowledge her own liking and admiration for stoddard, were now laid aside. it took all of her heart and mind and time to visit uncle pros at the hospital, keep the children out of pap's way in the house, and do justice to her work in the factory. she told gray, haltingly, reluctantly, that she thought she must give up the reading and studying for a time. "not for long, i hope," stoddard received her decision with a puzzled air, turning in his fingers the copy of "walden" which she was bringing back to him. "perhaps now that you have your mother and the children with you, there will be less time for this sort of thing for a while, but you haven't a mind that can enjoy being inactive. you may think you'll give it up; but study--once you've tasted it--will never let you alone." johnnie looked up at him with a weak and pitiful version of her usual beaming smile. "i reckon you're right," she hesitated finally, in a very low voice. "but sometimes i think the less we know the happier we are." "how's this? how's this?" cried stoddard, almost startled. "why, johnnie--i never expected to hear that sort of thing from you. i thought your optimism was as deep as a well, and as wide as a church." poor johnnie surely had need of such optimism as stoddard had ascribed to her. they were weary evenings when she came home now, with the november rain blowing in the streets and the early-falling dusk almost upon her. it was on a saturday night, and she had been to the hospital, when she got in to find mandy, seated in the darkest corner of the sitting room, with a red flannel cloth around her neck--a sure sign that something unfortunate had occurred, since the tall woman always had sore throat when trouble loomed large. "what's the matter?" asked johnnie, coming close and laying a hand on the bent shoulder to peer into the drooping countenance. "don't come too nigh me--you'll ketch it," warned mandy gloomily. "a so' th'oat is as ketchin' as smallpox, and i know it so to be, though they is them that say it ain't. when mine gits like this i jest tie it up and keep away from folks best i can. i hain't dared touch the baby sence hit began to hurt me this a-way." "there's something besides the sore throat," persisted johnnie. "is it anything i can help you about?" "now, if that ain't jest like johnnie consadine!" apostrophized mandy. "yes, there is somethin'--not that i keer." she tossed her poor old gray head scornfully, and then groaned because the movement hurt her throat. "that thar feisty old sullivan gave me my time this evenin'. he said they was layin' off weavers, and they could spare me. i told him, well, i could spare them, too. i told him i could hire in any other mill in cottonville befo' workin' time monday--but i'm afeared i cain't." weak tears began to travel down her countenance. "i know i never will make a fine hand like you, johnnie," she said pathetically. "there ain't a thing in the mill that i love to do--nary thing. i can tend a truck patch or raise a field o' corn to beat anybody, and nobody cain't outdo me with fowls; but the mill--" she broke off and sat staring dully at the floor. pap himes had stumped into the room during the latter part of this conversation. "lost your job, hey?" he inquired keenly. mandy nodded, with fearful eyes on his face. "well, you want to watch out and keep yo' board paid up here. the week you cain't pay--out you go. i reckon i better trouble you to pay me in advance, unless'n you've got some kind friend that'll stand for you." mandy's lips parted, but no sound came. the gaze of absolute terror with which she followed the old man's waddling bulk as he went and seated himself in front of the air-tight stove, was more than johnnie could endure. "i'll stand for her board, pap," she said quietly. "oh, you will, will ye?" pap received her remark with disfavour. "well, a fool and his money don't stay together long. and who'll stand for you, johnnie consadine? yo' wages ain't a-goin' to pay for yo' livin' and mandy's too. ye needn't lay back on bein' my stepdaughter. you ain't acted square by me, an' i don't aim to do no more for you than if we was no kin." "you won't have to. mandy'll get a place next week--you know she will, pap--an experienced weaver like she is. i'll stand for her." himes snorted. mandy caught at johnnie's hand and drew it to her, fondling it. her round eyes were still full of tears. "i do know you're the sweetest thing god ever made," she whispered, as johnnie looked down at her. "you and deanie." and the two went out into the dining room together. "thar," muttered himes to buckheath, as the latter passed through on his way to supper; "you see whether it would do to give johnnie the handlin' o' all that thar money from the patent. why, she'd hand it out to the first feller that put up a poor mouth and asked her for it. you heard anything, buck?" shade nodded. "come down to the works with me after supper. i've got something to show you," he said briefly, and himes understood that the desired letter had arrived. at first laurella consadine bloomed like a late rose in the town atmosphere. she delighted in the village streets. she was as wildly exhilarated as a child when she was taken on the trolley to watauga. with strange, inherent deftness she copied the garb, the hair dressing, even the manner and speech, of such worthy models as came within her range of vision--like her daughter, she had an eye for fitness and beauty; that which was merely fashionable though truly inelegant, did not appeal to her. she was swift to appreciate the change in johnnie. "you look a heap prettier, and act and speak a heap prettier than you used to up in the mountains," she told the tall girl. "looks like it was a mighty sensible thing for you to come down here to the settlement; and if it was good for you, i don't see why it wasn't good for me--and won't be for the rest of the children. no need for you to be so solemn over it." the entire household was aghast at the bride's attitude toward her old husband. they watched her with the fascinated gaze we give to a petted child encroaching upon the rights of a cross dog, or the pretty lady with her little riding whip in the cage of the lion. she treated him with a kindly, tolerant, yet overbearing familiarity that appalled. she knew not to be frightened when he clicked his teeth, but drew up her pretty brows and fretted at him that she wished he wouldn't make that noise--it worried her. she tipped the sacred yellow cat out of the rocking-chair where it always slept in state, took the chair herself, and sent that astonished feline from the room. it was in laurella's evident influence that johnnie put her trust when, one evening, they all sat in sunday leisure in the front room--most of the girls being gone to church or out strolling with "company"--pap himes broached the question of the children going to work in the mill. "they're too young, pap," johnnie said to him mildly. "they ought to be in school this winter." "they've every one, down to deanie, had mo' than the six weeks schoolin' that the laws calls for," snarled himes. "you wasn't thinking of putting deanie in the mill--not _deanie_--was you?" asked johnnie breathlessly. "why not?" inquired himes. "she'll get no good runnin' the streets here in cottonville, and she can earn a little somethin' in the mill. i'm a old man, an sickly, and i ain't long for this world. if them chaps is a-goin' to do anything for me, they'd better be puttin' in their licks." johnnie looked from the little girl's pink-and-white infantile beauty--she sat with the child in her lap--to the old man's hulking, powerful, useless frame. what would deanie naturally be expected to do for her stepfather? "nobody's asked my opinion," observed shade buckheath, who made one of the family group, "but as far as i can see there ain't a thing to hurt young 'uns about mill work; and there surely ain't any good reason why they shouldn't earn their way, same as we all do. i reckon they had to work back on unaka. goin' to set 'em up now an make swells of 'em?" johnnie looked bitterly at him but made no reply. "they won't take them at the hardwick mill," she said finally. "mr. stoddard has enforced the rule that they have to have an affidavit with any child the mill employs that it is of legal age; and there's nobody going to swear that deanie's even as much as twelve years old--nor lissy--nor pony--nor milo. the oldest is but eleven." laurella had bought a long chain of red glass beads with a heart-shaped pendant. this trinket occupied her attention entirely while her daughter and husband discussed the matter of the children's future. "johnnie," she began now, apparently not having heard one word that had been said, "did you ever in your life see anything so cheap as this here string of beads for a dime? i vow i could live and die in that five-and-ten-cent store at watauga. there was more pretties in it than i could have looked at in a week. i'm going right back thar monday and git me them green garters that the gal showed me. i don't know what i was thinkin' about to come away without 'em! they was but a nickel." pap himes looked at her, at the beads, and gave the fierce, inarticulate, ludicrously futile growl of a thwarted, perplexed animal. "mother," appealed johnnie desperately, "do you want the children to go into the mill?" "i don't know but they might as well--for a spell," said laurella himes, vainly endeavouring to look grown-up, and to pretend that she was really the head of the family. "they want to go, and you've done mighty well in the mill. if it wasn't for my health, i reckon i might go in and try to learn to weave, myself. but there--i came a-past with mandy t'other evenin' when she was out, and the noise of that there factory is enough for me from the outside--i never could stand to be in it. looks like such a racket would drive me plumb crazy." pap stared at his bride and clicked his teeth with the gnashing sound that overawed the others. he drew his shaggy brows in an attempt to look masterful. "well, ef you cain't tend looms, i reckon you can take mavity's place in the house here, and let her keep to the weavin' stiddier. she'll just about lose her job if she has to be out and in so much as she has had to be with me here of late." "i will when i can," said laurella, patronizingly. "sometimes i get to feeling just kind of restless and no-account, and can't do a stroke of work. when i'm that-a-way i go to bed and sleep it off, or get out and go somewheres that'll take my mind from my troubles. hit's by far the best way." once more pap looked at her, and opened and shut his mouth helplessly. then he turned sullenly to his stepdaughter, grumbling. "you hear that! she won't work, and you won't give me your money. the children have obliged to bring in a little something--that's the way it looks to me. if the mills on the tennessee side is too choicy to take 'em--and i know well as you, johnnie, that they air; their man connors told me so--i can hire 'em over at the victory, on the georgy side." the victory! a mill notorious in the district for its ancient, unsanitary buildings, its poor management, its bad treatment of its hands. yes, it was true that at the victory you could hire out anything that could walk and talk. johnnie caught her breath and hugged the small pliant body to her breast, feeling with a mighty throb of fierce, mother-tenderness, the poor little ribs, yet cartilagenous; the delicate, soft frame for which god and nature demanded time, and chance to grow and strengthen. yet she knew if she gave up her wages to pap she would be no better off--indeed, she would be helpless in his hands; and the sum of them would not cover what the children all together could earn. "oh, lord! to work in the victory!" she groaned. "now, johnnie," objected her mother, "don't you get meddlesome just because you're a old maid. your great-aunt betsy was meddlesome disposed that-a-way. i reckon single women as they get on in years is apt so to be. every one of these children has been promised that they should be let to work in the mill. they've been jest honin' to do it ever since you came down and got your place. deanie was scared to death for fear they wouldn't take her. don't you be meddlesome." "yes, and i'm goin' to buy me a gun and a nag with my money what i earn," put in pony explosively. "'course i'll take you-all to ride." he added the saving clause under milo's reproving eye. "sis' johnnie, don't you want me to earn money and buy a hawse and a gun, and a--and most ever'thing else?" johnnie looked down into the blue eyes of the little lad who had crept close to her chair. what he would earn in the factory she knew well--blows, curses, evil knowledge. "if they should go to the victory, i'd be mighty proud to do all i could to look after 'em, johnnie," spoke mandy from the shadows, where she sat on the floor at laurella consadine's feet, working away with a shoe-brush and cloth at the cleaning and polishing of the little woman's tan footwear. "ye know i'm a-gittin' looms thar to-morrow mornin'. yes, i am," in answer to johnnie's deprecating look. "i'd ruther do it as to run round a week--or a month--'mongst the better ones, huntin' a job, and you here standin' for my board." till late that night johnnie laboured with her mother and stepfather, trying to show them that the mill was no fit place for the children. milo was all too apt for such a situation, the very material out of which a cotton mill moulds its best hands and its worst citizens. pony, restless, emotional, gifted and ambitious, craving his share of the joy of life and its opportunities, would never make a mill hand; but under the pressure of factory life his sister apprehended that he would make a criminal. "uh-huh," agreed pap, drily, when she tried to put something of this into words. "i spotted that feller for a rogue and a shirk the minute i laid eyes on him. the mill'll tame him. the mill'll make him git down and pull in the collar, i reckon. women ain't fitten to bring up chillen. a widder's boys allers goes to ruin. why, johnnie consadine, every one of them chaps is plumb crazy to work in the mill--just like you was--and you're workin' in the mill yourself. what makes you talk so foolish about it?" laurella nodded an agreement, looking more than usually like a little girl playing dolls. "i reckon mr. himes knows best, johnnie, honey," was her reiterated comment. cautiously johnnie approached the subject of pay; her stepfather had already demanded her wages, and expressed unbounded surprise that she was not willing to pass over the saturday pay-envelope to him and let him put the money in the bank along with his other savings. careful calculation showed that the four children could, after a few weeks of learning, probably earn a little more than she could; and in any case himes put it as a disciplinary measure, a way of life selected largely for the good of the little ones. "if you just as soon let me," she said to him at last, "i believe i'll take them over to the victory myself to-morrow morning." she had hopes of telling their ages bluntly to the mill superintendent and having them refused. pap agreed negligently; he had no liking for early rising. and thus it was that johnnie found herself at eight o'clock making her way, in the midst of the little group, toward the georgia line and the old victory plant, which all good workers in the district shunned if possible. as she set her foot on the first plank of the bridge she heard a little rumble of sound, and down the road came a light, two-seated vehicle, with coloured driver, and miss lydia sessions taking her sister's children out for an early morning drive. there was a frail, long-visaged boy of ten sitting beside his aunt in the back, with a girl of eight tucked between them. the nurse on the front seat held the youngest child, a little girl about deanie's age. as they came nearer, the driver drew up, evidently in obedience to miss sessions's command, and she leaned forward graciously to speak to johnnie. "good morning, john," said miss sessions as the carriage stopped. "whose children are those?" "they are my little sisters and brothers," responded johnnie, looking down with a very pale face, and busying herself with deanie's hair. "and you're taking them over to the mill, so that they can learn to be useful. how nice that is!" lydia smiled brightly at the little ones--her best charity-worker's smile. "no," returned johnnie, goaded past endurance, "i'm going over to see if i can get them to refuse to take this one." and she bent and picked deanie up, holding her, the child's head dropped shyly against her breast, the small flower-like face turned a bit so that one blue eye might investigate the carriage and those in it. "deanie's too little to work in the mill," johnnie went on. "they have night turn over there at the victory now, and it'll just about make her sick." miss lydia frowned. "oh, john, i think you are mistaken," she said coldly. "the work is very light--you know that. young people work a great deal harder racing about in their play than at anything they have to do in a spooling room--i'm sure my nieces and nephews do. and in your case it is necessary and right that the younger members of the family should help. i think you will find that it will not hurt them." individuals who work in cotton mills, and are not adults, are never alluded to as children. it is an offense to mention them so. they are always spoken of--even those scarcely more than three feet high--as "young people." miss sessions had smiled upon the piteous little group with a judicious mixture of patronage and mild reproof, and her driver had shaken the lines over the backs of the fat horses preparatory to moving on, when stoddard's car turned into the street from the corner above. "wait, junius, dick is afraid of autos," cautioned miss lydia nervously. junius grinned respectfully, while bay dick dozed and regarded the approaching car philosophically. as they stood, they blocked the way, so that gray was obliged to slow down and finally to stop. he raised his hat ceremoniously to both groups. his pained eyes went past lydia sessions as though she had been but the painted representation of a woman, to fasten themselves on johnnie where she stood, her tall, deep-bosomed figure relieved against the shining water, the flaxen-haired child on her breast, the little ones huddled about her. that johnnie consadine should have fallen away all at once from that higher course she had so eagerly chosen and so resolutely maintained, had been to gray a disappointment whose depth and bitterness somewhat surprised him. in vain he recalled the fact that all his theories of life were against forcing a culture where none was desired; he went back to it with grief--he had been so sure that johnnie did love the real things, that hers was a nature which not only wished, but must have, spiritual and mental food. her attitude toward himself upon their few meetings of late had confirmed a certain distrust of her, if one may use so strong a word. she seemed afraid, almost ashamed to face him. what was it she was doing, he wondered, that she knew so perfectly he would disapprove? and then, with the return of the books, the dropping of johnnie's education, came the abrupt end of those informal letters. not till they ceased, did he realize how large a figure they had come to cut in his life. only this morning he had taken them out and read them over, and decided that the girl who wrote them was worth at least an attempt toward an explanation and better footing. he had decided not to give her up. now she confirmed his worst apprehensions. at his glance, her face was suffused with a swift, distressed red. she wondered if he yet knew of her mother's marriage. she dreaded the time when she must tell him. with an inarticulate murmur she spoke to the little ones, turned her back and hurried across the bridge. "is johnnie putting those children in the mill?" asked stoddard half doubtfully, as his gaze followed them toward the entrance of the victory. "i believe so," returned lydia, smiling. "we were just speaking of how good it was that the cotton mills gave an opportunity for even the smaller ones to help, at work which is within their capacity." "johnnie consadine said that?" inquired gray, startled. "why is she taking them over to the victory?" and then he answered his own question. "she knows very well they are below the legal age in tennessee." lydia sessions trimmed instantly. "that must be it," she said. "i wondered a little that she seemed not to want them in the same factory that she is in. but i remember brother hartley said that we are very particular at our mill to hire no young people below the legal age. that must be it." stoddard looked with reprehending yet still incredulous eyes, to where johnnie and her small following disappeared within the mill doors. johnnie--the girl who had written him that pathetic little letter about the children in her room, and her growing doubt as to the wholesomeness of their work; the girl who had read the books he gave her, and fed her understanding on them till she expressed herself logically and lucidly on the economic problems of the day--that, for the sake of the few cents they could earn, she should put the children, whom he knew she loved, into slavery, seemed to him monstrous beyond belief. why, if this were true, what a hypocrite the girl was! as coarse and unfeeling as the rest of them. yet she had some shame left; she had blushed to be caught in the act by him. it showed her worse than those who justified this thing, the enormity of which she had seemed to understand well. "you mustn't blame her too much," came lydia sessions's smooth voice. "john's mother is a widow, and girls of that age like pretty clothes and a good time. some people consider john very handsome, and of course with an ignorant young woman of that class, flattery is likely to turn the head. i think she does as well as could be expected." chapter xvi bitter waters johnnie had a set of small volumes of english verse, extensively annotated by his own hand, which stoddard had brought to her early in their acquaintance, leaving it with her more as a gift than as a loan. she kept these little books after all the others had gone back. she had read and reread them--cullings from chaucer, from spenser, from the elizabethan lyrists, the border balladry, fierce, tender, oh, so human--till she knew pages of them by heart, and their vocabulary influenced her own, their imagery tinged all her leisure thoughts. it seemed to her, whenever she debated returning them, that she could not bear it. she would get them out and sit with one of them open in her hands, not reading, but staring at the pages with unseeing eyes, passing her fingers over it, as one strokes a beloved hand, or turning through each book only to find the pencilled words in the margins. she would be giving up part of herself when she took these back. yet it had to be done, and one miserable morning she made them all into a neat package, intending to carry them to the mill and place them on stoddard's desk thus early, when nobody would be in the office. then the children came in; deanie was half sick; and in the distress of getting the ailing child comfortably into her own bed, johnnie forgot the books. taking them in at noon, she met stoddard himself. "i've brought you back your--those little books of old english poetry," she said, with a sudden constriction in her throat, and a quick burning flush that suffused brow, cheek and neck. stoddard looked at her; she was thinner than she had been, and otherwise showed the marks of misery and of factory life. the sight was almost intolerable to him. poor girl, she herself was suffering cruelly enough beneath the same yoke she had helped to lay on the children. "are you really giving up your studies entirely?" he asked, in what he tried to make a very kindly voice. he laid his hand on the package of books. "i wonder if you aren't making a mistake, johnnie. you look as though you were working too hard. some things are worth more than money and getting on in the world." johnnie shook her head. for the moment words were beyond her. then she managed to say in a fairly composed tone. "there isn't any other way for me. i think some times, mr. stoddard, when a body is born to a hard life, all the struggling and trying just makes it that much harder. maybe when the children get a little older i'll have more chance." the statement was wistfully, timidly made; yet to gray stoddard it seemed a brazen defence of her present course. it pierced him that she on whose nobility of nature he could have staked his life, should justify such action. "yes," he said with quick bitterness, "they might be able to earn more, of course, as time goes on." it was a cruel speech between two people who had discussed this feature of industrial life as these had; even stoddard had no idea how cruel. for a dizzy moment the girl stared at him, then, though her flushed cheeks had whitened pitifully and her lip trembled, she answered with bravely lifted head. "i thank you very much for all the help you've been to me, mr. stoddard. what i said just now didn't look as though i appreciated it. i ask your pardon for that. i aim to do the best i can for the children. and i--thank you." she turned and was gone, leaving him puzzled and with a sore ache at heart. winter came on, wet, dark, cheerless, in the shackling, half-built little village, and johnnie saw for the first time what the distress of the poor in cities is. a temperature which would have been agreeable in a drier climate, bit to the bone in the mist-haunted valleys of that mountain region. the houses were mostly mere board shanties, tightened by pasting newspapers over the cracks inside, where the women of the family had time for such work; and the heating apparatus was generally a wood-burning cook-stove, with possibly an additional coal heater in the front room which could be fired on sundays, or when the family was at home to tend it. all through the bright autumn days, laurella himes had hurried from one new and charming sensation or discovery to another; she was like the butterflies that haunt the banks of little streams or wayside pools at this season, disporting themselves more gaily even than the insects of spring in what must be at best a briefer glory. when the weather began to be chilly, she complained of a pain in her side. "hit hurts me right there," she would say piteously, taking johnnie's hand and laying it over the left side of her chest. "my feet haven't been good and warm since the weather turned. i jest cain't stand these here old black boxes of stoves they have in the settlement. if i could oncet lay down on the big hearth at home and get my feet warm, i jest know my misery would leave me." at first pap merely grunted over these homesick repinings; but after a time he began to hang about her and offer counsel which was often enough peevishly received. "no, i ain't et anything that disagreed with me," laurella pettishly replied to his well-meant inquiries. "you're thinkin' about yo'se'f. i never eat more than is good for me, nor anything that ain't jest right. hit ain't my stomach. hit's right there in my side. looks like hit was my heart, an' i believe in my soul it is. oh, law, if i could oncet lay down befo' a nice, good hickory fire and get my feet warm!" and so it came to pass that, while everybody in the boarding-house looked on amazed, almost aghast, gideon himes withdrew from the bank such money as was necessary, and had a chimney built at the side of the fore room and a broad hearth laid. he begged almost tearfully for a small grate which should burn the soft bituminous coal of the region, and be much cheaper to install and maintain. but laurella turned away from these suggestions with the hopeless, pliable obstinacy of the weak. "i wouldn't give the rappin' o' my finger for a nasty little smudgy, smoky grate fire," she declared rebelliously, thanklessly. "a hickory log-heap is what i want, and if i cain't have that, i reckon i can jest die without it." "now, laurelly--now laurelly," pap quavered in tones none other had ever heard from him, "don't you talk about dyin'. you look as young as johnnie this minute. i'll git you what you want. lord, i'll have dawson build the chimbley big enough for you to keep house in, if them's yo' ruthers." it was almost large enough for that, and the great load of hickory logs which himes hauled into the yard from the neighbouring mountain-side was cut to length. fire was kindled in the new chimney; it drew perfectly; and pap himself carried laurella in his arms and laid her on some quilts beside the hearthstone, demanding eagerly, "thar now--don't that make you feel better?" "uh-huh." the ailing woman turned restlessly on her pallet. the big, awkward, ill-favoured old man stood with his disproportionately long arms hanging by his sides, staring at her, unaware that his presence half undid the good the leaping flames were doing her. "i wish't uncle pros was sitting right over there, t'other side the fire," murmured laurella dreamily. "how is pros, johnnie?" for nobody understood, as the crazed man in the hospital might have done, that laurella's bodily illness was but the cosmic despair of the little girl who has broken her doll. it had been the philosophy of this sun-loving, butterfly nature to turn her back on things when they got too bad and take to her bed till, in the course of events, they bettered themselves. but now she had emerged into a bleak winter world where uncle pros was not, where johnnie was powerless, and where she had been allowed by an unkind providence to work havoc with her own life and the lives of her little ones; and her illness was as the tears of the girl with a shattered toy. the children in their broken shoes and thin, ill-selected clothing, shivered on the roads between house and mill, and gave colour to the statement of many employers that they were better off in the thoroughly warmed factories than at home. but the factories were a little too thoroughly warmed. the operatives sweated under their tasks and left the rooms, with their temperature of eighty-five, to come, drenched with perspiration, into the chill outside air. the colds which resulted were always supposed to be caught out of doors. nobody had sufficient understanding of such matters to suggest that the rebreathed, superheated atmosphere of the mill room was responsible. deanie, who had never been sick a day in her life, took a heavy cold and coughed so that she could scarcely get any sleep. johnnie was desperately anxious, since the lint of the spinning room immediately irritated the little throat, and perpetuated the cold in a steady, hacking cough, that cotton-mill workers know well. pony was from the first insubordinate and well-nigh incorrigible--in short, he died hard. he came to johnnie again and again with stories of having been cursed and struck. she could only beg him to be good and do what was demanded without laying himself liable to punishment. milo, the serious-faced little burden bearer, was growing fast, and lacked stamina. beneath the cotton-mill régime, his chest was getting dreadfully hollow. he was all too good a worker, and tried anxiously to make up for his brother's shortcomings. "pony, he's a little feller," milo would say pitifully. "he ain't nigh as old as i am. it comes easier to me than what it does to him to stay in the house and tend my frames, and do like i'm told. if the bosses would call me when he don't do to suit 'em, i could always get him to mind." lissy had something of her mother's shining vitality, but it dimmed woefully in the rough-and-ready clatter and slam of the big victory mill. the children had come from the sunlit heights and free air of the unakas. their play had been always out of doors, on the mosses under tall trees, where fragrant balsams dropped cushions of springy needles for the feet; their labour, the gathering of brush and chips for the fire in winter, the dropping corn, and, with the older boys, the hoeing of it in spring and summer--all under god's open sky. they had been forced into the factory when nothing but places on the night shift could be got for them. day work was promised later, but the bitter winter wore away, and still the little captives crept over the bridge in the twilight and slunk shivering home at dawn. johnnie made an arrangement to get off from her work a little earlier, and used to take the two girls over herself; but she could not go for them in the morning. one evening about the holidays, miserably wet, and offering its squalid contrast to the season, johnnie, plodding along between the two little girls, with pony and milo following, met gray stoddard face to face. he halted uncertainly. there was a world of reproach in his face, and johnnie answered it with eyes of such shame and contrition as convinced him that she knew well the degradation of what she was doing. "you need another umbrella," he said abruptly, putting down his own as he paused under the store porch where a boy stood at the curb with his car, hood on, prepared for a trip in to watauga. "i lost our'n," ventured pony. "it don't seem fair that milo has to get wet because i'm so bad about losing things, does it?" and he smiled engagingly up into the tall man's face--johnnie's own eyes, large-pupilled, black-lashed, full of laughter in their clear depths. gray stoddard stared down at them silently for a moment. then he pushed the handle of his umbrella into the boy's grimy little hand. "see how long you can keep that one," he said kindly. "it's marked on the handle with my name; and maybe if you lost it somebody might bring it back to you." johnnie had turned away and faltered on a few paces in a daze of humiliation and misery. "sis' johnnie--oh, sis' johnnie!" pony called after her, flourishing the umbrella. "look what mr. stoddard give milo and me." then, in sudden consternation as milo caught his elbow, he whirled and offered voluble thanks. "i'm a goin' to earn a whole lot of money and pay back the trouble i am to my folks," he confided to gray, hastily. "i didn't know i was such a bad feller till i came down to the settlement. looks like i cain't noways behave. but i'm goin' to earn a big heap of money, an' buy things for milo an' maw an' the girls. only now they take all i can earn away from me." there was a warning call from johnnie, ahead in the dusk somewhere; and the little fellow scuttled away toward the victory and a night of work. spring came late that year, and after it had given a hint of relieving the misery of the poor, there followed an easter storm which covered all the new-made gardens with sleet and sent people shivering back to their winter wear. deanie had been growing very thin, and the red on her cheeks was a round spot of scarlet. laurella lay all day and far into the night on her pallet of quilts before the big fire in the front room, spent, inert, staring at the ceiling, entertaining god knows what guests of terror and remorse. nothing distressing must be brought to her. coming home from work once at dusk, johnnie found the two little girls on the porch, deanie crying and lissy trying to comfort her. "i thest cain't go to that old mill to-night, sis' johnnie," the little one pleaded. "looks like i thest cain't." "i could tell mr. reardon, and he'd put a substitute on to tend her frames," lissy spoke up eagerly. "you ask pap himes will he let us do that, sis' johnnie." johnnie went past her mother, who appeared to be dozing, and into the dining room, where himes was. he had promised to do some night work, setting up new machines at the victory, and he was in that uncertain humour which the prospect of work always produced. gideon himes was an old man, pestered, as he himself would have put it, by the mysterious illness of his young wife, fretted by the presence of the children, no doubt in a measure because he felt himself to be doing an ill part by them. his grumpy silence of other days, his sardonic humour, gave place to hypochondriac complainings and outbursts of fierce temper. pony had hurt his foot in a machine at the factory and it required daily dressing. johnnie understood from the sounds which greeted her that the sore foot was being bandaged. "hold still, cain't ye?" growled himes. "i ain't a-hurtin' ye. now you set in to bawl and i'll give ye somethin' to bawl for--hear me?" the old man was skilful with hurts, but he was using such unnecessary roughness in this case as set the plucky little chap to sobbing, and, just as johnnie entered the room, got him heavy-handed punishment for it. it was an unfortunate time to bring up the question of deanie; yet it must be settled at once. "pap," said the girl, urgently, "the baby ain't fit to go to the mill to-night--if ever she ought. you said that you'd get day work for them all. if you won't do that, let deanie stay home for a spell. she sure enough isn't fit to work." himes faced his stepdaughter angrily. "when i say a child's fitten to work--it's fitten to work," he rounded on her. "i hain't axed your opinion--have i? no. well, then, keep it to yourself till it is axed for. you pony, your foot's done and ready. you get yourself off to the mill, or you'll be docked for lost time." the little fellow limped sniffling out; johnnie reached down for deanie, who had crept after her to hear how her cause went. it was evident that sight of the child lingering increased pap's anger, yet the elder sister gathered up the ailing little one in her strong arms and tried again. "pap, i'll pay you for deanie's whole week's work if you'll just let her stay home to-night. i'll pay you the money now." "all right," pap stuck out a ready, stubbed palm, and received in it the silver that was the price of the little girl's time for a week. he counted it over before he rammed it down in his pocket. then, "you can pay me, and she can go to the mill, 'caze your wages ought to come to me anyhow, and it don't do chaps like her no good to be muchin' 'em all the time. would you ruther have her go before i give her a good beatin' or after?" and he looked johnnie fiercely in the eyes. johnnie looked back at him unflinching. she did not lack spirit to defy him. but her mother was this man's wife; the children were in their hands. devoted, high-couraged as she was, she saw no way here to fight for the little ones. to her mother she could not appeal; she must have support from outside. "never you mind, honey," she choked as she clasped deanie's thin little form closer, and the meagre small arms went round her neck. "sister'll find a way. you go on to the mill to-night, and sister'll find somebody to help her, and she'll come there and get you before morning." when the pitiful little figure had lagged away down the twilight street, holding to lissy's hand, limping on sore feet, johnnie stood long on the porch in the dark with gusts of rain beating intermittently at the lattice beside her. her hands were wrung hard together. her desperate gaze roved over the few scattered lights of the little village, over the great flaring, throbbing mills beyond, as though questioning where she could seek for assistance. paying money to pap himes did no good. so much was plain. she had always been afraid to begin it, and she realized now that the present outcome was what she had apprehended. uncle pros, the source of wisdom for all her childish days, was in the hospital, a harmless lunatic. of late the old man's bodily health had mended suddenly, almost marvellously; but he remained vacant, childish in mind, and so far the authorities had retained him, hoping to probe in some way to the obscure, moving cause of his malady. twice when she spoke to her mother of late, being very desperate, laurella had said peevishly that if she were able she'd get up and leave the house. plainly to-night she was too sick a woman to be troubled. as johnnie stood there, shade buckheath passed her, going out of the house and down the street toward the store. once she might have thought of appealing to him; but now a sure knowledge of what his reply would be forestalled that. there remained then what the others called her "swell friends." gray stoddard--the thought brought with it an agony from which she flinched. but after all, there was lydia sessions. she was sure miss sessions meant to be kind; and if she knew that deanie was really sick--. yes, it would be worth while to go to her with the whole matter. at the thought she turned hesitatingly toward the door, meaning to get her hat, and--though she had formulated no method of appeal--to hurry to the hardwick house and at least talk with miss sessions and endeavour to enlist her help. but the door opened before she reached it, and mavity bence stood there, in her face the deadly weariness of all woman's toil and travail since the fall. johnnie moved to her quickly, putting a hand on her shoulder, remembering with swift compunction that the poor woman's burdens were trebled since laurella lay ill, and pap gave up so much of his time to hanging anxiously about his young wife. "what is it, aunt mavity?" she asked. "is anything the matter?" "i hate to werry ye, johnnie," said the other's deprecating voice; "but looks like i've jest got obliged to have a little help this evenin'. i'm plumb dead on my feet, and there's all the dishes to do and a stack of towels and things to rub out." her dim gaze questioned the young face above her dubiously, almost desperately. the little brass lamp in her hand made a pitiful wavering. "of course i can help you. i'd have been in before this, only i--i--was kind of worried about something else, and i forgot," declared johnnie, strengthening her heart to endure the necessary postponement of her purpose. she went into the kitchen with mavity bence, and the two women worked there at the dishes, and washing out the towels, till after nine o'clock, johnnie's anxiety and distress mounting with every minute of delay. at a little past nine, she left poor mavity at the door of that wretched place the poor woman called her room, looked quietly in to see that her mother seemed to sleep, got her hat and hurried out, goaded by a seemingly disproportionate fever of impatience and anxiety. she took her way up the little hill and across the slope to where the hardwick mansion gleamed, many-windowed, gay with lights, behind its evergreens. when she reached the house itself she found an evening reception going forward--the hardwicks were entertaining the lyric club. she halted outside, debating what to do. could she call miss lydia from her company to listen to such a story as this? was it not in itself almost an offence to bring these things before people who could live as miss lydia lived? somebody was playing the violin, and johnnie drew nearer the window to listen. she stared in at the beautiful lighted room, the well-dressed, happy people. suddenly she caught sight of gray stoddard standing near the girl who was playing, a watchful eye upon her music to turn it for her. she clutched the window-sill and stood choking and blinded, fighting with a crowd of daunting recollections and miserable apprehensions. the young violinist was playing schubert's serenade. from the violin came the cry of hungry human love demanding its mate, questing, praying, half despairing, and yet wooing, seeking again. johnnie's piteous gaze roved over the well-beloved lineaments. she noted with a passion of tenderness the turn of head and hand that were so familiar to her, and so dear. oh, she could never hate him for it, but it was hard--hard--to be a wave in the ocean of toil that supported the galleys of such as these! it began to rain again softly as she stood there, scattered drops falling on her bright hair, and she gathered her dress about her and pressed close to the window where the eaves of the building sheltered her, forcing herself to look in and take note of the difference between those people in there and her own lot of life. this was not usually johnnie's way. her unfailing optimism prompted her always to measure the distance below her, and be glad of having climbed so far, rather than to dim her eyes with straining them toward what was above. but now she marked mercilessly the light, yet subdued, movements, the deference expressed when one of these people addressed another; and gray stoddard at the upper end of the room was easily the most marked figure in it. who was she to think she might be his friend when all this beautiful world of ease and luxury and fair speech was open to him? like a sword flashed back to her memory of the children. they were being killed in the mills, while she wasted her thoughts and longings on people who would laugh if they knew of her presumptuous devotion. she turned with a low exclamation of astonishment, when somebody touched her on the shoulder. "is you de gal miss lyddy sont for?" inquired the yellow waitress a bit sharply. "no--yes--i don't know whether miss sessions sent for me or not," johnnie halted out; "but," eagerly, "i must see her. i've--cassy. i've got to speak to her right now." cassy regarded the newcomer rather scornfully. yet everybody liked johnnie, and the servant eventually put off her design of being impressive and said in a fairly friendly manner: "you couldn't noways see her now. i couldn't disturb her whilst she's got company--without you want to put on this here cap and apron and come he'p me sarve the refreshments. dey was a gal comin' to resist me, but she ain't put in her disappearance yet. ain't no time for foolin', dis ain't." johnnie debated a moment. a servant's livery--but deanie was sick and--. with a sudden, impulsive movement, and somewhat to cassy's surprise, johnnie followed into the pantry, seized the proffered cap and apron and proceeded to put them on. "i've got to see miss sessions," she repeated, more to herself than to the negress. "maybe what i have to say will only take a minute. i reckon she won't mind, even if she has got company. it--well, i've got to see her some way." and taking the tray of frail, dainty cups and saucers cassy brought her, she started with it to the parlour. the music was just dying down to its last wail when gray looked up and caught sight of her coming. his mind had been full of her. to him certain pieces of music always meant certain people, and the serenade could bring him nothing but johnnie consadine's face. his startled eyes encountered with distaste the cap pinned to her hair, descended to the white apron that covered her black skirt, and rested in astonishment on the tray that held the coffee, cream and sugar. "begin here," cassie prompted her assistant, and johnnie, stopping, offered her tray of cups. gray's indignant glance went from the girl herself to his hostess. what foolery was this? why should johnnie consadine dress herself as a servant and wait on lydia sessions's guests? before the two reached him, he turned abruptly and went into the library, where miss sessions stood for a moment quite alone. her face brightened; he had sought her society very much less of late. she looked hopefully for a renewal of that earlier companionship which seemed by contrast almost intimate. "have you hired johnnie consadine as a waitress?" stoddard asked her in a non-committal voice. "i should have supposed that her place in the mill would pay her more, and offer better prospects." "no--oh, no," said miss sessions, startled, and considerably disappointed at the subject he had selected to converse upon. "how does she come to be here with a cap and apron on to-night?" pursued stoddard, with an edge to his tone which he could not wholly subdue. "i really don't understand that myself," lydia sessions told him. "i made no arrangement with her. i expected to have a couple of negresses--they're much better servants, you know. of course when a girl like john gets a little taste of social contact and recognition, she may go to considerable lengths to gratify her desire for it. no doubt she feels proud of forcing herself in this evening; and then of course she knows she will be well paid. she seems to be doing nicely," glancing between the portieres where johnnie bent before one guest or another, offering her tray of cups. "i really haven't the heart to reprove her." "then i think i shall," said stoddard with sudden resolution. "if you don't mind, miss sessions, would you let her come in and talk to me a little while, as soon as she has finished passing the coffee? i--really it seems to me that this is outrageous. johnnie is a girl of brains and abilities, and we who have her true welfare at heart should see that she doesn't--in her youth and ignorance--fall into such errors as this." "oh, if you like, i'll talk to her myself," said miss lydia smoothly. the conversation was not so different from others that she and stoddard had held concerning this girl's deserts and welfare. she added, after an instant's pause, speaking quickly, with heightened colour, and a little nervous catch in her voice, "i'll do my best. i--i don't want to speak harshly of john, but i must in truth say that she's the one among my uplift club girls that has been least satisfactory to me." "in what way?" inquired stoddard in an even, quiet tone. "well, i should be a little puzzled to put it into words," miss sessions answered him with a deprecating smile; "and yet it's there--the feeling that john consadine is--i hate to say it--ungrateful." "ungrateful," repeated her companion, his eyes steadily on miss sessions's face. "to leave johnnie consadine out of the matter entirely, what else do you expect from any of your protégées? what else can any one expect who goes into what the modern world calls charitable work?" miss sessions studied his face in some bewilderment. was he arraigning her, or sympathizing with her? he said no more. he left upon her the onus of further speech. she must try for the right note. "i know it," she fumbled desperately. "and isn't it disappointing? you do everything you possibly can for people and they seem to dislike you for it." "they don't merely seem to," said stoddard, almost brusquely, "they do dislike and despise you, and that most heartily. it is as certain a result as that two and two make four. you have pauperized and degraded them, and they hate you for it." lydia sessions shrank back on the seat, and stared at him, her hand before her open mouth. "why, mr. stoddard!" she ejaculated finally. "i thought you were fully in sympathy with my uplift work. you--you certainly let me think so. if you despised it, as you now say, why did you help me and--and all that?" stoddard shook his head. "no," he demurred a little wearily. "i don't despise you, nor your work. as for helping you--i dislike lobster, and yet i conscientiously provide you with it whenever we are where the comestible is served, because i know you like it." "mr. stoddard," broke in lydia tragically, "that is frivolous! these are grave matters, and i thought--oh, i thought certainly--that i was deserving your good opinion in this charitable work if ever i deserved such a thing in my life." "oh--deserved!" repeated stoddard, almost impatiently. "no doubt you deserve a great deal more than my praise; but you know--do you not?--that people who believe as i do, regard that sort of philanthropy as a barrier to progress; and, really now, i think you ought to admit that under such circumstances i have behaved with great friendliness and self-control." the words were spoken with something of the old teasing intonation that had once deluded lydia sessions into the faith that she held a relation of some intimacy to this man. she glanced at him fleetingly; then, though she felt utterly at sea, made one more desperate effort. "but i always went first to you when i was raising money for my uplift work, and you gave to me more liberally than anybody else. jerome never approved of it. hartley grumbled, or laughed at me, and came reluctantly to my little dances and receptions. i sometimes felt that i was going against all my world--except you. i depended upon your approval. i felt that you were in full sympathy with me here, if nowhere else." she looked so disproportionately moved by the matter that stoddard smiled a little. "i'm sorry," he said at last. "i see now that i have been taking it for granted all along that you understood the reservation i held in regard to this matter." "you--you should have told me plainly," said lydia drearily. "it--it gives me a strange feeling to have depended so entirely on you, and then to find out that you were thinking of me all the while as jerome does." "have i been?" inquired stoddard. "as jerome does? what a passion it seems to be with folks to classify their friends. people call me a socialist, because i am trying to find out what i really do think on certain economic and social subjects. i doubt that i shall ever bring up underneath any precise label, and yet some people would think it egotistical that i insisted upon being a class to myself. i very much doubt that i hold mr. hardwick's opinion exactly in any particular." he looked at the girl with a sort of urgency which she scarcely comprehended. "miss sessions," he said, "i wear my hair longer than most men, and the barber is always deeply grieved at my obstinacy. i never eat potatoes, and many well-meaning persons are greatly concerned over it--they regard the exclusion of potatoes from one's dietary as almost criminal. but you--i expect in you more tolerance concerning my peculiarities. why must you care at all what i think, or what my views are in this matter?" "oh, i don't understand you at all," lydia said distressfully. "no?" agreed stoddard with an interrogative note in his voice. "but after all there's no need for people to be so determined to understand each other, is there?" lydia looked at him with swimming eyes. "why didn't you tell me not to do those things?" she managed finally to say with some composure. "tell you not to do things that you had thought out for yourself and decided on?" asked stoddard. "oh, no, miss sessions. what of your own development? i had no business to interfere like that. you might be exactly right about it, and i wrong, so far as you yourself were concerned. and even if i were right and you wrong, the only chance of growth for you was to exploit the matter and find it out for yourself." "i don't understand a word you say," lydia sessions repeated dully. "that's the kind of thing you used always to talk when you and i were planning for john consadine. development isn't what a woman wants. she wants--she needs--to understand how to please those she--approves. if she fails anywhere, and those she--well, if somebody that she has--confidence--in tells her, why then she'll know better next time. you should have told me." her eyes overflowed as she made an end, but stoddard adopted a tone of determined lightness. "dear me," he said gently. "what reactionary views! you're out of temper with me this evening--i get on your nerves with my theorizing. forgive me, and forget all about it." lydia sessions smiled kindly on her guest, without speaking. but one thing remained to her out of it all. gray stoddard thought ill of her work--it carried her further from him, instead of nearer! so many months of effort worse than wasted! at that instant she had sight of shade buckheath's dark face in the entry. she got to her feet. "i beg your pardon," she said wanly, "i think there is some one out there that i ought to speak to." chapter xvii a victim in the spinning room at the victory mill, with its tall frames and endlessly turning bobbins, where the languid thread ran from hank to spool and the tired little feet must walk the narrow aisles between the jennies, watching if perchance a filament had broken, a knot caught, or other mischance occurred, and right it, deanie plodded for what seemed to her many years. milo and pony both had work now in another department, and lissy's frames were quite across the noisy big room. whenever the little dark-haired girl could get away from her own task and the eye of the room boss, she ran across to the small, ailing sister and hugged her hard, begging her not to feel bad, not to cry, sis' johnnie was bound to come before long. with the morbidness of a sick child, deanie came to dread these well-meant assurances, finding them almost as distressing as her own strange, tormenting sensations. the room was insufferably close, because it had rained and the windows were all tightly shut. the flare of light vitiated the air, heated it, but seemed to the child's sick sense to illuminate nothing. sometimes she found herself walking into the machinery and put out a reckless little hand to guard her steps. sister johnnie had said she would come and take her away. sister johnnie was the providence that was never known to fail. deanie kept on doggedly, and tied threads, almost asleep. the room opened and shut like an accordion before her fevered vision; the floor heaved and trembled under her stumbling feet. to lie down--to lie down anywhere and sleep--that was the almost intolerable longing that possessed her. her mouth was hot and dry. the little white, peaked face, like a new moon, grew strangely luminous in its pallor. her eyes stung in their sockets--those desolate blue eyes, dark with unshed tears, heavy with sleep. she had turned her row and started back, when there came before her, so plain that she almost thought she might wet her feet in the clear water, a vision of the spring-branch at home up on unaka, where she and lissy used to play. there, among the giant roots of the old oak on its bank, was the house they had built of big stones and bright bits of broken dishes; there lay her home-made doll flung down among gay fallen leaves; a little toad squatted beside it; and near by was the tiny gourd that was their play-house dipper. oh, for a drink from that spring! she caught sight of mandy meacham passing the door, and ran to her, heedless of consequences. "mandy," she pleaded, taking hold of the woman's skirts and throwing back her reeling head to stare up into the face above her, "mandy, sis' johnnie said she'd come; but it's a awful long time, and i'm scared i'll fall into some of these here old machines, i feel that bad. won't you go tell sis' johnnie i'm waitin' for her?" mandy glanced forward through the weaving-room toward her own silent looms, then down at the little, flushed face at her knee. if she dared to do things, as johnnie dared, she would pick up the baby and leave. the very thought of it terrified her. no, she must get johnnie herself. johnnie would make it right. she bent down and kissed the little thing, whispering: "never you mind, honey. mandy's going straight and find sis' johnnie, and bring her here to deanie. jest wait a minute." then she turned and, swiftly, lest her courage evaporate, hurried down the stair and to the time keeper. "ef you've got a substitute, you can put 'em on my looms," she said brusquely. "i've got to go down in town." "sick?" inquired reardon laconically, as he made some entry on a card and dropped it in a drawer beside him. "no, i ain't sick--but deanie consadine is, and i'm goin' over in town to find her sister. that child ain't fitten to be in no mill--let alone workin' night turn. you men ort to be ashamed--that baby ort to be in her bed this very minute." her voice had faltered a bit at the conclusion. yet she made an end of it, and hurried away with a choke in her throat. the man stared after her angrily. "well!" he ejaculated finally. "she's got her nerve with her. old himes is that gal's stepdaddy. i reckon he knows whether she's fit to work in the mills or not--he hired her here. bob, ain't himes down in the basement right now settin' up new machines? you go down there and name this business to him. see what he's got to say." a party of young fellows was tramping down the village street singing. one of them carried a guitar and struck, now and again, a random chord upon its strings. the street was dark, but as the singers, stepping rythmically, passed the open door of the store, mandy recognized a shape she knew. "shade--shade buckheath! wait thar!" she called to him. the others lingered, too, a moment, till they saw it was a girl following; then they turned and sauntered slowly on, still singing: "ef i was a little bird, i'd nest in the tallest tree, that leans over the waters of the beautiful tennessee." the words came back to buckheath and mandy in velvety bass and boyish tenor. "shade--whar's johnnie?" panted mandy, shaking him by the arm. "i been up to the house, and she ain't thar. pap ain't thar, neither. i was skeered to name my business to laurelly; aunt mavity ain't no help and, and--shade--whar's johnnie?" buckheath looked down into her working, tragic face and his mouth hardened. "she ain't at home," he said finally. "i've been at himes's all evening. pap and me has a--er, a little business on hand and--she ain't at home. they told me that they was some sort of shindig at mr. hardwick's to-night. i reckon johnnie consadine is chasin' round after her tony friends. pap said she left the house a-goin' in that direction--or mavity told me, i disremember which. i reckon you'll find her thar. what do you want of her?" "it's deanie." she glanced fearfully past his shoulder to where the big clock on the grocery wall showed through its dim window. it was half-past ten. the lateness of the hour seemed to strike her with fresh terror, "shade, come along of me," she pleaded. "i'm so skeered. i never shall have the heart to go in and ax for johnnie, this time o' night at that thar fine house. how she can talk up to them swell people like she does is more than i know. you go with me and ax is she thar." the group of young men had crossed the bridge and were well on their way to the inn. buckheath glanced after them doubtfully and turned to walk at mandy's side. when they came to the gate, the woman hung back, whimpering at sight of the festal array, and sound of the voices within. "they've got a party," she deprecated. "my old dress is jest as dirty as the floor. you go ax 'em, shade." as she spoke, johnnie, carrying a tray of cups and saucers, passed a lighted window, and buckheath uttered a sudden, unpremeditated oath. "i don't know what god almighty means makin' women such fools," he growled. "what call had johnnie consadine got to come here and act the servant for them rich folks?--runnin' around after gray stoddard--and much good may it do her!" mandy crowded herself back into the shadow of the dripping evergreens, and shade went boldly up on the side porch. she saw the door opened and her escort admitted; then through the glass was aware of lydia sessions in an evening frock coming into the small entry and conferring at length with him. her attention was diverted from them by the appearance of johnnie herself just inside a window. she ran forward and tapped on the pane. johnnie put down her tray and came swiftly out, passing shade and miss sessions in the side entry with a word. "what is it?" she inquired of mandy, with a premonition of disaster in her tones. "hit's deanie," choked the meacham woman. "she's right sick, and they won't let her leave the mill--leastways she's skeered to ask, and so am i. i 'lowed i ought to come and tell you, johnnie. was that right? you wanted me to, didn't you?" anxiously. "yes--yes--yes!" cried johnnie, reaching up swift, nervous fingers to unfasten the cap from her hair, thrusting it in the pocket of the apron, and untying the apron strings. "wait a minute. i must give these things back. oh, let's hurry!" it was but a moment after that she emerged once more on the porch, and apparently for the first time noticed buckheath. "to-morrow, then," miss sessions was saying to him as he moved toward the two girls. "to-morrow morning." and with a patronizing nod to them all, she withdrew and rejoined her guests. "i never found you when i went up to the house," explained mandy nervously, "and so i stopped shade on the street and axed him would he come along with me. maybe it would do some good if he was to go up with us to the mill. they pay more attention to a man person. i tell you, johnnie, the baby's plumb broke down and sick." the three were moving swiftly along the darkened street now. "i'm going to take the children away from pap," johnnie said in a curious voice, rapid and monotonous, as though she were reciting something to herself. "i have obliged to do it. there must be a law somewhere. god won't let me fail." "huh-uh," grunted buckheath, instantly. "you can't do such a thing. ef you was married, and yo' mother would let you adopt 'em, i reckon the courts might agree to that." "shade," johnnie turned upon him, "you've got more influence with pap himes than anybody. i believe if you'd talk to him, he'd let me have the children. i could support them now." "i don't want to fall out with pap himes--for nothing" responded shade. "if you'll say that you'll wed me to-morrow morning, i'll go to pap and get him to give up the children." neither of them paid any attention to mandy, who listened open-eyed and open-eared to this singular courtship. "or i'll get him to take 'em out of the mill. you're right, i ain't got a bit of doubt i could do it. and if i don't do it, you needn't have me." an illumination fell upon johnnie's mind. she saw that buckheath was in league with her stepfather, and that the pressure was put on according to the younger man's ideas, and would be instantly withdrawn at his bidding. yet, when the swift revulsion such knowledge brought with it made her ready to dismiss him at once, thought of deanie's wasted little countenance, with the red burning high on the sharp, unchildish cheekbone, stayed her. for a while she walked with bent head. heavily before her mind's eye went the picture of gray stoddard among his own people, in his own world--where she could never come. "have it your way," she said finally in a suffering voice. "what's that you say? are you goin' to take me?" demanded buckheath, pressing close and reaching out a possessive arm to put around her. "i said yes," johnnie shivered, pushing his hand away; "but--but it'll only be when you can come to me and tell me that the children are all right. if you fail me there, i--" back at the victory, downstairs went reardon's messenger to where pap himes was sweating over the new machinery. work always put the old man in a sort of incandescent fury, and now as bob spoke to him, he raised an inflamed face, from which the small eyes twinkled redly, with a grunt of inquiry. "that youngest gal o' yours," the man repeated. "she's tryin' to leave her job and go home. reardon said tell you, an' see what you had to say. the lord knows we have trouble enough with those young 'uns. i'm glad when any of their folks that's got sand is around to make 'em behave. i reckon she can't come it over you, gid." himes straightened up with a groan, under any exertion his rheumatic old back always punished him cruelly for the days of indolence that had let its suppleness depart. "huh?" he grunted. "whar's she at? up in the spinnin' room? well, is they enough of you up thar to keep her tendin' to business for a spell, till i can get this thing levelled?" he held to the mechanism he was adjusting and harangued wheezily from behind it. "i cain't drop my job an' canter upstairs every time one o' you fellers whistles. the chap ain't more'n two foot long. looks like you-all might hold on to her for one while--i'll be thar soon as i can--'bout a hour"; and he returned savagely to his work. when mandy left her, deanie tried for a time to tend her frames; but the endlessly turning spools, the edges of the jennies, blurred before her fevered eyes. everything--even her fear of pap himes, her dread of the room boss--finally became vague in her mind. more and more she dreaded little lissy's well-meant visitations; and after nearly an hour she stole toward the door, looking half deliriously for sister johnnie. nobody noticed in the noisy, flaring room that spool after spool on her frame fouled its thread and ceased turning, as the little figure left its post and hesitated like a scared, small animal toward the main exit. pap himes, having come to where he could leave his work in the basement, climbed painfully the many stairs to the spinning room, and met her close to where the big belt rose up to the great shaft that gave power to every machine in that department. the loving master of the big yellow cat had always cherished a somewhat clumsily concealed dislike and hostility to deanie. perhaps there lingered in this a touch of half-jealousy of his wife's baby; perhaps he knew instinctively that johnnie's rebellion against his tyranny was always strongest where deanie was concerned. "why ain't you on your job?" he inquired threateningly, as the child saw him and made some futile attempt to shrink back out of his way. "i feel so quare, pap himes," the little girl answered him, beginning to cry. "i thes' want to lay down and go to sleep every minute." "huh!" pap exploded his favourite expletive till it sounded ferocious, "that ain't quare feelin's. that's just plain old-fashioned laziness. you git yo'self back thar and tend them frames, or i'll--" "i cain't! i cain't see 'em to tend! i'm right blind in the eyes!" wailed deanie. "i wish sis' johnnie would come. i wish't she would!" "uh-huh," commented bob conley, who had strolled up in the old man's wake. "reckon sis' johnnie would run things to suit her an' you, himes, you can cuss me out good an' plenty, but i take notice you seem to have trouble makin' your own family mind." "you shut your head," growled pap. reardon had added himself to the spectators. "see here," the foreman argued, "if you say there's nothing the matter with that gal, an' she carries on till we have to let her go home, she goes for good. i'll take her frames away from her." pap felt that a formidable show of authority must be made. "git back thar!" he roared, advancing upon the child, raising the hand that still held the wrench with which he had been working on the machinery down stairs. "git back thar, or i'll make you wish you had. when i tell you to do a thing, don't you name johnnie to me. git back thar!" with a faint cry the child cowered away from him. it is unlikely he would have struck her with the upraised tool he held. perhaps he did not intend a blow at all, but one or two small frame tenders paused at the ends of their lanes to watch the scene with avid eyes, to extract the last thrill from the sensation that was being kindly brought into the midst of their monotonous toilsome hours; and lissy, who was creeping up anxiously, yet keeping out of the range of himes's eye, crouched as though the hammer had been raised over her own head. "johnnie said--" began the little girl, desperately; but the old man, stung to greater fury, sprang at her; she stumbled back and back; fell against the slowly moving belt; her frock caught in the rivets which were just passing, and she was instantly jerked from her feet. if any one of the three men looking on had taken prompt action, the child might have been rescued at once; but stupid terror held them motionless. at the moment johnnie, shade and mandy, coming up the stairs, got sight of the group, pap with upraised hammer, the child in the clutches of imminent death. with shrill outcries the other juvenile workers swiftly gathered in a crowd. one broke away and fled down the long room screaming. "you pony consadine! milo! come here. pap himes is a-killing yo' sister." the old man, shaking all through his bulk, stared with fallen jaw. mandy shrieked and leaped up the few remaining steps to reach deanie, who was already above the finger-tips of a tall man. "pap! shade! quick! don't you see she'll be killed!" mandy screamed in frenzy. something in the atmosphere must have made itself felt, for no sound could have penetrated the din of the weaving room; yet some of the women left their looms and came running in behind the two pale, scared little brothers, to add their shrieks to the general clamour. deanie's fellow workers, poor little souls, denied their childish share of the world's excitements, gazed with a sort of awful relish. only johnnie, speeding down the room away from it all, was doing anything rational to avert the catastrophe. the child hung on the slowly moving belt, inert, a tiny rag of life, with her mop of tangled yellow curls, her white, little face, its blue eyes closed. when she reached the top, where the pulley was close against the ceiling, her brains would be dashed out and the small body dragged to pieces between beam and ceiling. those who looked at her realized this. numbed by the inevitable, they made no effort, save milo, who at imminent risk of his own life, was climbing on a frame near at hand; but pony flew at himes, beating the old man with hard-clenched, inadequate fists, and screaming. "you git her down from thar--git her down this minute! she'll be killed, i tell ye! she'll be killed, i tell ye!" poor mandy made inarticulate moanings and reached up her arms; shade buckheath cursed softly under his breath; the women and children stared, eager to lose no detail. "i always have said, and i always shall say, that chaps as young as that ain't got no business around whar machinery's at!" bob conley kept shouting over and over in a high, strange, mechanical voice, plainly quite unconscious that he spoke at all. the child was so near the ceiling now that a universal groan proceeded from the watchers. then, all at once the belt ceased to move, and the clash and tumult were stilled. johnnie, who had flown to the little controlling wheel to throw off the power, came running back, crying out in the sudden quiet. "shade--quick--get a ladder! hold something under there! she might--oh, my god!" for deanie's frock had pulled free and the little form hurled down before johnnie could reach them. but the devoted mandy was there, her futile, inadequate skirts upheld. into them the small body dropped, and together the two came to the floor with a dull sort of crunch. when johnnie reached the prostrate pair, mandy was struggling to her knees, gasping; but deanie lay twisted just as she had fallen, the little face sunken and deathly, a tiny trickle of blood coming from a corner of her parted lips. "oh, my baby! oh, my baby! they've killed my baby! deanie--deanie--deanie--!" wailed mandy. johnnie was on her knees beside the child, feeling her over with tremulous hands. her face was bleached chalk-white, and her eyes stared fearfully at the motionless lips of the little one, from which that scarlet stream trickled; but she set her own lips silently. "thar--right thar in the side," groaned mandy. "she's all staved in on the side that--my pore little deanie! oh, i tried to ketch her, but she broke right through and pulled my skirts out of my hand and hit the floor." pap had drawn nearer on shaking limbs; the children crowded so close that johnnie looked up and motioned them back. "shade--you run for a doctor, and have a carriage fetched," she ordered briefly. "is--lord god, is she dead?" faltered the old man. "ef she ain't dead now, she'll die," mandy answered him shrilly. "they ain't no flesh on her--she's run down to a pore little skeleton. that's what the factories does to women and children--they jest eats 'em up, and spits out they' bones." "well, i never aimed to skeer her that-a-way," said himes; "but the little fool--" johnnie's flaming glance silenced him, and his voice died away, a sort of a rasp in his throat. mechanically he glanced up to the point on the great belt from which the child had fallen, and measured the distance to the floor. he scratched his bald head dubiously, and edged back from the tragedy he had made. "everybody knows i never hit her," he muttered as he went. chapter xviii light gray stoddard's eyes had followed lydia sessions when she went into the hall to speak to shade buckheath. he had a glimpse of johnnie, too, in the passage; he noted that she later left the house with buckheath (mandy meacham was beyond his range of vision); and the pang that went through him at the sight was a strangely mingled one. the talk between him and his hostess had been enlightening to both of them. it showed lydia sessions not only where she stood with gray, but it brought home to her startlingly, and as nothing had yet done, the strength of johnnie's hold upon him; while it forced gray himself to realize that ever since that morning when he met the girl on the bridge going to put her little brothers and sisters in the victory mill, he had behaved more like a sulky, disappointed lover than a staunch friend. he confessed frankly to himself, that, had johnnie been a boy, a young man, instead of a beautiful and appealing woman, he would have been prompt to go to her and remonstrate--he would have made no bones of having the matter out clearly and fully. he blamed himself much for the estrangement which he had allowed to grow between them. he knew instinctively about what shade buckheath was--certainly no fit mate for johnnie consadine. and for the better to desert her--poor, helpless, unschooled girl--could only operate to push her toward the worse. these thoughts kept stoddard wakeful company till almost morning. dawn came with a soft wind out of the west, all the odours of spring on its breath, and a penitent warmth to apologize for last night's storm. stoddard faced his day, and decided that he would begin it with an early-morning horseback ride. he called up his stable boy over the telephone, and when jim brought round roan sultan saddled there was a pause, as of custom, for conversation. "heared about the accident over to the victory, mr. stoddard?" jim inquired. "no," said gray, wheeling sharply. "anybody hurt?" "one o' pap himes's stepchildren mighty near killed, they say," the boy told him. "i seen miss johnnie consadine when they was bringing the little gal down. it seems they sent for her over to mr. hardwickses where she was at." gray mounted quickly, settled himself in the saddle, and glanced down the street which would lead him past himes's place. for months now, he had been instinctively avoiding that part of town. poor johnnie! she might be a disappointing character, but he knew well that she was full of love; he remembered her eyes when, nearly a year ago, up in the mist and sweetness of april on the unakas, she had told him of the baby sister and the other little ones. she must be suffering now. almost without reflection he turned his horse's head and rode toward the forlorn himes boarding-house. as he drew near, he noticed a huddled figure at the head of the steps, and coming up made it out to be himes himself, sitting, elbows on knees, staring straight ahead of him. pap had not undressed at all, but he had taken out his false teeth "to rest his jaws a spell," as he was in the habit of doing, and the result was startling. his cheeks were fallen in to such an extent that the blinking red eyes above looked larger; it was as though the old rascal's crimes of callous selfishness and greed had suddenly aged him. stoddard pulled in his horse at the foot of the steps. "i hear one of the little girls was hurt in the mill last night. was she badly injured? which one was it?" he asked abruptly. "hit's deanie. she's all right," mumbled pap. "got the whole house uptore, and laurelly miscallin' me till i don't know which way to look; and now the little dickens is a-goin' to git well all right. chaps is tough, i tell ye. ye cain't kill 'em." "you people must have thought so," said stoddard, "or you wouldn't have brought these little ones down and hired them to the cotton mill. johnnie knew what that meant." the words had come almost involuntarily. the old man stared at the speaker breathing hard. "what's johnnie consadine got to do with it?" he inquired finally. "i'm the stepdaddy of the children--and johnnie's stepdaddy too, for the matter of that--and what i say goes." "did you hire the children at the victory?" inquired stoddard, swiftly. back across his memory came the picture of johnnie with her poor little sheep for the shambles clustered about her on the bridge before the victory mill. "did you hire the children to the factory?" he repeated. "now mr. stoddard," began the old man, between bluster and whine, "i talked about them chaps to the superintendent of yo' mill, an' you-all said you didn't want none of that size. and one o' yo' men--he was a room boss, i reckon--spoke up right sassy to me--as sassy as johnnie consadine herself, and god knows she ain't got no respect for them that's set over her. i had obliged to let 'em go to the victory; but i don't think you have any call to hold it ag'in me--johnnie was plumb impident about it--plumb impident." stoddard glanced up at the windows and made as though to dismount. all night at his pillow had stood the accusation that he had been cruel to johnnie. now, as himes's revelations went on, and he saw what her futile efforts had been, as he guessed a part of her sufferings, it seemed he must hurry to her and brush away the tangle of misunderstanding which he had allowed to grow up between them. "they've worked over that thar chap, off an' on, all night," the old man said. "looks like, if they keep hit up, she'll begin to think somethin's the matter of her." gray realized that his visit at this moment would be ill-timed. he would ride on through the gap now, and call as he came back. "i had obliged to find me a place whar i could hire out them chaps," the miserable old man before him went on, garrulously. "they's nothin' like mill work to take the davilment out o' young 'uns. some of them chaps'll call you names and make faces at you, even whilst you' goin' through the mill yard--and think what they'd be ef they _wasn't_ worked! i'm a old man, and when i married laurelly and took the keepin' o' her passel o' chaps on my back, i aimed to make it pay. laurelly, she won't work." he looked helplessly at stoddard, like a child about to cry. "she told me up and down that she never had worked in no mill, and she was too old to l'arn. she said the noise of the thing from the outside was enough to show her that she didn't want to go inside--and go she would not." "but she let her children go--she and johnnie," muttered stoddard, settling himself in his saddle. "well, i'd like to see either of 'em he'p theirselves!" returned pap himes with a reminiscence of his former manner. "johnnie ain't had the decency to give me her wages, not once since i've been her pappy; the onliest money i ever had from her--'ceptin' to pay her board--was when she tried to buy them chaps out o' workin' in the mill. but when i put my foot down an' told her that the chillen could work in the mill without a beatin' or with one, jest as she might see and choose, she had a little sense, and took 'em over and hired 'em herself. baylor told me afterward that she tried to make him say he didn't want 'em, but baylor and me stands together, an' miss johnnie failed up on that trick." pap felt an altogether misplaced confidence in the view that stoddard, as a male, was likely to take of the matter. "a man is obliged to be boss of his own family--ain't that so, mr. stoddard?" he demanded. "i said the chillen had to go into the mill, and into the mill they went. they all wanted to go, at the start, and laurelly agreed with me that hit was the right thing. then, just because deanie happened to a accident and johnnie took up for her, laurelly has to go off into hy-strikes and say she'll quit me soon as she can put foot to the ground." stoddard made no response to this, but touched sultan with his heel and moved on. he had stopped at the post-office as he came past, taking from his personal box one letter. this he opened and read as he rode slowly away. halfway up the first rise, pap saw him rein in and turn; the old man was still staring when gray stopped once more at the gate. "see here, himes," he spoke abruptly, "this concerns you--this letter that has just reached me." pap looked at the younger man with mere curiosity. "when johnnie was first given a spinning room to look after," said gray, "she came to mr. sessions and myself and asked permission to have a small device of her own contrivance used on the frames as an indicator." pap shuffled his feet uneasily. "i thought no more about the matter; in fact i've not been in the spinning department for--for some time." stoddard looked down at the hand which held his bridle, and remembered that he had absented himself from every place that threatened him with the sight of johnnie. pap was breathing audibly through his open mouth. "she--she never had nothin' made," he whispered out the ready lie hurriedly, scrambling to his feet and down the steps, pressing close to roan sultan's shoulder, laying a wheedling hand on the bridle, looking up anxiously into the stern young face above him. "oh, yes, she did," stoddard returned. "i remember, now, hearing some of the children from the room say that she had a device which worked well. from the description they gave of it, i judge that it is the same which this letter tells me you and buckheath are offering to the alabama mills. mr. trumbull, the superintendent, says that you and buckheath hold the patent for this indicator jointly. as soon as i can consult with johnnie, we will see about the matter." himes let go the roan's bridle and staggered back a pace or two, open-mouthed, staring. the skies had fallen. his heavy mind turned slowly toward resentment against buckheath. he wished the younger conspirator were here to take his share. then the door opened and shade himself came out wiping his mouth. he was fresh from the breakfast table, but not on his way to the mill, since it was still too early. he gave stoddard a surly nod as he passed through the gate and on down the street, in the direction of the inn. himes, in a turmoil of stupid uncertainty, once or twice made as though to detain him. his slow wits refused him any available counsel. dazedly he fumbled for something convincing to say. then on a sudden inspiration, he once more laid hold of the bridle and began to speak volubly in a hoarse undertone: "w'y, name o' god, mr. stoddard! who should have a better right to that thar patent than buck and me? i'm the gal's stepdaddy, an' he's the man she's goin' to wed." some peculiar quality in the silence of gray stoddard seemed finally to penetrate the old fellow's understanding. he looked up to find the man on horseback regarding him, square-jawed, pale, and with eyes angrily bright. he glanced over his shoulder at the windows of the house behind him, moistened his lips once again, gulped, and finally resumed in a manner both whining and aggressive. "now, mr. stoddard, i want to talk to you mighty plain. the whole o' cottonville is full o' tales about you and johnnie. yes--that's the truth." he stood staring down at his big, shuffling feet, laboriously sorting in his own mind such phrases as it might do to use. the difficulty of what he had to say blocked speech for so long that stoddard, in a curiously quiet voice, finally prompted him. "tales?" he repeated. "what tales, mr. himes?" "why, they ain't a old woman in town, nor a young one neither--i believe in my soul that the young ones is the worst--that ain't been talkin'--talkin' bad--ever since you took johnnie to ride in your otty-mobile." again there came a long pause. stoddard stared down on gideon himes, and himes stared at his own feet. "well?" stoddard's quiet voice once more urged his accuser forward. pap rolled his head between his shoulders with a negative motion which intimated that it was not well. "and lending her books, and all sich," he pursued doggedly. "that kind o' carryin' on ain't decent, and you know it ain't. buck knows it ain't--but he's willin' to have her. he told her he was willin' to have her, and the fool gal let on like she didn't want him. he came here to board at my house because she wouldn't scarcely so much as speak to him elsewhere." by the light of these statements stoddard read what poor johnnie's persecution had been. the details of it he could not, of course, know; yet he saw in that moment largely how she had been harried. at the instant of seeing, came that swift and mighty revulsion that follows surely when we have misprized and misunderstood those dear to us. "what is it you want of me?" he inquired of himes. "why, just this here," pap told him. "you let johnnie consadine alone." he leaned even closer and spoke in a yet lower tone, because a number of girls were emerging from the house and starting down the steps. "a big, rich feller like you don't mean any good by a girl fixed the way johnnie is. you wouldn't marry her--then let her alone. things ain't got so bad but what buck is still willin' to have her. you wouldn't marry her." stoddard looked down at the shameful old man with eyes that were indecipherable. if the impulse was strong in him to twist the unclean old throat against any further ill-speaking, it gave no heat to the tone in which he answered: "it's you and your kind that say i mean harm to johnnie, and that i would not marry her. why should i intend ill toward her? why shouldn't i marry her? i would--i would marry her." as he made this, to him the only possible defence of the poor girl, pap faltered slowly back, uttering a gurgling expression of astonishment. with a sense of surprise stoddard saw in his face only dismay and chagrin. "hit--hit's a lie," himes mumbled half-heartedly. "ye'd never do it in the world." stoddard gathered up his bridle rein, preparatory to moving on. "you're an old man, mr. himes," he said coldly, "and you are excited; but you don't want to say any more--that's quite enough of that sort of thing." then he loosened the rein on roan sultan, and moved away down the street. gideon himes stood and gazed after him with bulging eyes. gray stoddard married to johnnie! he tried to adjust his dull wits to the new position of affairs; tried to cipher the problem with this amazing new element introduced. last night's scene of violence when the injured child was brought home went dismally before his eyes. laurella had said she would leave him so soon as she could put foot to the floor. he had expected to coax her with gifts and money, with concessions in regard to the children if it must be; but with a rich man for a son-in-law, of course she would go. he would never see her face again. and suddenly he flung up an arm like a beaten schoolboy and began to blubbler noisily in the crook of his elbow. an ungentle hand on his shoulder recalled him to time and place. "for god's sake, what's the matter with you?" inquired shade buckheath's voice harshly. the old man gulped down his grief and made his communication in a few hurried sentences. "an' he'll do it," pap concluded. "he's jest big enough fool for anything. ain't you heard of his scheme for having the hands make the money in the mill?" (thus he described a profit-sharing plan.) "don't you know he's given ten thousand dollars to start up some sort o' school for the boys and gals to learn their trade in? a man like that'll do anything. and if he marries johnnie, laurelly'll leave me sure." "leave you!" echoed buckheath darkly. "she won't have to. if gray stoddard marries johnnie consadine, you and me will just about roost in the penitentiary for the rest of our days." "the patent!" echoed pap blankly. he turned fiercely on his fellow conspirator. "now see what ye done with yer foolishness," he exclaimed. "nothin' would do ye but to be offerin' the contraption for sale, and tellin' each and every that hit'd been used in the hardwick mill. look what a mess ye've made. i'm sorry i ever hitched up with ye. boy o' yo' age has got no sense." "how was i to know they'd write to stoddard?" growled shade sulkily. "no harm did if hit wasn't for him. we've got the patent all right, and johnnie cain't help herself. but him--with all his money--he can help her--damn him!" "yes, and he'll take a holt and hunt up about pros's silver mine, too," said himes. "i've always mistrusted the way he's been hangin' round pros passmore. like enough he's hearn of that silver mine, and that's the reason he's after johnnie." the old man paused to ruminate on this feature of the case. he was pleased with his own shrewdness in fathoming gray stoddard's mysterious motives. "buck," he said finally, with a swift drop to friendliness, "hit's got to be stopped. can you stop it? "didn't you tell me that johnnie promised last night to wed you? didn't you say she promised it, when you was goin' up to the victory with her?" shade nodded. "she promised she would if i'd get you to let the children stay out of the mill. deanie's hurt now, and you're afraid to make the others go back in the mill anyhow, 'count of laurelly's tongue. i can't hold johnnie to that promise. but--but there's one person i want to talk to about this business, and then i'll be ready to do something." chapter xix a pact while himes and buckheath yet stood thus talking, the warning whistles of the various mills began to blow. groups of girls came down the steps and stared at the two men conferring with heads close together. mavity bence put her face out at the front door and called. "pap, yo' breakfast is gettin' stone cold." "do you have to go to the mill right now?" inquired the older man, timorously. he was already under the domination of this swifter, bolder, more fiery spirit. "no, i don't have to go anywhere that i don't want to. i've got business with a certain party up this-a-way, and when i git to the mill i'll be there." he turned and hurried swiftly up the minor slope that led to the big hardwick home, pap's fascinated eyes following him as long as he was in sight. as the young fellow strode along he was turning in his mind lydia sessions's promise to talk to him this morning about johnnie. "but she'll be in bed and asleep, i reckon, at this time of day," he ruminated. "the good lord knows i would if i had the chance like she has." as he came in sight of the hardwick house, he checked momentarily. standing at the gate, an astonishing figure, still in her evening frock, looking haggard and old in the gray, disillusioning light of early morning, was lydia sessions. upstairs, her white bed was smooth; its pillows spread fair and prim, unpressed by any head, since the maid had settled them trimly in place the morning before; but the long rug which ran from her dressing table to the window might have told a tale of pacing feet that passed restlessly from midnight till dawn; the mirror could have disclosed the picture of a white, anxious, and often angry face that had stared into it as the woman paused now and again to commune with the real lydia sessions. she was thirty and penniless. she belonged to a circle where everybody had money. her sister had married well, and harriet was no better-looking than she. all lydia sessions's considerable forces were by heredity and training turned into one narrow channel--the effort to make a creditable, if not a brilliant, match. and she had thought she was succeeding. gray stoddard had seemed seriously interested. in those long night watches while the lights flared on either side of her mirror, and the luxurious room of a modern young lady lay disclosed, with all its sumptuous fittings of beauty and inutility, lydia went over her plans of campaign. she was a suitable match for him--anybody would say so. he had liked her--he had liked her well enough--till he got interested in this mill girl. they had never agreed on anything concerning johnnie consadine. if that element were eliminated to-morrow, she knew she could go back and pick up the thread of their intimacy which had promised so well, and, she doubted not at all, twist it safely into a marriage-knot. if johnnie were only out of the way. if she would leave cottonville. if she would marry that good-looking mechanic who plainly wanted her. how silly of her not to take him! toward dawn, she snatched a little cape from the garments hanging in the closet, flung it over her shoulders and ran downstairs. she must have a breath of fresh air. so, in the manner of helpless creatures who cannot go out in the highway to accost fate, she was standing at the gate when she caught sight of shade buckheath approaching. here was her opportunity. she must be doing something, and the nearest enterprise at hand was to foster and encourage this young fellow's pursuit of johnnie. "i wanted to talk to you about a very particular matter," she broke out nervously, as soon as buckheath was near enough to be addressed in the carefully lowered tone which she used throughout the interview. she continually huddled the light cape together at the neck with tremulous, unsteady fingers; and it was characteristic of these two that, although the woman had heard of the calamity at the victory mill the night before, and knew that shade came directly from the himes home, she made no inquiry as to the welfare of deanie, and he offered no information. he gave no reply in words to her accost, and she went on, with increasing agitation. "i--this matter ought to be attended to at once. something's got to be done. i've attempted to improve the social and spiritual conditions of these girls in the mill, and if i've only worked harm by bringing them in contact with--in contact with--" she hesitated and stood looking into the man's face. buckheath knew exactly what she wished to say. he was impatient of the flummery she found it necessary to wind around her simple proposition; but he was used to women, he understood them; and to him a woman of miss sessions's class was no different from a woman of his own. "i reckon you wanted to name it to me about johnnie consadine," he said bluntly. "yes--yes, that was it," breathed lydia sessions, glancing back toward the house with a frightened air. "john is--she's a good girl, mr. buckheath; i beg of you to believe me when i assure you that john is a good, honest, upright girl. i would not think anything else for a minute; but it seems to me that somebody has to do something, or--or--" shade raised his hand to his mouth to conceal the swift, sarcastic smile on his lips. he spat toward the pathside before agreeing seriously with miss lydia. "her and me was promised, before she come down here and got all this foolishness into her head," he said finally. "her mother never could do anything with johnnie. looks like johnnie's got more authority--her mother's more like a little girl to her than the other way round. her uncle pros has been crazy in the hospital, and pap himes, her stepfather--well, i reckon she's the only human that ever had to mind pap and didn't do it." this somewhat ambiguous statement of the case failed to bring any smile to his hearer's lips. "there's no use talking to john herself," miss lydia took up the tale feverishly. "i've done that, and it had no effect on--. well, of course she would say that she didn't encourage him to the things i saw afterward; but i know that a man of his sort does not do things without encouragement, and--mr. buckheath don't you think you ought to go right to mr. stoddard and tell him that john is your promised wife, and show him the folly and--and the wickedness of his course--or what would be wickedness if he persisted in it? don't you think you ought to do that?" shade held down his head and appeared to be giving this matter some consideration. the weak point of such an argument lay in the fact that johnnie was not his promised wife, and gray stoddard was very likely to know it. indeed, lydia sessions herself only believed the statement because she so wished. "i reckon i ort," he said finally. "if i could ever get a chance of private speech with him, mebbe i'd--" there came a sound of light hoofs down the road, and stoddard on roan sultan, riding bareheaded, came toward them under the trees. miss sessions clutched the gate and stood staring. buckheath drew a little closer, set his shoulder against the fence and tried to look unconcerned. the rising sun behind the mountains threw long slant rays across into the bare tree tops, so that the shimmer of it dappled horse and man. gray's face was pale, his brow looked anxious; but he rode head up and alert, and glanced with surprise at the two at the sessions gate. he had no hat to raise, but he saluted lydia sessions with a sweeping gesture of the hand and passed on. a blithe, gallant figure cantering along the suburban road, out toward the gap, and the mountains beyond, gray stoddard rode into the dip of the ridge and--so far as cottonville was concerned--vanished utterly. buckheath drew a long breath and straightened up. "i'm but a poor man," he began truculently, "yit there ain't nobody can marry the gal i set out to wed and me stand by and say nothing." "oh, mr. buckheath!" cried miss lydia. "mr. stoddard had no idea of _marrying_ john--a mill girl! there is no possibility of any such thing as that. i want you to understand that there isn't--to feel assured, once for all. i have reason to know, and i urge you to put that out of your mind." shade looked at her narrowly. up to the time pap gave him definite information from headquarters, he had never for an instant supposed that there was a possibility of stoddard desiring to marry johnnie; but the flurried eagerness of miss sessions convinced him that such a possibility was a very present dread with her, and he sent a venomous glance after the disappearing horseman. "you go and talk to him right now, mr. buckheath," insisted lydia anxiously. "tell him, just as you have told me, how long you and john have been engaged, and how devoted she was to you before she came down to the mill. you appeal to him that way. you can overtake him--i mean you can intercept him--if you start right on now--cut across the turn, and go through the tunnel." "if i go after him to talk to him, and we--uh--we have an interruption--are you going to tell everybody you see about it?" demanded shade sharply, staring down at the woman. she crouched a little, still clinging to the pickets of the gate. the word "interruption" only conveyed to her mind the suggestion that they might be interfered with in their conversation. she did not recollect the mountain use of it to describe a quarrel, an outbreak, or an affray. "no," she whispered. "oh, certainly not--i'll never tell anything that you don't want me to." "all right," returned buckheath hardily. "if you won't, i won't. if you name to people that i was the last one saw with mr. stoddard, i shall have obliged to tell 'em of what you and me was talkin' about when he passed us. you see that, don't you?" she nodded silently, her frightened eyes on his face; and without another word he set off at that long, swinging pace which belongs to his people. lydia turned and ran swiftly into the house, and up the stairs to her own room. chapter xx missing when stoddard did not come to his desk that morning the matter remained for a time unnoticed, except by mcpherson, who fretted a bit at so unusual a happening. truth to tell, the old scotchman had dreaded having this rich young man for an associate, and had put a rod in pickle for his chastisement. when stoddard turned out to be a regular worker, punctual, amenable to discipline, he congratulated himself, and praised his assistant, but warily. now came the first delinquency, and in his heart he cared more that stoddard should absent himself without notice than for the pile of letters lying untouched. "dave," he finally said to the yellow office boy, "i wish you'd 'phone to mr. stoddard's place and see when he'll be down." dave came back with the information that mr. stoddard was not at the house; he had left for an early-morning ride, and not returned to his breakfast. "he'll just about have stopped up at the country club for a snack," macpherson muttered to himself. "i wonder who or what he found there attractive enough to keep him from his work." looking into gray's office at noon, the closed desk with its pile of mail once more offended macpherson's eye. "mr. stoddard here?" inquired hartley sessions, glancing in at the same moment. "no, i think not," returned the scotchman, unwilling to admit that he did not exactly know. "i believe he's up at the club. perhaps he's got tangled in for a longer game of golf than he reckoned on." this unintentional and wholly innocent falsehood stopped any inquiry that there might have been. macpherson had meant to 'phone the club during the day, but he failed to do so, and it was not until evening that he walked up himself to put more cautious inquiries. "no, sah--no, sah, mr. gray ain't been here," the negro steward told him promptly. "i sure would have remembered, sah," in answer to a startled inquiry from macpherson. "dey been havin' a big game on between mr. charley conroy and mr. hardwick, and de bofe of 'em spoke of mr. gray, and said dey was expectin' him to play." macpherson came down the stone steps of the clubhouse, gravely disquieted. below him the road wound, a dimly conjectured, wavering gray ribbon; on the other side of it the steep slope took off to a gulf of inky shadow, where the great valley lay, hushed under the solemn stars, silent, black, and shimmering with a myriad pulsating electric lights which glowed like swarms of fireflies caught in an invisible net. that was watauga. the strings of brilliants that led from it were arc lights at switch crossings where the great railway lines rayed out. near at hand was cottonville with its vast bulks of lighted mills whose hum came faintly up to him even at this distance. macpherson stood uncertainly in the middle of the road. supper and bed were behind him. but he had not the heart to turn back to either. somewhere down in that abyss of night, there was a clue--or there were many clues--to this strange absence of gray stoddard. perhaps gray himself was there; and the scotchman cursed his own dilatoriness in waiting till darkness had covered the earth before setting afoot inquiries. he found himself hurrying and getting out of breath as he took his way down the ridge and straight to stoddard's cottage, only to find that the master's horse was not in the stable, and the negro boy who cared for it had seen nothing of it or its rider since five o'clock that morning. "i wonder, now, should i give the alarm to hardwick," macpherson said to himself. "the lad may have just ridden on to la fayette, or some little nearby town, and be staying the night. young fellows sometimes have affairs they'd rather not share with everybody--and then, there's miss lydia. if i go up to hardwick's with the story, she'll be sure to hear it from hardwick's wife." "did mr. stoddard ever go away like this before without giving you notice?" he asked with apparent carelessness. the boy shook his head in vigorous negative. "never since i've been working for him," he asserted. "mr. stoddard wasn't starting anywhere but for his early ride--at least he wasn't intending to. he hadn't any hat on, and he was in his riding clothes. he didn't carry anything with him. i know in reason he wasn't intending to stay." this information sent macpherson hurrying to the hardwick home. dinner was over. the master of the house conferred with him a moment in the vestibule, then opened the door into the little sitting room and asked abruptly: "when was the last time any of you saw gray stoddard?" his sister-in-law screamed faintly, then cowered in her chair and stared at him mutely. but mrs. hardwick as yet noted nothing unusual. "yesterday evening," she returned placidly. "don't you remember, jerome, he was here at the lyric reception?" "oh, i remember well enough," said hardwick knitting his brows. "i thought some of you might have seen him since then. he's missing." "missing!" echoed lydia sessions with a note of terror in her tones. now mrs. hardwick looked startled. "but, jerome, i think you're inconsiderate," she began, glancing solicitously at her sister. "under the circumstances, it seems to me you might have made your announcement more gently--to lydia, anyhow. never mind, dearie--there's nothing in it to be frightened at." "i'm not frightened," whispered lydia sessions through white lips that belied her assertion. hardwick looked impatiently from his sister-in-law to his wife. "i'm sorry if i startled you, lydia," he said in a perfunctory tone, "but this is a serious business. macpherson tells me stoddard hasn't been at the factory nor at his boarding-house to-day. the last person who saw him, so far as we know, is his stable boy. black jim says stoddard rode out of the gate at five o'clock this morning, bareheaded and in his riding clothes. have any of you seen him since--that's what i want to know?" "since?" repeated miss sessions, who seemed unable to get beyond the parrot echoing of her questioner's words. "why jerome, what makes you think i've seen him since then? did he say--did anybody tell you--" she broke off huskily and sat staring at her interlaced fingers dropped in her lap. "no--no. of course not, lydia," her sister hastened to reassure her, crossing the room and putting a protecting arm about the girl's shoulders. "he shouldn't have spoken as he did, knowing that you and gray--knowing how affairs stand." "well, i only thought since you and stoddard are such great friends," hardwick persisted, "he might have mentioned to you some excursion, or made opportunity to talk with you alone, sometime last night--to--to say something. did he tell you where he was going, lydia? are you keeping something from us that we ought to know? remember this is no child's play. it begins to look as though it might be a question of the man's life." lydia sessions started galvanically. she pushed off her sister's caressing hand with a fierce gesture. "there's nothing--no such relation as you're hinting at, elizabeth, between gray stoddard and me," she said sharply. memory of what gray had (as she supposed) followed her into the library to say to her wrung a sort of groan from the girl. "i suppose matilda's told you that we had--had some conversation in the library," she managed to say. her brother-in-law shook his head. "we haven't questioned the servants yet," he said briefly. "we haven't questioned anybody nor hunted up any evidence. macpherson came direct to me from stoddard's stable boy. gray did stop and talk to you last night? what did he say?" "i--why nothing in--i really don't remember," faltered lydia, with so strange a look that both her sister and hardwick looked at her in surprise. "that is--oh, nothing of any importance, you know. i--i believe we were talking about socialism, and--and different classes of people.... that sort of thing." macpherson, who had pushed unceremoniously into the room behind his employer, nodded his gray head. "that would always be what he was speaking of." he smiled a little as he said it. "all right," returned hardwick, struggling into his overcoat at the hat-tree, and seeking his hat and stick, "i'll go right back with you, mac. this thing somehow has a sinister look to me." as the two men were leaving the house, hardwick felt a light, trembling touch on his arm, and turned to face his sister-in-law. "why--jerome, why did you say that last?" lydia quavered. "what do you think has happened to him? do you think anybody--that is--? oh, you looked at me as though you thought i had something to do with it!" "come, come, lyd. pull yourself together. you're getting hysterical," urged hardwick kindly. then he turned to macpherson. as the two men went companionably down the walk and out into the street, the scotchman said apologetically: "of course, i knew miss lydia would be alarmed. i understand about her and stoddard. it made me hesitate a while before coming up to you folks with the thing." "well, by the lord, you did well not to hesitate too long, mac!" ejaculated hardwick. "i shouldn't feel the anxiety i do if we hadn't been having trouble with those mountain people up toward flat rock over that girl that died at the hospital." he laughed a little ruefully. "trying to do things for folks is ticklish business. there wasn't a man in the crowd that interviewed me whom i could convince that our hospital wasn't a factory for the making of stiffs which we sold to the northern medical college. oh, it was gruesome! "i told them the girl had had every attention, and that she died of pernicious anaemia. they called it 'a big dic word' and asked me point blank if the girl hadn't been killed in the mill. i told them that we couldn't keep the body indefinitely, and they said they 'aimed to come and haul it away as soon as they could get a horse and wagon.' i called their attention to the fact that i couldn't know this unless they wrote and told me so in answer to my letter. but between you and me, mac, i don't believe there was a man in the crowd who could read or write." "for god's sake!" exclaimed the scotchman. "you don't think _those_ people were up to doing a mischief to stoddard, do you?" "i don't know what to think," protested hardwick. "yes; they are mediaeval--half savage. the fact is, i have no idea what they would or what they wouldn't do." macpherson gave a whistle of dismay. "gad, it sounds like the manoeuvres of one of our highland clans three hundred years ago!" he said. "wouldn't it be the irony of fate that stoddard--poor fellow!--a friend of the people, a socialist, ready to call every man his brother--should be sacrificed in such a way?" the words brought them to stoddard's little home, silent and deserted now. down the street, the lamps flared gustily. it was after eleven o'clock. "where does that boy live that takes care of the horses--black jim?" hardwick inquired, after they had rung the bell, thumped on the door, and called, to make sure the master had not returned during macpherson's absence. "i don't know--really, i don't know. he might have a room over the stable," macpherson suggested. but the stable proved to be a one-story affair, and they were just turning to leave when a stamping sound within arrested their notice. "good god!--what's that?" ejaculated macpherson, whose nerves were quivering. "it's the horse," answered hardwick in a relieved tone. "stoddard's got back--" "of course," broke in old macpherson, quickly, "and gone over to mrs. gandish's for some supper. that is why he wasn't in the house." to make assurance doubly sure, they opened the unlocked stable door, and macpherson struck a match. the roan turned and whinnied hungrily at sight of them. "that's funny," said hardwick, scarcely above his breath. "it looks to me as though that animal hadn't been fed." in the flare of the match macpherson had descried the stable lantern hanging on the wall. they lit this and examined the stall. there was no feed in the box, no hay in the manger. the saddle was on gray stoddard's horse; the bit in his mouth; he was tied by the reins to his stall ring. the two men looked at each other with lengthening faces. "stoddard's too good a horseman to have done that," spoke hardwick slowly. "and too kind a man," supplied macpherson loyally. "he'd have seen to the beast's hunger before he satisfied his own." as the scotchman spoke he was picking up the horse's hoofs, and digging at them with a bit of stick. "they're as clean as if they'd just been washed," he said, as he straightened up. "by heaven! i have it, hardwick--that fellow came into town with his hoofs muffled." the younger man looked also, and assented mutely, then suggested: "he hasn't come far; there's not a hair turned on him." the scotchman shook his head. "i'm not sure of that," he debated. "likely he's been led, and that slowly. god--this is horrible!" mechanically hardwick got some hay down for the horse, while macpherson pulled off the saddle and bridle, examining both in the process. grain was poured into the box, and then water offered. "he won't drink," murmured the scotchman. "d'ye see, hardwick? he won't drink. you can't come into cottonville without crossing a stream. this fellow's hoofs have been wet within an hour--yes, within the half-hour." as their eyes encountered, hardwick caught his breath sharply; both felt that chill of the cuticle, that stirring at the roots of the hair, that marks the passing close to us of some sinister thing--stark murder, or man's naked hatred walking in the dark beside our cheerful, commonplace path. by one consent they turned back from the stable and went together to mrs. gandish's. the house was dark. "of course, you know i don't expect to find him here," said hardwick. "i don't suppose they know anything about the matter. but we've got to wake them and ask." they did so, and set trembling the first wave of that widening ring of horror which finally informed the remotest boundaries of the little village that a man from their midst was mysteriously missing. the morning found the telegraph in active requisition, flashing up and down all lines by which a man might have left cottonville or watauga. the police of the latter place were notified, furnished with information, and set to find out if possible whether anybody in the city had seen stoddard since he rode away on friday morning. the inquiries were fruitless. a young lady visiting in the city had promised him a dance at the valentine masque to be held at the country club-house friday night. some clothing put out a few days before to be cleaned and pressed was ready for delivery. his laundry came home. his mail arrived punctually. the postmaster stated that he had no instructions for a change of address; all the little accessories of gray stoddard's life offered themselves, mute, impressive witnesses that he had intended to go on with it in cottonville. but stoddard himself had dropped as completely out of the knowledge of man as though he had been whisked off the planet. chapter xxi the search the fruitless search was vigorously prosecuted. on saturday the hardwick mill ran short-handed while nearly half its male employees made some effort to solve the mystery. parties combed again and again the nearer mountains. sunday all the mill operatives were free; and then groups of women and children added themselves to the men; dinners were taken along, lending a grotesque suggestion of picnicking to the work, a suggestion contradicted by the anxious faces, the strained timbre of the voices that called from group to group. but night brought the amateur searchers straggling home with nothing to tell. it should have been significant to any one who knew the mountain people, that information concerning gray stoddard within a week of his disappearance, was noticeably lacking. nobody would admit that his had been a familiar figure on those roads. at the utmost they had "seed him a good deal a while ago, but he'd sorter quit riding up this-a-way of late." but on no road could there be found man, woman, or child who had seen gray stoddard riding friday morning on his roan horse. the whole outlying district seemed to be in a conspiracy of silence. in watauga and in cottonville itself, clues were found by the police, followed up and proved worthless. all gray's eastern connections were immediately communicated with by telegraph, in the forlorn hope of finding some internal clue. the business men in charge of his large eastern interests answered promptly that nothing from recent correspondence with him pointed to any intention on his part of making a journey or otherwise changing his ordinary way of living. they added urgent admonitions to mr. macpherson to have locked up in the company's safe various important papers which they had sent, at stoddard's request, for signature, and which they supposed from the date, must be lying with his other mail. a boyhood friend telegraphed his intention of coming down from massachusetts and joining the searchers. stoddard had no near relatives. a grand-aunt, living in boston, telegraphed to mr. hardwick to see that money be spent freely. meantime there was reason for johnnie consadine, shut in the little sister's sick room day and night, to hear nothing of these matters. lissy had been allowed to help wait upon the injured child only on promise that nothing exciting should be mentioned. both boys had instantly begged to join a searching party, milo insisting that he could work all night and search all day, and that nobody should complain that he neglected his job. pony, being refused, had run away; milo the rulable followed to get him to return; and by sunday night mavity was feeding both boys from the back door and keeping them out of sight of pap's vengeance. considering that johnnie had trouble enough, she cautioned everybody on the place to say nothing of these matters to the girl. mandy, a feeble, unsound creature at best, was more severely injured than had been thought. she was confined to her bed for days. pap went about somewhat like a whipped dog, spoke little on any subject, and tolerated no mention of the topic of the day in cottonville; his face kept the boarders quiet at table and in the house, anyhow. shade buckheath never entered the place after deanie was carried in from the hastily summoned carriage thursday night. the doctors told them that if deanie survived the shock and its violent reaction, she had a fair chance of recovery. they found at once that she was not internally injured; the blood that had been seen came only from a cut lip. but the child's left arm was broken, the small body was dreadfully bruised, and the terror had left a profound mental disturbance. nothing but quiet and careful nursing offered any good hope; while there was the menace that she would never be strong again, and might not live to womanhood. at first she lay with half-closed, glazed eyes, barely breathing, a ghastly sight. then, when she roused a bit, she wanted, not lissy, not even johnnie; she called for her mother. when her child was brought home to her, dying as they all thought, laurella had rallied her forces and got up from the pallet on which she lay to tend on the little thing; but she broke down in the course of a few hours, and seemed about to add another patient to johnnie's cares. yet when the paroxysms of terror shook the emaciated frame, and the others attempted to reassure deanie by words, it was her mother who called for a bit of gay calico, for scissors and needle and thread, and began dressing a doll in the little sufferer's sight. laurella had carried unspoiled the faculty for play, up with her through the years. "let her be," the doctor counselled johnnie, in reply to anxious inquiries. "don't you see she's getting the child's attention? the baby notices. an ounce of happiness is worth a pound of any medicine i could bring." and so, when laurella could no longer sit up, they brought another cot for her, and she lay all day babbling childish nonsense, and playing dolls within hand-reach of the sick-bed; while johnnie with lissy's help, tended on them both. "you've got two babies now, you big, old, solemn johnnie," laurella said, with a ghost of her sparkling smile. "deanie and me is just of one age, and that's a fact." if pap wanted to see his young wife--and thirst for a sight of her was a continual craving with him; she was the light of the old sinner's eyes--he had to go in and look on the child he had injured. this kept him away pretty effectually after that first fiery scene, when laurella had flown at him like a fierce little vixen and told him that she never wanted to see his face again, that she rued the day she married him, and intended to leave him as soon as she could put foot to the ground. in the gray dawn of monday morning, when johnnie was downstairs eating her bit of early breakfast, pap shambled in to make laurella's fire. having got the hickory wood to blazing, he sat humped and shame-faced by the bedside a while, whispering to his wife and holding her hand, a sight for the student of man to marvel at. he had brought a paper of coarse, cheap candy for deanie, but the child was asleep. the offering was quite as acceptable to laurella, and she nibbled a stick as she listened to him. the bald head with its little fringe of grizzled curls, bent close to the dark, slant-browed, lustrous-eyed, mutinous countenance; pap whispered hoarsely for some time, laurella replying at first in a sort of languid tolerance, but presently with little ejaculations of wonder and dismay. a step on the stair which he took to be johnnie's put himes to instant flight. "i've got to go honey," he breathed huskily. "cain't you say you forgive me before i leave? i know i ain't fitten fer the likes of you; but when i come back from this here raid i'm a-goin' to take some money out of the bank and git you whatever you want. look-a-here; see what i've done," and he showed a little book in his hand, and what he had written in it. "oh--i forgive you, if that's any account to you," returned laurella with kindly contempt. "i never noticed that forgiving things undid the harm any; but--yes--oh, of course i forgive you. go along; i'm tired now. don't bother me any more, gid; i want to sleep." the old man thrust the treasured bankbook under laurella's pillow, and hurried away. downstairs in the dining room johnnie was eating her breakfast. "johnnie," said mavity bence, keeping behind the girl's chair as she served the meal to her at the end of the long table, "i ain't never done you a meanness yet, have i? and you know i've got all the good will in the world toward you--now don't you?" "why, of course, aunt mavity," returned johnnie wonderingly, trying to get sight of the older woman's face. mrs. bence took a plate and hurried out for more biscuits. she came back with some resolution plainly renewed in her mind. "johnnie," she began once more, "there's something i've got to tell you. your uncle pros has got away from 'em up at the hospital, and to the hills, and--and--i have obliged to tell you." "yes, i know," returned johnnie passively. "they sent me word last night. i'm sorry, but i can't do anything about it. maybe he won't come to any harm out that way. i can't imagine uncle pros hurting anybody. perhaps it will do him good." "hit wasn't about your uncle pros that i was meaning. at least not about his gettin' away from the hospital," amended mavity. "it was about the day he got hurt here. i--i always aimed to tell you. i know i ort to have done it. i was always a-goin' to, and then--pap--he--" she broke off and stood silent so long that johnnie turned and looked at her. "surely you aren't afraid of me, aunt mavity," she said finally. "no," said mavity bence in a low voice, "but i'm scared of--the others." the girl stared at her curiously. "johnnie," burst out the woman for the third time, "yo' uncle pros found his silver mine! oh, yes, he did; and pap's got his pieces of ore upstairs in a bandanner; and him and shade buckheath aims to git it away from you-all and--oh, i don't know what!" there fell a long silence. at last johnnie's voice broke it, asking very low: "did they--how was uncle pros hurt?" "neither of 'em touched him," mavity hastened to assure her. "he heard 'em name it how they'd get the mine from him--or thought he did--and he come out and talked loud, and grabbed for the bandanner, and he missed it and fell down the steps. he wasn't crazy when he come to the house. he was jest plumb wore out, and his head was hurt. he called it yo' silver mine. he said he had to put the bandanner in yo' lap and tell you hit was for you." johnny got suddenly to her feet. "thank you, aunt mavity," she said kindly. "this is what's been troubling you, is it? don't worry any more, i'll see about this, somehow. i must go back to mother now." laurella had said to pap himes that she wanted to sleep, and indeed her eyes, were closed when johnnie entered the room; but beneath the shadow of the sweeping lashes burned such spots of crimson that her nurse was alarmed. "what was pap himes saying to you to get you so excited?" she asked anxiously. "johnnie, come here. sit down on the edge of the bed and listen to me," demanded laurella feverishly. she laid hold of her daughter's arm, and half pulled herself up by it, staring into johnnie's face as she talked; and out tumbled the whole story of gray stoddard's disappearance. as full understanding of what her mother said came home to johnnie, her eyes dilated in her pale face. she sank to her knees beside the bed. "lost!" she echoed. "lost--gone! hasn't been seen since friday morning--friday morning before sunup! friday, saturday, sunday. my god, mother--it's three days and three nights!" "yes, honey, it's three days and three nights," assented laurella fearfully. "gid says he's going up in the mountains with a lot of others to search. he says some thinks the moonshiners have taken him in mistake for a revenuer; and some believe it was robbery--for his watch and money; and mr. hardwick is blaming it on the groner crowd that raised up such a fuss when lura dawson died in the hospital here. gid says they've searched every ridge and valley this side of big unaka. he--johnnie, he says _he_ believes mr. stoddard suicided." [illustration: "lost--gone! my god, mother--it's three days and three nights!"] "where is shade buckheath?" whispered johnnie. "shade's been out with mighty nigh every crowd that went," laurella told her. "mr. hardwick pays them wages, just the same as if they were in the mill. shade's going with gid this morning, in mr. stoddard's automobile." "are they gone--oh, are they gone?" johnnie sprang to her feet in dismay, and stood staring a moment. then swiftly she bent once more over the little woman in the bed. "mother," she said before laurella could speak or answer her, "aunt mavity can wait on you and deanie for a little while--with what help lissy will give you--can't she, honey? and mandy was coming downstairs to her breakfast this morning--she's able to be afoot now--and i know she'll be wanting to help tend on deanie. you could get along for a spell without me--don't you think you could? honey," she spoke desperately. "i've just got to find shade buckheath--i must see him." "sure, we'll get along all right, johnnie," laurella put in eagerly. she tugged at a corner of the pillow, fumbled thereunder with her little brown hand, and dragging out pap himes's bankbook, showed it to her daughter, opening at that front page where pap's clumsy characters made laurella himes free of all his savings. "you go right along, johnnie, and see cain't you help about mr. stoddard. looks like i cain't bear to think ... the pore boy ... you go on--me and deanie'll be all right till you get back." johnnie stooped and kissed the cheek with its feverish flush. "good-bye, mommie," she whispered hurriedly. "don't worry about me. i'll be back--. well, don't worry. good-bye." she snatched a coat and hat, and, going out, closed the door quietly behind her. she stepped out into the dancing sunlight of an early spring morning. the leafless vine on mavity bence's porch rattled dry stems against the lattice work in a gay march wind. taking counsel with herself for a moment, she started swiftly down the street in the direction of the mills. in the office they told her that mr. hardwick had gone to nashville to see about getting bloodhounds; macpherson was following his own plan of search in watauga. she was permitted to go down into the mechanical department and ask the head of it about shade buckheath. "no, he ain't here," mr. ramsey told her promptly. "we're running so short-handed that i don't know how to get along; and if i try to get an extra man, i find he's out with the searchers. i sent up for himes yesterday, but him and buckheath was to go together to-day, taking mr. stoddard's car, so as to get further up into the unakas." johnnie felt as though the blood receded from her face and gathered all about a heart which beat to suffocation. for a wild moment she had an impulse to denounce buckheath and her stepfather. but almost instantly she realized that she would weaken her cause and lose all chance of assistance by doing so. her standing in the mill was excellent, and as she ran up the stairs she was going over in her mind the persons to whom she might take her story. she found no one from whom she dared expect credence and help. out in the street again she caught sight of charlie conroy, and her thoughts were turned by a natural association of ideas to lydia sessions. that was it! why had it not occurred to her before? she hurried up the long hill to the hardwick home and, trying first the bell at the front, where she got no reply, skirted the house and rapped long and loudly at the side door. harriet hardwick, when things began to wear a tragic complexion, had promptly packed her wardrobe and her children and flitted to watauga. this hegira was undertaken mainly to get her sister away from the scene of gray stoddard's disappearance; yet when the move came to be made, miss sessions refused to accompany her sister. "i can't go," she repeated fiercely. "i'll stay here and keep house for jerome. then if there comes any news, i'll be where--oh, don't look at me that way. i wish you'd go on and let me alone. yes--yes--yes--it is better for you to go to watauga and leave me here." ever since her brother-in-law opened the door of the sitting room and announced to the family gray stoddard's disappearance, lydia sessions had been, as it were, a woman at war with herself. her first impulse was of decorum--to jerk her skirts about her in seemly fashion and be certain that no smirch adhered to them. then she began to wonder if she could find shade buckheath, and discover from him the truth of the matter. whenever she would have made a movement toward this, she winced away from what she knew he would say to her. she flinched even from finding out that her fears were well grounded. as matters began to wear a more serious face, she debated now and again telling her brother-in-law of her suspicions that buckheath had a grudge against stoddard. but if she said this, how account for the knowledge? how explain to jerome why she had denied seeing stoddard friday morning? jerome was so terribly practical--he would ask such searching questions. back of it all there was truly much remorse, and terrible anxiety for stoddard himself; but this was continually swallowed up in her concern for her own welfare, her own good name. always, after she had agonized so much, there would come with a revulsion--a gust of anger. stoddard had never cared for her, he had been cruel in his attitude of kindness. let him take what followed. cottonville was a town distraught, and the hardwick servants had seized the occasion to run out for a bit of delectable gossip in which the least of the horrors included gray stoddard's murdered and mutilated body washed down in some mountain stream to the sight of his friends. johnnie was too urgent to long delay. getting no answer at the side door, she pushed it open and ventured through silent room after room until she came to the stairway, and so on up to miss sessions's bedroom door. she had been there before, and fearing to alarm by knocking, she finally called out in what she tried to make a normal, reassuring tone. "it's only me--johnnie consadine--miss lydia." the answer was a hasty, muffled outcry. somebody who had been kneeling by the bed on the further side of the room sprang up and came forward, showing a face so disfigured by tears and anxiety, by loss of sleep and lack of food, as to be scarcely recognizable. that ravaged visage told plainly the battle-ground that lydia sessions's narrow soul had become in these dreadful days. she knew now that she had set shade buckheath to quarrel with gray stoddard--and gray had never been seen since the hour she sent the dangerous, unscrupulous man after him to that quarrel. with this knowledge wrestled and fought the instinct we strive to develop in our girl children, the fear we brand shamefully into their natures--her name must not be connected with such an affair--she must not be "talked about." "have they found him?" lydia gasped. "is he alive?" johnnie, generous soul, even in the intense preoccupation of her own pain, could pity the woman who looked and spoke thus. "no," she answered, "they haven't found him--and some that are looking for him never will find him. "oh, miss lydia, i want you to help me make them send somebody that we can trust up the gap road, and on to the unakas." miss sessions flinched plainly. "what do you know about it?" she inquired in a voice which shook. still staring at johnnie, she moved back toward her bedroom door. "why should you mention the gap road? what makes you think he went up in the unakas?" "i--don't know that he went there," hesitated johnnie. "but i do know who you've got to find before you can find him. oh, get somebody to go with me and help me, before it's too late. i--" she hesitated--"i thought maybe we could get your brother hartley's car. i could run it--i could run a car." the bitterness that had racked lydia sessions's heart for more than forty-eight hours culminated. she had been instrumental in putting gray stoddard in mortal danger--and now if he was to be helped, assistance would come through johnnie consadine! it was more than she could bear. "i don't believe it!" she gasped. "you know who to find! you're just getting up this story to be noticed. you're always doing things to attract attention to yourself. you want to go riding around in an automobile and--and--mr. stoddard has probably gone in to watauga and taken the midnight train for boston. this looking around in the mountains is folly. who would want to harm him in the mountains?" for a moment johnnie stood, thwarted and non-plussed. the insults directed toward herself made almost no impression on her, strangely as they came from lydia sessions's lips. she was too intent on her own purpose to care greatly. "shade buckheath--" she began cautiously, intending only to state that shade had taken stoddard's car; but lydia sessions drew back with a scream. "it's a lie!" she cried. "there isn't a word of truth in what you say, john consadine. oh, you're the plague of my life--you have been from the first! you follow me about and torment me. shade buckheath had nothing to do with gray stoddard's disappearance, i tell you. nothing--nothing --nothing!" she thrust forward her face and sent forth the words with incredible vehemence. but her tirade kindled in johnnie no heat of personal anger. she stood looking intently at the frantic woman before her. slowly a light of comprehension dawned in her eyes. "shade buckheath had everything to do with gray stoddard's disappearance. you know it--that's what ails you now. you--you must have been there when they quarrelled!" "they didn't quarrel--they didn't!" protested miss lydia, with a yet more hysteric emphasis. "they didn't even speak to each other. mr. stoddard said 'good morning' to me, and rode right past." johnnie leant forward and, with a sudden sweeping movement, caught the other woman by the wrist, looking deep into her eyes. "lydia," she said accusingly, and neither of them noticed the freedom of the address, "you didn't tell the truth when you said you hadn't seen gray since friday night. you saw him friday morning--_you_--_and_-- _shade_--_buckheath_! you have both lied about it--god knows why. now, shade and my stepfather have taken poor gray's car and gone up into the mountains. _what do you think they went for?_" the blazing young eyes were on miss sessions's tortured countenance. "oh, don't let those men get at gray. they'll murder him!" sobbed the older woman, sinking once more to her knees. "johnnie--i've always been good to you, haven't i? you go and tell them that--say that shade buckheath--that somebody ought to--" she broke off abruptly, and sprang up like a suddenly goaded creature. "no, i won't!" she cried out. "you needn't ask it of me. i will not tell about seeing mr. stoddard friday morning. i promised not to, and it can't do any good, anyhow. if you set them at me, i'll deny it and tell them you made up the story. i will--i will--i will!" and she ran into her room once more, and threw herself down beside the bed. johnnie turned contemptuously and left the woman babbling incoherencies on her knees, evidently preparing to pray to a god whose laws she was determined to break. chapter xxii the atlas vertebra johnnie hurried downstairs, in a mental turmoil out of which there swiftly formed itself the resolution to go herself and if possible overtake or find shade and her stepfather. word must first be sent to her mother. she was glad to remember that little bankbook under laurella's pillow. mavity and mandy would tend the invalids well, helped by little lissy; and with money available, she was sure they would be allowed to lack for nothing. she crossed the hall swiftly, meaning to go past the little grocery where they bought their supplies and telephone mavity that she might be away for several days. but near the side door she noted the hardwick telephone, and hesitated a moment. people would hear her down at mayfield's. already she began to have a terror of being watched or followed. hesitatingly she took down the receiver and asked for connection. at the little tinkle of the bell, there was a swift, light rush above stairs. "mahala!" screamed miss sessions's voice over the banisters, thinking the maid was below stairs; "answer that telephone." she heard johnnie move, and added, "tell everybody that i can't be seen. if it's anything about mr. stoddard, say that i'm sick--utterly prostrated--and can't be talked to." she turned from the stairway, ran back into her own room and shut and locked the door. and at that moment johnnie heard mavity bence's voice replying to her. "aunt mavity," she began, "this is johnnie. i'm up at mr. hardwick's now. uncle pros is out in the mountains, and i'm going to look for him. i'd rather not have anybody know i'm gone; do you understand that? try to keep it from the boarders and the children. you and mandy are the only ones that would have to know." "yes, honey, yes, johnnie," came the eager, humble reply. "i'll do just like you say. shan't nobody find out from me. johnnie--" there was a pause--"johnnie, pap and shade didn't get off as soon as they expected. something was the matter with the machine, i believe. they ain't been gone to exceed a quarter of an hour. i--i thought maybe you'd like to know." "thank you, aunt mavity," said johnnie. "yes, i'm glad you told me." she understood what a struggle the kind soul had had with her weakness and timidity ere, for loyalty's sake, she was able to make the disclosure. "i may not be back for two or three days. don't worry about me. i'll be all right. mother's got money. you buy what she and deanie need, and don't work too hard. good-bye." she hung up the receiver, went out the side door and, reaching the main street, struck straight for the gap, holding the big road for the unakas. to her left was the white highway that ran along above the valley, and that palace of pleasure which had seemed a wonder and a mystery to her one year gone. to-day she gave no thought to the sight of river and valley and town, except to look back once at the roofs and reflect that, among all the people housed there in sight of her, there were surely those who knew the secret of gray stoddard's disappearance--who could tell her if they would where to search for him. somehow, the thought made her feel very small and alone and unfriended. with its discouragement came that dogged persistence that was characteristic of the girl. she set her trembling lip and went over her plans resolutely, methodically. deanie and laurella were safe to be well looked after in her absence. mavity bence and mandy would care for them tenderly. and there was the bankbook. if johnnie knew her mother, the household back there would not lack, either for assistance or material matters. and now the present enterprise began to shape itself in her mind. a practical creature, she depended from the first on getting a lift from time to time. yet johnnie knew better than another the vast, silent, secret network of hate that draws about the victim in a mountain vendetta. if the spirit of feud was aroused against the mill owners, if the groners and dawsons had been able to enlist their kin and clan, she was well aware that the man or woman who gave her smiling information as to ways and means, might, the hour before, have looked on gray stoddard lying dead, or sat in the council which planned to kill him. thus she walked warily, and dared ask from none directions or help. she was not yet in her own region, these lower ridges lying between two lines of railway, which, from the mountaineer's point of view, contaminated them and gave them a tincture of the valley and the settlement. noon came and passed. she was very weary. factory life had told on her physically, and the recent distress of mind added its devitalizing influence. there was a desperate flagging of the muscles weakened by disuse and an unhealthy indoor life. "i wonder can i ever make it?" she questioned herself. then swiftly, "i've got to--i've got to." her eye roved toward a cabin on the slope above. there lived a man by the name of straley, but he was a cousin to lura dawson, the girl who had died in the hospital. johnnie knew him to be one of the bitterest enemies of the cottonville mill owners, and realized that he would be the last one to whom she should apply. mutely, doggedly, she pressed on, and rounding a bend in a long, lonely stretch of road, saw before her the tall, lithe form of a man, trousers tucked into boots, a tall staff in hand, making swift progress up the road. the sound of feet evidently arrested the attention of the wayfarer. he turned and waited for her to come up. the figure was so congruous with its surroundings that she saw with surprise a face totally strange to her. the turned-down collar of the rumpled shirt was unbuttoned at a brown throat; the face above seemed to her eyes neither old nor young, though the light, springing gait when he walked, the supple, easeful attitude now that he rested, one hand flung high on the curious tall staff, were those of a youth; the eyes of a warm, laughing hazel had the direct fearlessness of a child, and a slouch hat carried in the hand showed a fair crop of slightly grizzled, curling hair. a stranger--at first the thought frightened, and then attracted her. this man looked not unlike johnnie's own people, and there was something in his face that led her to entertain the idea of appealing to him for help. he settled the question of whether or no she should enter into conversation, by accosting her at once brusquely and genially. "mornin', sis'. you look tired," he said. "you ought to have a stick, like me. hold on--i'll cut you one." before the girl could respond beyond an answering smile and "good morning," the new friend had put his own alpenstock into her hands and gone to the roadside, where, with unerring judgment, he selected a long, straight, tapering shoot of ash, and hewed it deftly with a monster jack-knife drawn from his trousers pocket. "there--try that," he said as he returned, trimming off the last of the leaves and branches. johnnie took the staff with her sweet smile of thanks. for a few moments the two walked on silently side by side, she desperately absorbed in her anxieties, her companion apparently returning to some world apart in his own mind. suddenly: "can i get to the railroad down this side?" the man asked her in that odd, incidental voice of his which suggested that what he said was merely a small portion of what he thought. "why--yes, i reckon so," hesitated johnnie. "it's a pretty far way, and there don't many folks travel on it. it's an old indian trail; a heap of our roads here are that; but it'll take you right to the railroad--the w. and a." her companion chuckled, seemingly with some inner satisfaction. "yes, that's just what i supposed. i soldiered all over this country, and i thought it was about as pretty scenery as god ever made. i promised myself then that if i ever came back into this part of the world, i'd do some tramping through here. they're going to have a great big banquet at atlanta, and they had me caged up taking me down there to make a speech. i gave them the slip at watauga. i knew i'd strike the railroad if i footed it through the mountains here." johnnie examined her companion with attention. would it do to ask him if he had seen an automobile on the road--a dark green car? dare she make inquiry as to whether he had heard of gray stoddard's disappearance, or met any of the searchers? she decided on a conservative course. "i wish i had time to set you in the right road," she hesitated; "but my poor old uncle is out here somewhere among these ridges and ravines; he's not in his right mind, and i've got to find him if i can." "crazy, do you mean?" asked her companion, with a quick yet easy, smiling attention. "i'd like to see him, if he's crazy. i take a great interest in crazy folks. some of 'em have a lot of sense left." johnnie nodded. "he doesn't know any of us," she said pitifully. "they've had him in the hospital three months, trying to do something for him; but the doctors say he'll never be well." "that's right hopeful," observed the man, with a plainly intentional, dry ludicrousness. "i always think there's some chance when the doctors give 'em up--and begin to let 'em alone. how was he hurt, sis'?" johnnie did not pause to reflect that she had not said uncle pros was hurt at all. for some reason which she would herself have been at a loss to explain, she hastened to detail to this chance-met stranger the exact appearance and nature of pros passmore's injuries, her listener nodding his head at this or that point; making some comment or inquiry at another. "the doctors say that they would suppose it was a fractured skull, or concussion of the brain, or something like that; but they've examined him and there is nothing to see on the outside; and they trephined and it didn't do any good; so they just let him stay about the hospital." "no," said her new friend softly, almost absently, "it didn't do any good to trephine--but it might have done a lot of harm. i'd like to see the back of your uncle's neck. i ain't in any hurry to get to that banquet at atlanta--a man can always overeat and make himself sick, without going so far to do it." so, like an idle schoolboy, the unknown forsook his own course, turning from the road when johnnie turned, and went with her up the steep, rocky gulch where the door of a deserted cabin flung to and fro on its hinges. at sight of the smokeless chimney, the gaping doorway and empty, inhospitable interior, johnnie looked blank. "have you got anything to eat?" she asked her companion, hesitatingly. "i came off in such a hurry that i forgot all about it. some people that i know used to live in that cabin, and i hoped to get my dinner there and ask after my uncle; but i see they have moved." "sit right down here," said the stranger, indicating the broad door-stone, around which the grass grew tall. "we'll soon make that all right." he sought in the pockets of the coat he carried slung across his shoulder and brought out a packet of food. "i laid in some fuel when i thought i might get the chance to run my own engine across the mountains," he told the girl, opening his bundle and dividing evenly. he uttered a few musical words in an unknown tongue. "that's indian," he commented carelessly, without looking at her. "it means you're to eat your dinner. i was with the shawnees when i was a boy. i learned a lot of their language, and i'll never forget it. they taught me more things than talk." johnnie studied the man beside her as they ate their bit of lunch. "my name is johnnie consadine, sir," she told him. "what shall i call you?" thus directly questioned, the unknown smiled quizzically, his hazel eyes crinkling at the corners and overflowing with good humour. "well, you might say 'pap,'" he observed consideringly, "lots of boys and girls do call me pap--more than a thousand of 'em, now, i guess. and i'm eighty--mighty near old enough to have a girl of nineteen." she looked at him in astonishment. eighty years old, as lithe as a lad, and with a lad's clear, laughing eye! yet there was a look of power, of that knowledge which is power, in his face that made her say to him: "do you think that uncle pros can ever be cured--have his right mind back again, i mean? of course, the cut on his head is healed up long ago." "the cut on his head didn't make him crazy," said her companion, murmuringly. "of course it wasn't that, or he would have been raving when he came down from the mountain. something happened to him afterward." "yes, there did," johnnie assented wonderingly--falteringly. "i don't know how you came to guess it, but the woman who told me that she was hiding in the front room when they were quarrelling and saw uncle pros fall down the steps, says he landed almost square on his head. she thought at first his neck was broken--that he was killed." "uh-huh," nodded the newcomer. "you see i'm a good guesser. i make my living guessing things." he flung her a whimsical, sidelong glance, as, having finished their lunch, they rose and moved on. "i wish i had my hands on the processes of that atlas vertebra," he said. "on--on what?" inquired johnnie in a slightly startled tone. "never mind, sis'. if we find him, and i can handle him, i'll know where to look." "nobody can touch him but me when he gets out this way," johnnie said. "he acts sort of scared and sort of fierce, and just runs and hides from people. maybe if you'll tell me what you want done, i could do it." "maybe you could--and then again maybe you couldn't," returned the other, with a great show of giving her proposition serious consideration. "a good many folks think they can do just what i can--if i'd only tell 'em how--and sometimes they find out they can't." upon the word, they topped a little rise, and johnnie laid a swift, detaining hand upon her companion's arm. at the roadside, in a little open, grassy space where once evidently a cabin had stood, knelt the figure of a gaunt old man. at first he seemed to the approaching pair to be gesticulating and pointing, but a moment's observation gave them the gleam of a knife in his hand--he was playing mumblety-peg. as they stood, drawn back near some roadside bushes, watching him, the long, lean old arm went up, the knife flashing against the knuckles of the clenched fist and, with a whirl of the wrist, reversing swiftly in air, to bury its blade in the soil before the player. "hi! hi! hi! i th'owed it. that counts two for me," the cracked old falsetto shrilled out. there on that grassy plot that might have been a familiar dooryard of his early days, he was playing alone, gone back to childhood. johnnie gazed and her eyes swam with unshed tears. "you better not go up there--and him with the knife and all," she murmured finally. the man beside her looked around into her face and laughed. "i'm not very bad scared," he said, advancing softly in line with his proposed patient, motioning the girl not to make herself known, or startle her uncle. johnnie stole after him, filled with anxiety. when the newcomer stood directly behind the kneeling man, he bent, and his arms shot out with surprising quickness. the fingers of one hand dropped as though predestined upon the back of the neck, the other caught skilfully beneath the chin. there was a sharp wrench, an odd crack, a grunt from uncle pros, and then the mountaineer sprang to his full and very considerable height with a roar. whirling upon his adversary, he grappled him in his long arms, hugging like a grizzly, and shouting: "you, gid himes, wha'r's my specimens?" he shook the stranger savagely. "you an' shade buckheath--you p'ar o' scoundrels--give me back my silver specimens! give me back my silver ore that shows about the mine for my little gal." "uncle pros! uncle pros!" screamed johnnie, rushing in and laying hold of the man's arm, "don't you know me? it's johnnie. don't hurt this gentleman." the convulsion of rage subsided in the old man with almost comical suddenness. his tense form relaxed; he stumbled back, dropping his hands at his sides and staring about him, then at johnnie. "why, honey," he gasped, "how did you come here? whar's gid? whar's shade buckheath? lord a'mighty! whar am i at?" he looked around him bewildered, evidently expecting to see the porch of himes's boarding-house at cottonville, the scattered bits of silver ore, and the rifled bandanna. he put his hand to his head, and sliding it softly down to the back of the neck demanded. "what's been did to me?" "you be right good and quiet now, and mind johnnie," the girl began, with a pathetic tremble in her voice, "and she'll take you back to the hospital where they're so kind to you." "the hospital?" echoed pros. "that hospital down at cottonville? i never was inside o' one o' them places--what do you want me to go thar for, johnnie? who is this gentleman? how came we-all up here on the road this-a-way?" "i can quiet him," said johnnie aside to her new friend. "i always can when he gets wild this way." the unknown shook his head. "you'll never have to quiet him any more, unless he breaks his neck again," came the announcement. "your uncle is as sane as anybody--he just doesn't remember anything that happened from the time he fell down the steps and slipped that atlas vertebra a little bit on one side." again pros passmore's fingers sought the back of his collar. "looks like somebody has been tryin' to wring my neck, same as a chicken's," he said meditatively. "but hit feels all right now--all right--hoo-ee!" he suddenly broke off to answer to a far, faint hail from the road below them. "pap! hey--pap!" the words came up through the clear blue air, infinitely diminished and attenuated, like some insect cry. the tall man seemed to guess just what the interruption would be. he turned with a pettish exclamation. "never could go anywhere, nor have any fun, but what some of the children had to tag," he protested. "hoo-ee!" he cupped his hands and sent his voice toward where two men in a vehicle had halted their horses and were looking anxiously up. "well--what is it?" "did you get lost? we hired a buggy and came out to find you," the man below called up. "well, if i get lost, i can find myself," muttered the newcomer. he looked regretfully at the green slopes about him; the lofty, impassive cliffs where peace seemed to perch, a visible presence; the great sweeps of free forest; then at uncle pros and johnnie. and they looked back at him dubiously. "i expect i'll have to leave you," he said at last. "i see what it is those boys want; they're trying to get me back to the railroad in time for the six-forty train. i'd a heap rather stay here with you, but--" he glanced from johnnie and uncle pros down to the men in their attitude of anxious waiting--"i reckon i'll have to go." he had made the first descending step when johnnie's hand on his arm arrested him. uncle pros knew not the wonder of his own restoration; but to the girl this man before her was something more than mortal. her eyes went from the lightly tossed hair on his brow to the mud-spattered boots--was he only a human being? what was the strange power he had over life and death and the wandering soul of man? "what--what--aren't you going to tell me your name, and what you are, before you go?" she entreated him. he laughed over his shoulder, an enigmatic laugh. "what was it you did to uncle pros?" her voice was vibrant with the awe and wonder of what she had seen. "was it the laying on of hands--as they tell of it in the bible?" "say, pap, hurry up, please," wailed up the thin, impatient reminder from the road. "well, yes--i laid my hands on him pretty strong. didn't i, old man?" and the stranger glanced to where uncle pros stood, still occasionally interrogating the back of his neck with fumbling fingers. "don't you worry, sis'; a girl like you will get a miracle when she has to have it. if i happened to be the miracle you needed, why, that's good. as for my profession--my business in life--there was a lot of folks that used to name me the lightning bone-setter. for my own part, i'd just as soon you'd call me a human engineer. i pride myself on knowing how the structure of man ought to work, and keeping the bearings right and the machinery properly levelled up. never mind. next time you have use for a miracle, it'll be along on schedule time, without you knowing what name you need to call it. you're that sort." with that curious, onlooker's smile of his and with a nod of farewell, he plunged down the steep. chapter xxiii a clue they stood together watching, as the tall form retreated around the sharp curves of the red clay road, or leaped lightly and hardily down the cut-offs. they waved back to their late companion when, climbing into the waiting buggy below, he was finally driven away. johnnie turned and looked long at her uncle with swimming eyes, as he stood gazing where the vehicle had disappeared. she finally laid a tremulous hand on his arm. "oh, uncle pros," she said falteringly, "i can't believe it yet. but you--you do understand me now, don't you? you know me. i'm johnnie." the old man wheeled sharply, and laughed. "see here, honey," he said with a tinge of irritation in his tones. "i reckon i've been crazy. from what you say, looks like i haven't known my best friends for a long time. but i have got as much sense now as i ever had, and i don't remember anything about that other business. last thing i know of was fussin' with gid himes and shade buckheath about my silver ore. by joe! i bet they got that stuff when i was took--johnnie, was i took sudden?" he seated himself on the lush, ancient, deep-rooted dooryard grass where, a half-hour gone, he had knelt, a harmless lunatic, playing mumblety peg. half reluctantly johnnie sank down beside him. "yes--yes--yes, uncle pros," the girl agreed, impatience mounting in her once more, with the assurance of her uncle's safety and well-being. "they did get your specimens; but we can fix all that; there's a worse thing happened now." and swiftly, succinctly, she told him of the disappearance of gray stoddard. "an' i been out o' my head six months and better," the old man ruminated, staring down at the ground. "good lord! it's funny to miss out part o' your days like that. hit was august--but--o-o-h, hot enough to fry eggs on a shingle, the day i tramped down to cottonville with them specimens; and here it is"--he threw up his head and took a comprehensive survey of the grove about him--"airly spring--march, i should say--ain't it, johnnie? yes," as she nodded. "and who is this here young man that you name that's missin', honey?" the girl glanced at him apprehensively. "you know, uncle pros," she said in a coaxing tone. "it's mr. stoddard, that used to come to the hospital to see you so much and play checkers with you when you got better. you--why, uncle pros, you liked him more than any one. he could get you to eat when you wouldn't take a spoonful from anybody else. you must remember him--you can't have forgot mr. stoddard." pros thrust out a long, lean arm, and fingered the sleeve upon it. "nor my own clothes, i reckon," he assented with a sort of rueful testiness; "but to the best of my knowin' and believin', i never in my life before saw this shirt i'm wearin'--every garment i've got on is a plumb stranger to me, johnnie. ye say i played checkers with him--and--" "uncle pros, you used to talk to him by the hour, when you didn't know me at all," johnnie told him chokingly. "i would get afraid that you asked too much of him, but he'd leave anything to come and sit with you when you were bad. he's got the kindest heart of anybody i ever knew." the old man's slow, thoughtful gaze was raised a moment to her eloquent, flushed face, and then dropped considerately to the path. "an' ye tell me he's one of the rich mill owners? mr. gray stoddard? that's one name you've never named in your letters. what cause have you to think that shade wished the man ill?" slowly johnnie's eyes filled with tears. "why, what shade said himself. he was--" "jealous of him, i reckon," supplied the old man. johnnie nodded. it was no time for evasions. "he had no call to be," she repeated. "mr. stoddard had no more thought of me in that way than he has of deanie. he'd be just as kind to one as the other. but shade brought his name into it, and threatened him to me in so many words. he said--" she shivered at the recollection--"he said he'd fix him--he'd get even with him. so this morning when i found that pap himes and shade had taken mr. stoddard's car and come on up this way, it scared me. yet i couldn't hardly go to anybody with it. i felt as though they would say it was just a vain, foolish girl thinking she'd stirred up trouble and had the men quarrelling over her. i did try to see mr. hardwick and mr. macpherson, and both of them were away. and after that i went to mr. hardwick's house. the miss sessions i wrote you so much about was the only person there, and she wouldn't do a thing. then i just walked up here on my two feet. uncle pros, i was desperate enough for anything." passmore had listened intently to johnnie's swift, broken, passionate sentences. "yes--ye-es," he said, as she made an end. "i sorter begin to see. hold on, honey, lemme think a minute." he sat for some time silent, with introverted gaze, johnnie with difficulty restraining her impatience, forbearing to break in upon his meditation. "hit cl'ars up to me--sorter--as i study on it," he finally said. "hit's like this, honey; six months ago (lord, lord, six months!) when i was walkin' down to take that silver ore to you, rudd dawson stopped me, and nothing would do but i must go home with him--ye know he's got the old gid himes place, in the holler back of our house--an' talk to will venters, jess groner, and rudd's brother sam. i didn't want to go--my head was plumb full of the silver-mine business, an' i jest wanted to git down to you quick as i could. the minute i said 'johnnie,' rudd 'lowed he wanted to warn me about you down in the cottonville mills. he went over all that stuff concerning lura, an' how she'd been killed off in the mill folk's hospital and her body shipped to cincinnati and sold. i put in my word that you was a-doin' well in the mills; an' i axed him what proof he had that the mill folks sold dead bodies. i 'lowed that you found the people at cottonville mighty kind, and the work good. he came right back at me sayin' that lura had talked the same way, and that many another had. well, i finally went with him to his place--the old gid himes house--an' him an' me an' sam an' groner had considerable talk. they told me how they'd all been down an' saw mr. hardwick, and how quare he spoke to 'em. 'them mill fellers never offered me a dollar, not a dollar,' says rudd. an' i says to him, 'good lord, dawson! never offered you money? for god's sake! did you want to be paid for lura's body?' and he says, 'you know damn' well i didn't want to be paid for lura's body, pros passmore,' he says. 'but do you reckon i'm a-goin' to let them mill men strut around with money they got that-a-way in their pockets? no, i'll not. i'll see 'em cold in hell fust,' he says--them dawsons is a hard nation o' folks, johnnie. i talked to 'em for a spell, and tried to make 'em see that the hardwick folks hadn't never sold no dead body to the student doctors; but they was all mad and out o' theirselves. i seed that they wanted to get up a feud. 'well,' says rudd, 'they've got one of the dawsons, and before we're done we'll get one o' them.' "'uh-huh,' i says, 'you-all air a-goin' to get one o' them, air ye? do you mean by that that you're ready to run your heads into a noose?' "'we don't have to run our heads into nary noose,' says sam dawson. 'shade buckheath is a-standin' in with us. he knows all them mill fellers, an' their ways. he aims to he'p us; an' we'll ketch one o' them men out, and carry him off up here som'ers, and hold him till they pay us what we ask. i reckon the live body of one o' them chaps is worth a thousand dollars.' that's jest what he said," concluded the old man, turning toward her; "an' from what you tell me, johnnie, i'll bet shade buckheath put the words in his mouth, if not the notion in his head." "yes," whispered johnnie through white lips, "yes; but shade buckheath isn't looking to make money out of it. he knows better than to think that they could keep mr. stoddard prisoner a while, and then get money for bringing him back, and never have to answer for it. he said he'd get even--he'd fix him. shade wants just one thing--oh, uncle pros! do you think they've killed him?" the old man looked carefully away from her. "this here kidnappin' business, an tryin' to get money out of a feller's friends, most generally does wind up in a killin'," he said. "the folks gits to huntin' pretty hot, then them that's done the trick gets scared, and--they wouldn't have no good place to put him, them dawsons, and--and," reluctantly, "a dead body's easier hid than a live man. truth is, hit looks mighty bad for the young feller, honey girl. to my mind hit's really a question of time. the sooner his friends gets to him the better, that's my belief." johnnie's pale, haggard face took on tragic lines as she listened to this plain putting of her own worst fears. she sprang up desperately. uncle pros rose, too. "now, which way?" she demanded. the old hunter stood, staring thoughtfully at the path before his feet, rubbing his jaw with long, supple fingers, the daze of his recent experience yet upon him. "well, i had aimed to go right to our old cabin," he said finally. "hit's little more than a mile to where dawson lives, in gid's old place in blue spring holler. they all think i'm crazy, an' they won't interfere with me--not till they find out different. your mother; she'll give us good help, once we git to her. there's them that thinks laurelly is light-minded and childish, but i could tell 'em she's got a heap of sense in that thar pretty little head o' her'n." "oh, uncle pros! i forgot you don't know--of course you don't," broke in johnnie with a sudden dismay in her voice. "i ought to have told you that mother"--she hesitated and looked at the old man--"mother isn't up at the cabin any more. i left her in cottonville this morning." "cottonville!" echoed pros in surprise. then he added, "o' course, she came down to take care o' me when i was hurt. that's like laurelly. is all the chaps thar? is the cabin empty? how's the baby?" johnnie nodded in answer to these inquiries, forbearing to go into any details. one thing she must tell him. "mother's--mother's married again," she managed finally to say. "she's--" the old man broke off and turned johnnie around that he might stare into her face. then he laughed. "well--well! things have been happenin'--with the old man crazy an' all!" he said. "an' yit i don't know it' so strange. laurelly is a mighty handsome little woman, and she don't look a day older than you do, johnnie. i reckon it came through me bein' away, an' her havin' nobody to do for her. 'course"--with pride--"she could have wedded 'most any time since your pa died, if she'd been so minded. who is it?" johnnie looked away from him. "i--uncle pros, i never heard a word about it till i came home one evening and there they were, bag and baggage, and they'd been married but an hour before by squire gaylord. it"--her voice sank almost to a whisper--"it's pap himes." the old man thrust her back and stared again. "gid--gideon himes?" he exclaimed incredulously. "why, the man's old enough to be her grand-daddy, let alone her father. gid himes--the old-- what in the name of--? johnnie--and you think himes is mixed up with this young man that's been laywaid--him and buckheath? lord, what _is_ all this business?" "when shade found i wouldn't have him," johnnie began resolutely at the beginning, "he got pap himes to take him to board so that he could always be at me, tormenting me about it. i don't know what he and pap himes had between them; but something--that i'm sure of. and after the old man went up and married mother, it was worse. he put the children in the mill and worked them almost to death; even--even deanie," she choked back a sob. "and shade as good as told me he could make pap himes stop it any time i'd promise to marry him. something they were pulling together over. maybe it was the silver mine." "the silver mine!" echoed old pros. "that's it. gid thought i was likely to die, and the mine would come to your mother. not but what he'd be glad enough to get laurelly--but that's what put it in his head. an' gid himes is married to my little laurelly, an' been abusin' the children! lord, hit don't pay for a man to go crazy. things gits out of order without him." "well, what do you think now?" johnnie inquired impatiently. "we mustn't stay here talking when mr. stoddard may be in mortal danger. shall we go on to our place, just the same?" the old man looked compassionately at her. "hold on, honey girl," he demurred gently. "we--" he sighted at the sun, which was declining over beyond the ridges toward watauga. "i'm mighty sorry to pull back on ye, but we've got to get us a place to stay for the night. see," he directed her gaze with his own; "hit's not more'n a hour by sun. we cain't do nothin' this evenin'." the magnitude of the disappointment struck johnnie silent. pros passmore was an optimist, one who never used a strong word to express sorrow or dismay, but he came out of a brown study in which he had muttered, "blaylock. no, harp wouldn't do. culp's. sally ann's not to be trusted. what about the venable boys? no good"--to say with a distressed drawing of the brows, "my god! in a thing like this, you don't know who to look to." "no. that's so, uncle pros," whispered johnnie; she gazed back down the road she had come with the stranger. "i went up slater's lane to find mandy meacham's sister roxy that married zack peavey," she said. "but they've moved from the cabin down there. they must have been gone a good while, for there's no work done on the truck-patch. i guess they went up to the nooning-spring place--mandy said they talked of moving there. we might go and see. mandy"--she hesitated, and looked questioningly at her uncle--"mandy's been awful good to all of us, and she liked mr. stoddard." "we'll try it," said pros passmore, and they set out together. they climbed in silence, using a little-travelled woods-road, scarce more than two deep, grass-grown ruts, full of rotting stumps. suddenly a couple of children playing under some wayside bushes leaped up and ran ahead of them, screaming. "maw--he's comin' back, and he's got a woman with him!" a turn in the road brought the nooning-spring cabin in sight, a tiny, one-roomed log structure, ancient and ruinous; and in its door a young woman standing, with a baby in her arms, staring with all her eyes at them and at their approaching couriers. she faltered a step toward the dilapidated rail fence as they came up. "howdy," she said in a low, half-frightened tone. then to uncle pros, "we-all was mighty uneasy when you never come back." involuntarily the old man's hand went to that vertebra whose eighth-inch displacement had been so lately reduced. "have i been here?" he asked. "i was out of my head, and i don't remember it." the young woman looked at him with a hopeless drawing of scant, light eyebrows above bulging gray eyes. she chugged the fretting baby gently up and down in her arms to hush it. johnnie saw her resemblance to mandy. apparently giving up the effort in regard to the man, zack peavey's wife addressed the girl as an easier proposition. "he was here," she said in a sort of aside. "he stayed all night a-saturday. zack said he was kinder foolish, but i thought he had as much sense as most of 'em." her gaze rested kindly on the old man. the children, wild and shy as young foxes, had stolen to the door of the cabin, in which they had taken refuge, and were staring out wonderingly. "well, we'll have to ask you could we stay to-night," johnnie began doubtfully. "my uncle's been out of his head, and he got away from the folks at the hospital. i came up to hunt for him. i've just found him--but we aren't going right back. i met a man out there on the road that did something to him that--that--" she despaired of putting into words that the woman could comprehend the miracle which she had seen the stranger work--"well, uncle pros is all right now, and we'd like to stay the night if we can." "come in--come in--the both of you," urged the woman, turning toward the cabin. "'course, ye kin stay, an' welcome. set and rest. zack ain't home now. he's--" a curious, furtive look went over her round face. "zack has got a job on hand, ploughing for--ploughing for a neighbour, but he'll be home to-night." they went in and sat down. a kettle of wild greens was cooking over the fire, and everything was spotlessly clean. mandy had said truly that there wasn't a thing on the farm she didn't love to do, and the gift of housewifery ran in the family. johnnie had barely explained who she was, and made such effort as she could to enlist mandy's sister, when zack came tramping home, and showed, she thought, some uneasiness at finding them there. the wife ran out and met him before he reached the cabin, and they stood talking together a long time, the lines of both figures somehow expressing dismay; yet when they came in there was a fair welcome in the man's demeanour. at the supper table, whose scanty fare was well cooked, uncle pros and johnnie had to tell again, and yet again, the story of that miraculous healing which both husband and wife could see was genuine. through it all, both pros and johnnie attempted to lead the talk around to some information which might be of use to them. nothing was more natural than that they should speak of gray stoddard's disappearance, since watauga, cottonville, and the mountains above were full of the topic; yet husband and wife sheered from it in a sort of terror. "them that makes or meddles in such gits theirselves into trouble, that's what i say," zack told the visitors, stroking a chin whose contours expressed the resolution and aggressiveness of a rabbit. "i ain't never seen this here mr. man as far as i know. i don't never want to see him. i ain't got no call to mix myself up in such, and i 'low i'll sleep easier and live longer if i don't do it." "that's right," quavered roxy. "burkhalter's boy, he had to go to mixin' in when the culps and the venables was feudin'; and look what chanced. nary one o' them families lost a man; but burkhalter's boy got hisself killed up. yes, that's what happened to him. dead. i went to the funeral." "true as scriptur'," confirmed zack--"reach an' take off, pros. johnnie, eat hearty--true as you-all set here. i he'ped make the coffin an' dig the grave." after a time there came a sort of ruth to johnnie for the poor creatures, furtive, stealing glances at each other, and answering her inquiries or uncle pros's with dry, evasive platitudes. she knew there was no malice in either of them; and that only the abject terror of the weak kept them from giving whatever bit of information it was they had and were consciously withholding. soon she ceased plying them with questions, and signalled uncle pros that he should do the same. after the children were asleep in their trundle-bed, the four elders sat by the dying fire on the hearth and talked a little. johnnie told zack and roxy of the mill work at cottonville, how well she had got on, and how good mr. stoddard had been to her, choking over the treasured remembrances. she related the many kindnesses that had been shown pros and his kinfolk at the hospital, how the old man had been there for three months, treated as a guest during the latter part of his stay rather than a patient, and how mr. stoddard would leave his work in the office to come and cheer the sick man, or quiet him if he got violent. "he looked perfectly dreadful when i first saw him," she said to them, "but the doctors took care of him as if he'd been a little baby. the nurses fed him by spoonfuls and coaxed him just like you would little honey; and mr. stoddard--he never was too busy to--" the tears brimmed her eyes in the dusky cabin interior--"to come when uncle pros begged for him." the woman sighed and stirred uneasily, her eye stealthily seeking her husband's. in that little one-room hut there was no place for guests. presently the men drifted out to the chip pile, where they lingered a while in desultory talk. roxy and johnnie, partly undressed, occupied the one bed; and later the host and his guest came in and lay down, clothed just as they were, with their feet to the fire, and slept. in the darkness just before dawn, johnnie wakened from heavy sleep and raised her head to find that a clear fire was burning on the hearth and the two men were gone. noiselessly she arose, and replaced her outer wear, thinking to slip away without disturbing roxy. but when she returned softly to the interior, after laving face and hands out at the wash-basin, and ordering her abundant hair, she found the little woman up and clad, slicing bacon and making coffee of generous strength from their scanty store. "no--why, the idea!" cried roxy. "of course, you wasn't a-goin' on from no house o' mine 'thout no breakfast. why, i say!" johnnie's throat swelled at the humble kindness. they ate, thanked roxy and her man zack in the simple uneffusive mountain fashion, and started away in the twilight of dawn. the big road was barely reached, when they heard steps coming after them in the dusk, and a breathless voice calling in a whisper, "johnnie! johnnie!" the two turned and waited till roxy came up. "i--ye dropped this on the floor," the woman said, fumbling in her pocket and bringing out a bit of paper. "i didn't know as it was of any value--and then again i didn't know but what it might be. johnnie--" she broke off and stood peering hesitatingly into the gloom toward the girl's shining face. with a quick touch of the arm johnnie signed to pros to move on. as he swung out of earshot, the bulging light eyes, so like mandy's, were suddenly dimmed by a rush of tears. "i reckon he'd beat me ef he knowed i told," roxy gasped. "he ain't never struck me yit, and us married five year--but i reckon he'd beat me for that." johnnie wisely forbore reply or interference of any sort. the woman gulped, drew her breath hard, and looked about her. "johnnie," she whispered again, "the--that there thing they ride in--the otty-mobile--hit broke down, and zack was over to pres blevin's blacksmith shop a-he'pin' 'em work on it all day yesterday. you know pres--he married lura dawson's aunt. neither himes nor buckheath could git it to move, but by night they had it a-runnin'--or so hit _would_ run. that's why you never saw tracks of it on the road--hit hadn't been along thar yit. but hit's went on this morning. no--no--no! i don't know whar it went. i don't know what they was aimin' to do. i don't know nothin'! don't ask me, johnnie consadine, i reckon i've said right now what's put my man's neck in danger. oh, my god--i wish the men-folks would quit their fussin' an' feudin'!" and she turned and ran distractedly back into the cabin while johnnie hurried on to join her uncle. chapter xxiv the rescue johnnie caught her uncle's hand and ran with him through the little thicket of saplings toward the main road. "we'll get the track of the wheels, and when we find that car--and shade buckheath--and pap himes....i ..." johnnie panted, and did not finish her sentence. her heart leaped when they came upon the broad mark of the pneumatic tires still fresh in the lonely mountain road. "looks like they might have passed here while we was standin' back there talkin' to roxy," uncle pros said. "they could have--we'd not have heard a thing that distance, through this thick woods. wonder could we catch up with them?" johnnie shook her head. she remembered the car flying up the ascents, swooping down long slopes and skimming like a bird across the levels, that morning when she had driven it. "they'll go almost as fast as a railroad train, uncle pros," she told him, "but we must get there as soon as we can." after that scarcely a word was spoken, while the two, still hand in hand, made what speed they could. the morning waxed. the march sunshine was warm and pleasant. it was even hot, toiling endlessly up that mountain road. now and again they met people who knew and saluted them, and who looked back at them curiously, furtively; at least it seemed so to the old man and the girl. once a lean, hawk-nosed fellow ploughing a hillside field shouted across it: "hey-oh, pros passmore! how yuh come on? i 'lowed the student doctors would 'a' had you, long ago." pros ventured no reply, save a wagging of the head. "that's blaylock's cousin," he muttered to johnnie. "mighty glad we never went near 'em last night." once or twice they were delayed to talk. johnnie would have hurried on, but her uncle warned her with a look to do nothing unusual. everybody spoke to them of gray stoddard. nobody had seen anything of him within a month of his disappearance, but several of them had "hearn say." "they tell me," vouchsafed a lanky boy dawdling with his axe at a chip pile, "that the word goes in cottonville now, that he's took money and lit out for canada. town folks is always a-doin' such." "like as not, bud," pros assented gravely. "me and johnnie is goin' up to look after the old house, but we allowed to sleep to-night at bushares's. time enough to git to our place to-morrow." johnnie, who knew that her uncle hoped to reach the consadine cabin by noon, instantly understood that he considered the possibility of this boy being a sort of picket posted to interview passers-by; and that the intention was to misinform him, so that he should not carry news of their approach. after this, they met no one, but swung on at their best pace, and for the most part in silence, husbanding strength and breath. twelve o'clock saw them entering that gash of the hills where the little cabin crouched against the great mountain wall. the ground became so rocky, that the track of the automobile was lost. at first it would be visible now and again on a bit of sandy loam, chain marks showing, where the tire left no impression; but, within a mile or so of the consadine home, it seemed to have left the trail. when this point arrived, johnnie differed from her uncle in choosing to hold to the road. "honey, this ends the cyar-tracks. looks like they'd turned out. i think they took off into the bushes here, and where that cyar goes we ought to go," pros argued. but johnnie hurried on ahead, looking about her eagerly. suddenly she stooped with a cry and picked up from the path a small object. "they've carried him past this way," she panted. "oh, uncle pros, he was right here not so very long ago." she scrutinized the sparse growth, the leafless bushes about the spot, looking for signs of a struggle, and the question in her heart was, "my god, was he alive or dead?" the thing she held in her hand was a blossom of the pink moccasin flower, carefully pressed, as though for the pages of a herbarium; the bit of paper to which it was attached was crumpled and discoloured. "looks like it had laid out in the dew last night," breathed johnnie. "or for a week," supplied pros. he scanned the little brown thing, then her face. "all right," he said dubiously; "if that there tells you that he come a-past here, we'll foller this road--though it 'pears to me like we ought to stick to the cyar." "it isn't far to our house," urged johnnie. "let's go there first, anyhow." for a few minutes they pressed ahead in silence; then some subtle excitement made them break into a run. thus they rounded the turn. the cabin came in sight. its door swung wide on complaining hinges. the last of the rickety fence had fallen. the desolation and decay of a deserted house was over all. "there's been folks here--lately," panted pros. "look thar!" and he pointed to a huddle of baskets and garments on the porch. "mind out! go careful. they may be thar now." they "went careful," stealing up the steps and entering with caution; but they found nothing more alarming than the four bare walls, the ash-strewn, fireless hearth, the musty smell of a long-unoccupied house. near the back door, at a spot where the dust was thick, uncle pros bent to examine a foot-print, when an exclamation from johnnie called him through to the rear of the cabin. "see the door!" she cried, running up the steep way toward the cave spring-house. "hold on, honey. go easy," cautioned her uncle, following as fast as he could. he noted the whittling where the sapling bar that held the stout oaken door in place had been recently shaped to its present purpose. then a soft, rhythmic sound like a giant breathing in his sleep caught the old hunter's keen ear. "watch out, johnnie," he called, catching her arm, "what's that? listen!" her fingers were almost on the bar. they could hear the soft lip-lip of the water as it welled out beneath the threshold, mingled with the tinkle and fall of the spring branch below. johnnie turned in her uncle's grasp and clutched him, staring down. something shining and dark, brave with brass and flashing lamps, stood on the rocky way beneath, and purred like a great cat in the broad sunlight of noon--gray stoddard's motor car! the two, clinging to each other on the steep above it, gazed half incredulous, now that they had found the thing they sought. it looked so unbelievably adequate and modern and alive standing there, drawing its perfectly measured breath; it was so eloquent of power and the work of men's hands that there seemed to yawn a gap of half a thousand years between it and the raid in which it was being made a factor. that this pet toy of the modern millionaire should be set to work out the crude vengeance of wild men in these primitive surroundings, crowded up on a little rocky path of these savage mountains, at the door of a cave spring-house--such a food-cache as a nomad indian might have utilized, in the gray bluff against the sky-line--it took the breath with its sinister strangeness. they turned to the barred door. the cave was a sizable opening running far back into the mountain; indeed, the end of it had never been explored, but the vestibule containing the spring was fitted with rude benches and shelves for holding pans of milk and jars of buttermilk. as johnnie's hand went out to the newly cut bar, her uncle once more laid a restraining grasp upon it. a dozen men might be on the other side of the oaken door, and there might be nobody. "hello!" he called, guardedly. no answer came; but within there was a sound of clinking, and then a shuffling movement. the panting motor spoke loud of those who had brought it there, who must be expecting to return to it very shortly. johnnie's nerves gave way. "hello! is there anybody inside?" she demanded fearfully. "who's there? who is it?" came a muffled hail from the cave, in a voice that sent the blood to johnnie's heart with a sudden shock. "uncle pros, we've found him!" she screamed, pushing the old man aside, and tugging at the bar which held the door in place. as she worked, there came a curious clinking sound, and then the dull impact of a heavy fall; and when she dragged the bar loose, swung the door wide and peered into the gloom, there was nothing but the silvery reach of the great spring, and beyond it a prone figure in russet riding-clothes. "uncle pros--he's hurt! oh, help me!" she cried. the prostrate man struggled to turn his face to them. "is that you, johnnie?" gray stoddard's voice asked. "no, i'm not hurt. these things tripped me up." the two got to him simultaneously. they found him in heavy shackles. they noted how ankle and wrist chains had been rivetted in place. together they helped him up. as they did so tears ran down johnnie's cheeks unregarded. passmore deeply moved, yet quiet, studied him covertly. this, then, was the man of whom johnnie thought so much, the rich young fellow who had left his work or amusements to come and cheer a sick old man in the hospital; this was the face that was a stranger's to him, but which had leaned over his cot or sat across the checker-board from him for long hours, while they talked or played together. that face was pale now, the brown hair, "a little longer than other people wore it," tossed helplessly in stoddard's eyes, because he scarcely could raise his shackled hands to put it right; his russet-brown clothing was torn and grimed, as though with more than one struggle, though it may have been nothing worse than such mishap as his recent fall. yet the man's soul looked out of his eyes with the same composure, the same kindness that always were his. he was eaten by neither terror nor rage, though he was alert for every possibility of help, or of advantage. "you, johnnie--you!" whispered gray, struggling to his knees with their assistance, and catching a fold of her dress in those manacled hands. "i have dreamed about you here in the dark. it is you--it is really johnnie." he was pale, dishevelled, with a long mark of black leaf-mould across his cheek from his recent fall; and johnnie bent speechlessly to wipe the stain away and put back the troublesome lock. he looked up into the brave beauty of her young, tear-wet face. "thank god for you, johnnie," he murmured. "i might have known i wouldn't be let to die here in the dark like a rat in a hole while johnnie lived." "whar's them that brought you here? the keepers?" questioned the old man anxiously, in a hoarse, hurried whisper. "dawson's gone to his dinner," returned gray. "there were others here--came in an auto--i heard that. they've been quarrelling for more than an hour." --"about what they'd do with you," broke in pros. "yes, part of 'em wants to put you out of the way, of course." he stooped, eagerly examining the shackles on gray's ankles. "no way to git them things off without time and a file," he muttered, shaking his head. "no," agreed stoddard. "and i can't run much with them on. but we must get away from here as quick as we can. dawson came in and told me after the other had gone that they had a big row, and he was standing out for me. said he'd never give in to have me taken down and tied on the railroad track in stryver's gulch." johnnie's fair face whitened at the sinister words. "the car!" she cried. "it's your own, mr. stoddard, and it's right down here. uncle pros, we can get him to it--i can run it--i know how." she put her shoulder under stoddard's, catching the manacled hand in hers. pros laid hold on the other side, and between them they half carried the shackled captive around the spring and to the door. "leggo, johnnie!" cried her uncle. "you run on down and see if that contraption will go. i can git him thar now." johnnie instantly loosed the arm she held, sprang through the doorway, and headlong down the bluffy steep, stones rattling about her. she leaped into the car. would her memory serve her? would she forget some detail that she must know? there were two levers under the steering-wheel. she advanced her spark and partly opened the throttle. from the steady, comfortable purr which had undertoned all sounds in the tiny glen, the machine burst at once into a deep-toned roar. the narrow depression vibrated with its joyous clamour. suddenly, above the sound, johnnie was aware of a distant hail, which finally resolved itself into words. "hi! hoo--ee! you let that car alone, whoever you are." she glanced over her shoulder; passmore had got gray to the top of the declivity, and was attempting to help him down. both men evidently heard the challenge, but she screamed to them again and again. "hurry, oh hurry! they're coming--they're coming." stoddard had been stepping as best he could, hobbling along in the hampering leg chains, that were attached to the wrists also, and twitched on his hands with every step. his muscles responded to johnnie's cry almost automatically, stiffening to an effort at extra speed, and he fell headlong, dragging pros down with him. despairingly johnnie started to climb down from the car and go to their aid, but her uncle leaped to his feet clawing and grabbing to find a hold around gray's waist, panting out, "stay thar--johnnie--i can fetch him." with a straining heave he hoisted gray's helpless body into his arms. the car trembled like a great, eager monster, growling in leash. johnnie's agonized eyes searched first its mechanism, and then went to the descending figures, where her uncle plunged desperately down the slope, fell, struggled, rolled, but rose and came gallantly on, half dragging, half carrying gray in his arms. "let that car alone!" a new voice took up the hail, a little nearer this time; and after it came the sound of a shot. high up on the mountain's brow, against the sky, johnnie caught a glimpse of the heads and shoulders of men, with the slanting bar of a gun barrel over one. "oh, hurry, uncle pros!" she sobbed. "let me come back and help you." but passmore stumbled across the remaining space; mutely, with drawn face and loud, labouring breath he lifted gray and thrust him any fashion into the tonneau, climbing blindly after. the pursuit on the hill above broke into the open. johnnie moved the levers as gray had shown her how to do, and with a bound of the great machine, they were off. stoddard, dazed, bruised, abraded, was back in the tonneau struggling up with uncle pros's assistance. he could not help her. she must know for herself and do the right thing. the track led through the bushes, as they had found it that morning. it was fairly good, but terribly steep. she noted that the speed lever was at neutral. she slipped it over to the first speed; the car was already leaping down the hill at a tremendous pace; yet those yelling voices were behind, and her pushing fingers carried the lever through second to the third speed without pausing. under this tremendous pressure the car jumped like a nervous horse, lurched drunkenly down the short way, but reeled successfully around the turn at the bottom. johnnie knew this was going too fast. she debated the possibility of slackening the speed a bit as they struck the highway, such as it was. uncle pros, yet gasping, was trying to help gray into the seat; but with his hampering manacles and the jerking of the car, the younger man was still on his knees, when the chase burst through the bushes, scarcely more than three hundred feet behind them. there was a hoarse baying of men's voices; there were four of them running hard, and two carried guns. the noise of the machine, of course, prevented its occupants from distinguishing any word, but the menace of the open pursuit was apparent. "johnnie!" cried gray. "oh, this won't do! for god's sake, mr. passmore, help me over there. they wouldn't want to hurt her--but they're going to shoot. she--" the old man thrust gray down, with a hand on his shoulder. "you keep out o' range," he shouted close to gray's ear. "they won't aim to hit johnnie; but you they'll pick off as far as they can see ye. bend low, honey," to the girl in the driver's seat. "but freeze to it. johnnie ain't no niece of mine if she goes back on a friend." the girl in front heard neither of them. there was a bellowing detonation, and a spatter of shot fell about the flying car. "that ain't goin' to hurt nobody," commented pros philosophically. "it's no more than buck-shot anyhow." [illustration: the car was already leaping down the hill at a tremendous pace] but on the word followed a more ominous crack, and there was the whine of a bullet above them. "my god, i can't let her do this," gray protested. but johnnie turned over her shoulder a shining face from which all weariness had suddenly been erased, a glorified countenance that flung him the fleeting smile she had time to spare from the machine. "you're in worse danger right now from my driving than you are from their guns," she panted. as she spoke there sounded once more the ripping crack of a rifle, the singing of a bullet past them, and with it the flatter, louder noise of the shot-gun was repeated. her eye in the act of turning to her task, caught the silhouette of old gideon himes's uncouth figure relieved against the noonday sky, as he sprang high, both arms flung up, the hands empty and clutching, and pitched headlong to his face. but her mind scarcely registered the impression, for a rifle ball struck the shaly edge of a bluff under which the road at this point ran, and tore loose a piece of the slate-like rock, which glanced whirling into the tonneau and grazed gray stoddard's temple. he fell forward, crumpling down into the bottom of the vehicle. "on--go on, honey!" yelled pros, motioning vehemently to the girl. "don't look back here--i'll tend to him"; and he stooped over the motionless form. then came the roaring impression of speed, of rushing bushes that gathered themselves and ran back past the car while, working under full power, it stood stationary, as it seemed to johnnie, in the middle of a long, dusty gray ribbon that was the road. the cries of the men behind them, all sounds of pursuit, were soon left so far in the distance that they were unheard. "ain't this rather fast?" shouted uncle pros, who had lifted stoddard's bleeding head to his knee and, crouched on the bottom of the tonneau, was shielding the younger man from further injury as the motor lurched and pitched. "yes, it's too fast," johnnie screamed back to him. "i'm trying to go slower, but the foot-brake won't hold. uncle pros, is he hurt? is he hurt bad?" "i don't think so, honey," roared the old man stoutly, guarding gray's inert body with his arm. then, stretching up as he kneeled, and leaning forward as close to her ear as he could get: "but you git him to cottonville quick as you can. don't you werry about goin' slow, unlessen you're scared yourself. thar ain't no tellin' who might pop up from behind these here bushes and take a chance shot at us as we go by." johnnie worked over her machine wildly. gray had told her of the foot-brake only; but her hand encountering the lever of the emergency brake, she grasped it at a hazard and shoved it forward, as the god of luck had ordered, just short of a zigzag in the steep mountain road which, at the speed they had been making, would have piled them, a mass of wreckage, beneath the cliff. the sudden, violent check--shooting along at the speed they were, it amounted almost to a stoppage--gave the girl a sense of power. if she could do that, they were fairly safe. with the relief, her brain cleared; she was able to study the machine with some calmness. gray could not help her--out of the side of her eye she could see where he lay inert and senseless in passmore's hold. the lives of all three depended on her cool head at this moment. she remembered now all that stoddard had said the morning he taught her to run the car. with one movement she threw off the switch, thus stopping the engine, entirely. they must make it to cottonville running by gravity wherever they could; since she had no means of knowing that there was sufficient gasoline in the tank, and it would not do to be overtaken or waylaid. on and on they flew, around quick turns, along narrow ways that skirted tall bluffs, over stretches of comparatively level road, where johnnie again switched on the engine and speeded up. they were skimming down from the upper unakas like a great bird whose powerful wings make nothing of distance. but johnnie's heart was as lead when she glanced back at the motionless figure in the tonneau, the white, blood-streaked face that lay on her uncle's arm. she turned doggedly to her steering-wheel and levers, and took greater chances than ever with the going, for speed's sake. the boy they had talked with two hours before at the chip pile, met them afoot. he leaped into the bushes to let them pass, and stared after them with dilated eyes. johnnie never knew what he shouted. they only saw his mouth open and working. mercifully, so far, they had met no vehicles. but now the higher, wilder mountains were behind them, there was an occasional horseman. as they neared cottonville, and teams were numerous on the road, johnnie, jealously unwilling to slacken speed, kept the horn going almost continuously. people in wagons and buggies, or on foot, drawn out along the roadside, cupped hands to lips and yelled startled inquiries. johnnie bent above the steering-wheel and paid no attention. uncle pros tried to answer with gesticulation or a shouted word, and sometimes those he replied to turned and ran, calling to others. but it was black jim, riding on roan sultan, out with the searchers, who saw and understood. he looked down across the great two-mile turn beyond the gap, and sighted the climbing car. where he stood it was less than an eighth of a mile below him; he could almost have thrown a stone into it. he bent in his saddle, shaded his eyes, and gazed intently. "fo' god!" he muttered under his breath. "that's mr. gray hisself! them's the clothes he was wearin'!" whirling his horse and digging in the spurs, he rattled pell-mell down the opposite steep toward cottonville, shouting as he went. "they've done got him--they've found him! miss johnnie consadine's a-bringin' him down in his own cyar!" at the hardwick place, where the front lawn sloped down with its close-trimmed, green-velvet sward, stood two horses. charlie conroy had come out as soon as the alarm was raised to help with the search. he and lydia had ridden together each day since. moving slowly along a quiet ravine yesterday, out of sight and hearing of the other searchers, conroy had found an intimate moment in which to urge his suit. she had begged a little time to consider, with so encouraging an aspect that, this morning, when he came out that they might join the party bound for the mountains, he brought the ring in his pocket. the bulge of the big diamond showed through her left-hand glove. she had taken him at last. she told herself that it was the only thing to do. harriet hardwick, who had returned from watauga, since her sister would not come to her, stood in the door of the big house regarding them with a countenance of distinctly chastened rejoicing. conroy's own frame of mind was evident; deep satisfaction radiated from his commonplace countenance. he was to be jerome hardwick's brother-in-law, an intimate member of the mill crowd. he was as near being in love with lydia sessions at that moment as he ever would be. as for lydia herself, the last week had brought that thin face of hers to look all of its thirty odd years; and the smile which she turned upon her affianced was the product of conscientious effort. she was safely in her saddle, and conroy had just swung up to his own, when jim came pelting down the gap road toward the village. they could see him across the slope of the hill. conroy cantered hastily up the street a bit to hear what the boy was vociferating. lydia's nerves quivered at sight of him returning. "hurrah! hurrah!" shouted conroy, waving his cap. "lord, lord; did you hear that, lydia? hoo-ee, mrs. hardwick! did you hear what jim's saying? they've got gray! johnnie consadine's bringing him--in his own car." then turning once more to his companion: "come on, dear; we'll ride right down to the hospital. jim said he was hurt. that's where she would take him. that johnnie consadine of yours is the girl--isn't she a wonder, though?" lydia braced herself. it had come, and it was worse than she could have anticipated. she cringed inwardly in remembrance; she wished she had not let conroy make that pitying reference--unreproved, uncorrected--to stoddard's being a rejected man. but perhaps they were bringing gray in dead, after all--she tried not to hope so. the auto became visible, a tiny dark speck, away up in the gap. then it was sweeping down the gap road; and once more conroy swung his cap and shouted, though it is to be questioned that any one marked him. below in the village the noisy clatter brought people to door and casement. at the himes boarding-house, a group had gathered by the gate. at the window above, in an arm-chair, sat a thin little woman with great dark eyes, holding a sick child in her lap. the sash was up, and both were carefully wrapped in a big shawl that was drawn over the two of them. "sis' johnnie is comin' back; she sure is comin' back soon," laurella was crooning to her baby. "and we ain't goin' to work in no cotton mill, an' we ain't goin' to live in this ol' house any more. next thing we're a-goin' away with sis' johnnie and have a fi-ine house, where pap himes can't come about to be cross to deanie." high up on unaka mountain, where a cluttered mass of rock reared itself to front the noonday sun, an old man's figure, prone, the hands clutched full of leaf-mould, the gray face down amid the fern, gideon himes would never offer denial to those plans, nor seek to follow to that fine house. the next moment an automobile flashed into sight coming down the long lower slope from the gap, the horn blowing continuously, horsemen, pedestrians, buggies and wagons fleeing to the roadside bushes as it roared past in its cloud of dust. "look, honey, look--yon's sis' johnnie now!" cried laurella. "she's a-runnin' mr. stoddard's car. an' thar's unc' pros ... is--my lord! is that mr. stoddard hisself, with blood all over him?" lydia and conroy, hurrying down the street, drew up on the fringes of the little crowd that had gathered and was augmenting every moment, and johnnie's face was turned to stoddard in piteous questioning. his eyes were open now. he raised himself a bit on her uncle's arm, and declared in a fairly audible voice: "i'm all right. i'm not hurt." "somebody git me a glass of water," called uncle pros. mavity bence ran out with one, but when she got close enough to see plainly the shackled figure passmore supported, she thrust the glass into mandy meacham's hand and flung her apron over her head. "good lord!" she moaned. "i reckon they've killed him. they done one of my brothers that-a-way in feud times, and throwed him over a bluff. oh, my lord; why will men be so mean?" pros had taken the glass from mandy and held it to gray's lips. then he dashed part of the remaining water on stoddard's handkerchief and with mandy's help, got the blood cleared away. from every shanty, women and children came hastening--men hurried up from every direction. "look at her--look at johnnie!" cried beulah catlett. "pony! milo!" turning back into the house, where the boys lay sleeping. "come out here and look at your sister!" "did ye run it all by yourself, sis' johnnie?" piped lissy from the porch. the girl in the driver's seat smiled and nodded to the child. "are you through there, uncle pros?" asked johnnie. "we must get mr. stoddard on to his house." the women and children drew back, the crowd ahead parted, and the car got under way once more. the entire press of people followed in its wake, surged about it, augmenting at every corner. "i'm afraid my horse won't stand this sort of thing," lydia objected, desperately, reining in. conroy glanced at her in surprise. bay dick was the soberest of mounts. then he looked wistfully after the crowd. "would you mind if i--" he began, and broke off to say contritely, "i'll go back with you if you'd rather." it was evident that lydia would make of him a thoroughly disciplined husband. "never mind," she said, locking her teeth. "i'll go with you." one might as well have it done and over with. and they hurried on to make up for lost time. they saw the car turn in to the street which led to the hardwick factory. somebody had hurried ahead and told macpherson and jerome hardwick; and just as they came in sight, the office doors burst open and the two men came running hatless down the steps. suddenly the factory whistles roared out the signal that had been agreed upon, which bellowed to the hills the tidings that gray stoddard was found. three long calls and a short one--that meant that he was found alive. as the din of it died down, hexter's mills across the creek took up the message, and when they were silent, the old victory came in on their heels, bawling it again. every whistle in cottonville gave tongue, clamouring hoarsely above the valley, and out across the ranges, to the hundreds at their futile search, "gray stoddard is found. stoddard is found. alive. he is brought in alive." macpherson ran up to one side of the car and hardwick to the other. "are you hurt?" inquired the scotchman, his hands stretched out. "can you get out and come in?" hardwick demanded eagerly. on the instant, the big gates swung wide, the factory poured out a tide of people as though the building had been afire. at sight of stoddard, the car, and johnnie, a cheer went up, spontaneous, heart-shaking. "my god--look at that!" macpherson's eyes had encountered the shackles on stoddard's wrists. "lift him down--lift him out," cried jerome hardwick. with tears on his tanned cheeks the scotchman complied; and hardwick's eyes, too, were wet as he saw it. "we'll have those things off of him in no time," he shouted. "here, let's get him in to the couch in my office. send some of the mechanics here. where's shade buckheath?" a dozen pairs of hands were stretched up to assist macpherson and pros passmore. as many as could get to the rescued man helped. and when the crowd saw that shackled figure raised, and heard in the tense silence the clinking sound of the chains, a low groan went through it; more than one woman sobbed aloud. but at this gray raised his head a bit, and once more declared in a fairly strong voice: "i'm not hurt, people--only a little crack on the head. i'm all right--thanks to her," and he motioned toward the girl in the car, who was watching anxiously. then the ever thickening throng went wild; and as gray was carried up the steps and disappeared through the office doors, it turned toward the automobile, surging about the car, a sea of friendly, admiring faces, most of them touched with the tenderness of tears, and cheered its very heart out for johnnie consadine. chapter xxv the future "gray!" it was uncle pros's voice, and uncle pros's face looked in at the office door. "could i bother you a minute about the sidewalk in front of the place up yon? mr. hexter told me you'd know whether the grade was right, and i could let the workmen go ahead." stoddard swung around from his desk and looked at the old man. "come right in," he said. "i'm not busy--i'm just pretending this morning. macpherson won't give me anything to do. he persists in considering me still an invalid." uncle pros came slowly in and laid his hat down gingerly before seating himself. he was dressed in the garb which, with money, he would always have selected--the village ideal of a rich gentleman's wear--and he looked unbelievably tall and imposing in his black broadcloth. when the matter of the patent was made known to jerome hardwick, a company was hastily formed to take hold of it, which advanced the ready money for johnnie and her family to place themselves. mrs. hexter, who had been all winter in boston, had decided, suddenly, to go abroad; and when her husband wired her to know if he might let the house to the consadine-passmore household, she made a quick, warm response. so they were domiciled in a ready-prepared home of elegance and beauty. though the place at cottonville had been only a winter residence with mrs. hexter, she was a woman of taste, and had always had large means at her command. with all a child's plasticity, laurella dropped into the improved order of things. her cleverness in selecting the proper wear for herself and children was nothing short of marvellous; and her calm acceptance of the new state of affairs, the acme of good breeding. johnnie immediately set about seeing that mavity bence and mandy meacham were comfortably provided for in the old boarding-house, where she assured gray they could do more good than many uplift clubs. "we'll have a truck-patch there, and a couple of cows and some chickens," she said. "that'll be good for the table, and it'll give mandy the work she loves to do. aunt mavity can have some help in the house--there's always a girl or two breaking down in the mills, who would be glad to have a chance at housework for a while." now pros looked all about him, and seemed in no haste to begin, though gray knew well there was something on his mind. finally stoddard observed, smiling: "you're the very man i wanted to see, uncle pros. i rang up the house just now, but johnnie said you had started down to the mills. what do you think i've found out about our mine?" certainly the old man looked very tall and dignified in his new splendours; but now he was all boy, leaning eagerly forward to half whisper: "i don't know--what?" stoddard's face was scarcely less animated as he searched hastily in the pigeon-holes of his desk. the patent might have a company to manage its affairs, but the mine on big unaka was sacred to these two, in whom the immortal urchin sufficiently survived to make mine-hunting and exploiting delectable employment. "why, uncle pros, it isn't silver at all. it's--" gray looked up and caught the woeful drop of the face before him, and hastened on to add, "it's better than silver--it's nickel. the price of silver fluctuates; but the world supply of nickel is limited, and nickel's a sure thing." pros passmore leaned back in his chair, digesting this new bit of information luxuriously. "nickel," he said reflectively. and again he repeated the word to himself. "nickel. well, i don't know but what that's finer. leastways, it's likelier. to say a silver mine, always seemed just like taking money out of the ground; but then, nickels are money too--and enough of 'em is all a body needs." "these people say the ore is exceptionally fine." stoddard had got out the letter now and was glancing over it. "they're sending down an expert, and you and i will go up with him as soon as he gets here. there are likely to be other valuable minerals as by-products in a nickel mine. and we want to build an ideal mining village, as well as model cotton mills. oh, we've got the work cut out for us and laid right to hand! if we don't do our little share toward solving some problems, it will be strange." "cur'us how things turns out in this world," the old man ruminated. "ever sence i was a little chap settin' on my granddaddy's knees by the hearth--big hickory fire a-roarin' up the chimbly, wind a-goin' 'whooh!' overhead, an' me with my eyes like saucers a-listenin' to his tales of the silver mine that the injuns had--ever sence that time i've hunted that thar mine." he laughed chucklingly, deep in his throat. "thar wasn't a wild-catter that could have a hideout safe from me. they just had to trust me. i crawled into every hole. i came mighty near seein' the end of every cave--but one. and that cave was the one whar my mammy kept her milk and butter--the springhouse whar they put you in prison. somehow, i never did think about goin' to the end of that. looked like it was too near home to have a silver mine in it; and thar the stuff lay and waited for the day when i should take a notion to find a pretty rock for deanie, and crawl back in thar and keep a crawlin', till i just fell over it, all croppin' out in the biggest kind of vein." gray had heard uncle pros tell the story many times, but it had a perennial charm. "then i lost six months--plumb lost 'em, you know. and time i come to myself, johnnie an' me was a-huntin' for you. and there we found you shut in that thar same cave; and i was so tuck up with that matter that i never once thought, till i got you home, to wonder did buckheath and the rest of 'em know that they'd penned you in the silver mine. i ain't never asked you, but you'd have knowed if they had." "i should have known anything that rudd dawson or groner or venters knew," gray said, "but i'm not sure about buckheath or himes. however, himes is dead, and buckheath--i don't suppose anybody in cottonville will ever see him again." pros's face changed instantly. he leaned abruptly forward and laid a hand on the other's knee. "that's exactly what i came down here to speak with you about, gray," he said. "they've fetched shade buckheath in--now, what do you make out of that?" stoddard shoved the letter from the eastern mining man back in its pigeon-hole. "well," he said slowly, "i didn't expect that. i thought of course shade was safely out of the country. i--passmore, i'm sorry they've got him." after a little silence he spoke again. "what do i make of it? why, that there are some folks up on big unaka who need pretty badly to appear as very law-abiding citizens. i'll wager anything that groner and rudd dawson brought shade in." uncle pros nodded seriously. "them's the very fellers," he said. "reckon they've talked pretty free to you. i never axed ye, gray--how did they treat ye?" "dawson was the best friend i had," stoddard returned promptly. "when i got to the big turn on sultan--coming home that friday morning --buckheath met me, and asked me to go down to burnt cabin and help him with a man that had fallen and hurt himself on the rocks. dawson told me afterward that he and jesse groner were posted at the roadside to stop me and hem me in before i got to the bluff. i've described to you how buckheath tried to back sultan over the edge, and i got off on the side where the two were, not noticing them till they tied me hand and foot. they almost came to a clinch with buckheath then and there. you ought to have heard groner swear! it was like praying gone wrong." "uh-huh," agreed pros, "jess is a terrible wicked man--in speech that-a-way--but he's good-hearted." "that first scrimmage showed me just what the men were after," stoddard said. "buckheath plainly wanted me put out of the way; but the others had some vague idea of holding me for a ransom and getting money out of the hardwicks. dawson complained always that he thought the mills owed him money. he said they must have sold his girl's body for as much as a hundred dollars, and he felt that he'd been cheated. oh, it was all crazy stuff! but he and the others had justified themselves; and they had no notion of standing for what buckheath was after. i was one of the cotton-mill men to them; they had no personal malice. "through the long evenings when groner or dawson or will venters was guarding me--or maybe all three of them--we used to talk; and it surprised me to find how simple and childish those fellows were. they were as kind to me as though i had been a brother, and treated me courteously always. "little by little, i got at the whole thing from them. it seems that buckheath took advantage of the feeling there was in the mountains against the mill men on account of the hospital and some other matters. he went up there and interviewed anybody that he thought might join him in a vendetta. i imagine he found plenty of them that were ready to talk and some that were willing to do; but it chanced that dawson and jesse groner were coming down to cottonville that morning i passed buckheath at the hardwick gate, and he must have cut across the turn and followed me, intending to pick a quarrel. then he met dawson and groner and framed up this other plan with their assistance. "uncle pros, i want you to help me out. if buckheath has to stand trial, how are we--any of us--going to testify without making it hard on the dawson crowd? i expect to live here the rest of my days. here's this mine of ours. and right here i mean to build a big mill and work out my plans. i think you know that i hope to marry a mountain wife, and i can't afford to quarrel with those folks." uncle pros's chin dropped to his breast, his eyes half closed as he sat thinking intently. "well," he said finally, "they won't have nothing worse than manslaughter against shade. it can't be proved that he intended to shoot pap--'cause he didn't. if he was shootin' after us--there's the thing we don't want to bring up. you was down in the bottom of the cyar, an' i had my back to him, and so did johnnie, and we don't know anything about what was done--ain't that so? as for you, you've already told mr. hardwick and the others that you was taken prisoner and detained by parties unknown. johnnie an' me was gettin' you out of the springhouse and away in the machine. then gid and shade comes up, and thinkin' we're the other crowd stealin' the machine--they try to catch us and turn loose at us--that makes a pretty good story, don't it?" "it does if dawson and groner and venters agree to it," stoddard laughed. "but somebody will have to communicate with them before they tell another one--or several others." "i'll see to that, gray," pros said, rising and preparing to go. "boy," he looked down fondly at the younger man, and set a brown right hand on his shoulder, "you never done a wiser thing nor a kinder in your life, than when you forgave your enemies that time, i'll bet you could ride the unakas from end to end, the balance o' your days, the safest man that ever travelled their trails." "talking silver mine?" inquired macpherson, putting his quizzical face in at the door. "no," returned stoddard. "we were just mentioning my pestilent cotton-mill projects. by this time next year, you and hardwick will be wanting to have me abated as a nuisance." "no, no," remonstrated macpherson, coming in and leaning with affectionate familiarity on the younger man's chair. "there's no pestilence in you, gray. you couldn't be a nuisance if you tried. people who will work out their theories stand to do good in the world; it's only the fellows who are content with bellowing them out that i object to." "better be careful!" laughed stoddard. "we'll make you vice-president of the company." "is that an offer?" countered macpherson swiftly. "i've got a bit of money to invest in this county; and hardwick has ever a new brother-in-law or such that looks longingly at my shoes." "you'd furnish the conservative element, surely," debated stoddard. "i'd keep you from bankruptcy," grunted the scotchman, as he laid a small book on gray's desk. "i doubt not providence demands it of me." evening was closing in with a greenish-yellow sunset, and a big full moon pushing up to whiten the sky above it. it was late march now, and the air was full of vernal promise. johnnie stepped out on the porch and glanced toward the west. she was expecting gray that evening. would there be time before he came, she wondered, for a little errand she wanted to do? turning back into the hall, she caught a jacket from the hook where it hung and hurried down to the gate, settling her arms in the sleeves as she ran. there would be time if she went fast. she wished to get the little packet into which she had made gray's letters months ago, dreading to look even at the folded outsides of them, tucking them away on the high shelf of her dress-closet at the pap himes boarding-house, and trying to forget them. nobody would know where to look but herself. she got permission from mavity to go upstairs. once there, the letters made their own plea; and alone in the little room that was lately her own, she opened the packet, carrying the contents to the fading light and glancing over sheet after sheet. she knew them all by heart. how often she had stood at that very window devouring these same words, not realizing then, as she did now, what deep meaning was in each phrase, how the feeling expressed increased from the first to the last. across the ravine, one of the loom fixers found the evening warm enough to sit on the porch playing his guitar. the sound of the twanging strings, and the appealing vibration of his young voice in a plaintive minor air, came over to her. she gathered the sheets together and pressed them to her face as though they were flowers, or the hands of little children. "i've got to tell him--to-night," she whispered to herself, in the dusky, small, dismantled room. "i've got to get him to see it as i do. i must make myself worthy of him before i let him take me for his own." she thrust the letters into the breast-pocket of her coat and ran downstairs. mavity bence stood in the hall, plainly awaiting her. "honey," she began fondly, "i've been putting away pap's things to-day--jest like you oncet found me putting away lou's. i came on this here." and then johnnie noticed a folded bandanna in her hands. "you-all asked me to let ye go through and find that nickel ore, and ye brung it out in a pasteboard box; but this here is what it was in on the day your uncle pros fetched hit here, and i thought maybe you'd take a interest in having the handkercher that your fortune come down the mountains in." "yes, indeed, aunt mavity," said johnnie, taking the bandanna into her own hands. "pap, he's gone," the poor woman went on tremulously, "an' the evil what he done--or wanted to do--is a thing that i reckon you can afford to forget. you're a mighty happy woman, johnnie consadine; the lord knows you deserve to be." she stood looking after the girl as she went out into the twilit street. johnnie was dressed as she chose now, not as she must, and her clothing showed itself to be of the best. anything that might be had in wautaga was within her means; and the tall, graceful figure passing so quietly down the street would never have been taken for other than a member of what we are learning to call the "leisure class." when the shadows at the end of the block swallowed her up, mavity turned, wiping her eyes, and addressed herself to her tasks. "i reckon lou would 'a' been just like that if she'd 'a' lived," she said to mandy meacham, with the tender fatuity of mothers. "johnnie seems like a daughter to me--an' i know in my soul no daughter could be kinder. look at her makin' me keep every cent pap had in the bank, when laurelly could have claimed it all and kep' it." "yes, an' addin' somethin' to it," put in mandy. "i do love 'em both--johnnie an' deanie. ef i ever was so fortunate as to get a man and be wedded and have chaps o' my own, i know mighty well and good i couldn't love any one of 'em any better than i do deanie. an' yet johnnie's quare. i always will say that johnnie consadine is quare. what in the nation does she want to go chasin' off to yurrup for, when she's got everything that heart could desire or mind think of right here in cottonville?" that same question was being put even more searchingly to johnnie by somebody else at the instant when mandy enunciated it. she had found gray waiting for her at the gate of her home. "let's walk here a little while before we go in," he suggested. "i went up to the house and found you were out. the air is delightful, and i've got something i want to say to you." he had put his arm under hers, and they strolled together down the long walk that led to the front of the lawn. the evening air was pure and keen, tingling with the breath of the wakening season. "sweetheart," gray broke out suddenly, "i've been thinking day and night since we last talked together about this year abroad that you're planning. i certainly don't want to put my preferences before yours. i only want to be very sure that i know what your real preferences are," and he turned and searched her face with a pair of ardent eyes. "i think i ought to go," the girl said in a very low voice, her head drooped, her own eyes bent toward the path at her feet. "why?" whispered her lover. "i--oh, gray--you know. if we should ever be married--well, then," in answer to a swift, impatient exclamation, "when we are married, if you should show that you were ashamed of me--i think it would kill me. no, don't say there's not any danger. you might have plenty of reason. and i--i want to be safe, gray--safe, if i can." gray regarded the beautiful, anxious face long and thoughtfully. yes, of course it was possible for her to feel that way. assurance was so deep and perfect in his own heart, that he had not reflected what it might lack in hers. "dear girl," he said, pausing and making her look at him, "how little you do know of me, after all! do i care so much for what people say? aren't you always having to reprove me because i so persistently like what i like, without reference to the opinions of the world? besides, you're a beauty," with tender brusqueness, "and a charmer that steals the hearts of men. if you don't know all this, it isn't from lack of telling. moreover, i can keep on informing you. a year of european travel could not make you any more beautiful, johnnie--or sweeter. you may not believe me, but there's little the 'european capitals' could add to your native bearing--you must have learned that simple dignity from these mountains of yours. of course, if you wanted to go for pleasure--" his head a little on one side, he regarded her with a tender, half-quizzical smile, hoping he had sounded the note that would bring him swift surrender. "it isn't altogether for myself--there are the others," johnnie told him, lifting honest eyes to his in the dim moonlight. "they're all i had in the world, gray, till you came into my life, and i must keep my own. i belong to a people who never give up anything they love." stoddard dropped an arm about his beloved, and turned her that she might face the windows of the house behind them, bending to set his cheek against hers and direct her gaze. "look there," he whispered, laughingly. she looked and saw her mother, clad in such wear as laurella's taste could select and laurella's beauty make effective. the slight, dark little woman was coming in from the dining room with her children all about her, a noble group. "your mother is much more the fine lady than you'll ever be, johnnie stoddard," gray said, giving her the name that always brought the blood to the girl's cheek and made her dumb before him. "you know your uncle pros and i are warmly attached to each other. "what is it you'd be waiting for, girl? why, johnnie, a man has just so long to live on this earth, and the years in which he has loved are the only years that count--would you be throwing one of these away? a year--twelve months--three hundred and sixty-five days--cast to the void. you reckless creature!" he cupped his hands about her beautiful, fair face and lifted it, studying it. "johnnie--johnnie--johnnie stoddard; the one woman out of all the world for me," he murmured, his deep voice dropping to a wooing cadence. "i couldn't love you better--i shall never love you less. don't let us foolishly throw away a year out of the days which will be vouchsafed us together. don't do it, darling--it's folly." hard-pressed, johnnie made only a sort of inarticulate response. "come, love, sit a moment with me, here," pleaded gray, indicating a small bench hidden among the evergreens and shrubs at the end of the path. "sit down, and let's reason this thing out." "reasoning with you," began johnnie, helplessly, "isn't--it isn't reasonable!" "it is," he told her, in that deep, masterful tone which, like a true woman, she both loved and dreaded. "it's the height of reasonableness. why, dear, the great primal reason of all things speaks through me. and i won't let you throw away a year of our love. johnnie, it isn't as though we'd been neighbours, and grown up side by side. i came from the ends of the earth to find you, darling--and i knew my own as soon as i saw you." he put out his arms and gathered her into a close embrace. for a space they rested so, murmuring question and reply, checked or answered by swift, sweet kisses. "the first time i ever saw you, love...." "oh, in thoze dusty old shoes and a sunbonnet! could you love me then, gray?" "the same as at this moment, sweetheart. shoes and sunbonnets--i'm ashamed of you now, johnnie, in earnest. what do such things matter?" "and that morning on the mountain, when we got the moccasin flowers," the girl's voice took up the theme. "i--it was sweet to be with you--and bitter, too. i could not dream then that you were for me. and afterward--the long, black, dreadful time when you seemed so utterly lost to me--" at the mention of those months, gray stopped her words with a kiss. "mine," he whispered with his lips against hers, "out of all the world--mine." the end martha by-the-day by julie m. lippmann chapter i if you are one of the favored few, privileged to ride in chaises, you may find the combination of broadway during the evening rush-hour, in a late november storm, stimulating--you may, that is, provided you have a reliable driver. if, contrariwise, you happen to be of the class whose fate it is to travel in public conveyances (and lucky if you have the price!) and the car, say, won't stop for you--why-- claire lang had been standing in the drenching wet at the street-crossing for fully ten minutes. the badgering crowd had been shouldering her one way, pushing her the other, until, being a stranger and not very big, she had become so bewildered that she lost her head completely, and, with the blind impulse of a hen with paresis, darted straight out, in amidst the crush of traffic, with all the chances strong in favor of her being instantly trampled under foot, or ground under wheel, and never a one to know how it had happened. an instant, and she was back again in her old place upon the curbstone. something like the firm iron grip of a steam-derrick had fastened on her person, hoisted her neatly up, and set her as precisely down, exactly where she had started from. it took her a full second to realize what had happened. then, quick as a flash, anger flamed up in her pale cheeks, blazed in her tired eyes. for, of course, this was an instance of "insult" described by "the family at home" as common to the experience of unprotected girls in new york city. she groped about in her mind for the formula to be applied in such cases, as recommended by aunt amelia. "sir, you are no gentleman! if you were a gentleman, you would not offer an affront to a young, defenseless girl who--" the rest eluded her; she could not recall it, try as she would. in desperate resolve to do her duty anyway, she tilted back her umbrella, whereat a fine stream of water poured from the tip directly over her upturned face, and trickled cheerily down the bridge of her short nose. "sir--" she shouted resolutely, and then she stopped, for, plainly, her oration was, in the premises, a misfit--the person beside her--the one of the mortal effrontery and immortal grip, being a--woman. a woman of masculine proportions, towering, deep-chested, large-limbed, but with a face which belied all these, for in it her sex shone forth in a motherliness unmistakable, as if the world at large were her family, and it was her business to see that it was generously provided for, along the pleasantest possible lines for all concerned. "what car?" the woman trumpeted, gazing down serenely into claire's little wet, anxious, upturned face at her elbow. "columbus avenue." the stranger nodded, peering down the glistening, wet way, as if she were a skipper sighting a ship. "my car, too! first's lexin'ton--next broadway--then--here's ours!" again that derrick-grip, and they stood in the heart of the maelstrom, but apparently perfectly safe, unassailable. "they won't stop," claire wailed plaintively. "i've been waiting for ages. the car'll go by! you see if it won't!" it did, indeed, seem on the point of sliding past, as all the rest had done, but of a sudden the motorman vehemently shut off his power, and put on his brake. by some hidden, mysterious force that was in her, or the mere commanding dimensions of her frame, claire's companion had brought him to a halt. she lifted her charge gently up on to the step, pausing herself, before she should mount the platform, to close the girl's umbrella. "step lively! step lively!" the conductor urged insistently, reaching for his signal-strap. the retort came calmly, deliberately, but with perfect good nature. "not on your life, young man. i been steppin' lively all day, an' for so long's it's goin' to take this car to get to one-hundred-an'-sixteenth street, my time ain't worth no more'n a settin' hen's." the conductor grinned in spite of himself. "well, mine _is_," he declared, while with an authoritative finger he indicated the box into which claire was to drop her fare. "so all the other roosters think," the woman let fall with a tolerant smile, while she diligently searched in her shabby purse for five cents. claire, in the doorway, lingered. "step right along in, my dear! don't wait for me," her friend advised, closing her teeth on a dime, as she still pursued an elusive nickel. "step right along in, and sit down anywheres, an' if there ain't nowheres to sit, why, just take a waltz-step or two in the direction o' some of them elegant gen'lemen's feet, occupyin' the places meant for ladies, an' if they don't get up for love of _you_, they'll get up for love of their shins." still the girl did not pass on. "fare, please!" there was a decided touch of asperity in the conductor's tone. he glared at claire almost menacingly. her lip trembled, the quick tears sprang to her eyes. she hesitated, swallowed hard, and then brought it out with a piteous gulp. "i _had_ my fare--'twas in my glove. it must have slipped out. it's gone--lost--and--" a tug at the signal-strap was the conductor's only comment. he was stopping the car to put her off, but before he could carry out his purpose the woman had dropped her dime into the box with a sounding click. "fare for two!" she said, "an' if i had time, an' a place to sit, i'd turn you over acrost my knee, an' give you two, for fair, young man, for the sake of your mother who didn't learn you better manners when you was a boy!" with which she laid a kind hand upon claire's heaving shoulder, and impelled her gently into the body of the car, already full to overflowing. for a few moments the girl had a hard struggle to control her rising sobs, but happily no one saw her working face and twitching lips, for her companion had planted herself like a great bulwark between her and the world, shutting her off, walling her 'round. then, suddenly, she found herself placed in a hurriedly vacated seat, from which she could look up into the benevolent face inclined toward her, and say, without too much danger of breaking down in the effort: "i really _did_ have it--the money, you know. truly, i'm not a--" "o, pooh! don't you worry your head over a little thing like that. such accidents is liable to occur in the best-reggerlated fam'lies. they do in mine, shoor!" "but, you see," quavered the uncertain voice, "i haven't any more. that's all i had, so i can't pay you back, and--" it was curious, but just here another passenger hastily rose, vacating the seat next claire's, and leaving it free, whereat her companion compressed her bulky frame into it with a sigh, as of well-earned rest, and remarked comfortably, "_now_ we can talk. you was sayin'--what was it? about that change, you know. it was all you had. you mean _by_ you, of course." claire's pale, pinched face flushed hotly. "no, i don't," she confessed, without lifting her downcast eyes. her companion appeared to ponder this for a moment, then quite abruptly she let it drop. "my name's slawson," she observed. "martha slawson. i go out by the day. laundry-work, housecleaning, general chores. i got a husband an' four children, to say nothing of a mother-in-law who lives with us, an' keeps an eye on things while me an' sammy (that's mr. slawson) is out workin', an' lucky if it's an eye itself, for it's not a hand, i can tell you that. what's your name, if i may make so bold?" "claire lang. my people live in grand rapids--where the furniture and carpet-sweepers come from," with a wistful, faint little attempt at a smile. "my father was judge of the supreme court, but he had losses, and then he died, and there wasn't much of anything left, and so--" "you come to new york to make your everlastin' fortune, an' you--" claire lang shook her head, completing the unfinished sentence. "no, i haven't made it, that is, not yet. but i'm not discouraged. i don't mean to give up. things look pretty dark just now, but i'm not going to let that discourage me--no, indeed! i'm going to be brave and courageous, and never say die, even if--even if--" "turn 'round, an' pertend you're lookin' out of the winder," suggested mrs. slawson confidentially. "the way folks stare, you'd think the world was full of nothin' but laughin' hyeenyas. dontcher care, my dear! well for some of 'em, if they could shed an honest tear or two themselves, oncet in a while, instead of bein' that brazen; 'twouldn't be water at all, but putzes pomady it'd take to make an impression on 'em, an' don't you forget it. there! that's right! now, no one can observe what's occurrin' in your face, an' i can talk straight into your ear, see? what i was goin' to say _is_, that bein' a mother myself an' havin' children of my own to look out for, i couldn't recommend any lady, let alone one so young an' pretty as you, to take up with strangers, here in new york city, be they male or be they female. no, certaintly not! but in this case, you can take it from me, i'm o.k. i can give the highest references. i worked for the best fam'lies in this town, ever since i was a child. you needn't be a mite afraid. i'm just a plain mother of a fam'ly an', believe _me_, you can trust me as you would trust one of your own relations, though i do say it as shouldn't, knowin' how queer _own relations_ can be and _is_, when put to it at times. so, if you happen to be in a hole, my dear, without friends or such things in the city, you feel free to turn to, or if you seem to stand in need of a word of advice, or--anything else, why, dontcher hesitate a minute. it'd be a pretty deep hole martha slawson couldn't see over the edge of, be sure of that, even if she did have to stand on her toes to do it. holes is my specialty, havin' been in an' out, as you might say, all my life--particularly _in_." judicious or not, claire told her story. it was not a long one. just the everyday experience of a young girl coming to a strange city, without influence, friends, or money, expecting to make her way, and finding that way beset with difficulties, blocked by obstacles. "i've done everything i could think of, honestly i have," she concluded apologetically. "i began by trying for big things; art-work in editorial offices (everybody liked my art-work in grand rapids!). but 'twas no use. then i took up commercial drawing. i got what looked like a good job, but the man gave me one week's pay, and that's all i could ever collect, though i worked for him over a month. then i tried real estate. one firm told me about a woman selling for them who cleared, oh, i don't know how-much-a-week, in commissions. something queer must be the matter with me, i guess, for i never got rid of a single lot, though i walked my feet off. i've tried writing ads., and i've directed envelopes. i've read the wants columns, till it seems as if everybody in the world was looking for a _job_. but i can't get anything to do. i guess god doesn't mean me to die of starvation, for you wouldn't believe how little i've had to eat all summer and fall, and yet i'm almost as strong and hearty as ever. but lately i haven't been able to make any money at all, not five cents, so i couldn't pay my board, and they--they told me at the house where i live, that i'd have to square up to-night, or i couldn't keep my room any longer. they took my trunk a week ago. i haven't had anything to wear except these clothes i have on, since, and they're pretty wet now--and--and--i've nowhere to go, and it _is_ pouring so hard, and i should have been put off the car if you hadn't--" mrs. slawson checked the labored flow with a hand upon the girl's knee. "where did you say your boardin'-house is?" she inquired abruptly. "ninety-fifth street--west--two-hundred-and-eighty-five-and-a-half." "good gracious! an' we're only three blocks off there now!" "but you said," expostulated claire helplessly, feeling herself propelled as by the hand of fate through the crowd toward the door. "you said you live on one-hundred-and-sixteenth street." "so i do, my dear, so i do! but i've got some business to transack with a lady livin' in ninety-fifth street--west--two-hunderd-an'-eighty-five-an'-a-half. come along. 'step lively,' as my friend, _this nice young man out here on the rear platform_, says." chapter ii they plodded along the flooded street in silence, claire following after martha slawson like a small child, almost clutching at her skirts. it was not easy to keep pace with the long, even strides that covered so much ground, and claire fell into a steady pony-trot that made her breath come short and quick, her heart beat fast. she dimly wondered what was going to happen, but she did not dare, or care, to ask. it was comfort enough just to feel this great embodiment of human sympathy and strength beside her, to know she was no longer alone. before the house martha paused a moment. "now, my dear, there ain't goin' to be nothin' for you to do but just sit tight," she vouchsafed reassuringly. "don't you start to butt in (if you'll pardon the liberty), no matter what i say. i'm goin' to be a perfect lady, never fear. i know my place, an' i know my dooty, an' if your boardin'-house lady knows hers, there'll be no trouble whatsomedever, so dontcher worry." she descended the three steps leading from the street-level down into the little paved courtyard below, and rang the basement bell. a moment and an inner door was unlocked, flung open, and a voice from just within the grating of the closed iron area-gate asked curtly, "well, what's wanted?" "is this mrs.----? i should say, is this the lady of the house?" martha slawson's voice was deep, bland, prepossessing. "i'm mrs. daggett, yes, if that's what you mean." "that's what i mean. my name's slawson. mrs. sammy slawson, an' i come to see you on a little matter of business connected with a young lady who's been lodgin' in your house--miss lang." mrs. daggett stepped forward, and unlatched the iron gate. "come in," she said, in a changed voice, endeavoring to infuse into her acrid manner the grace of a belated hospitality. claire, completely hidden from view behind martha slawson's heroic proportions, followed in her wake like a wee, foreshortened shadow as, at mrs. daggett's invitation, mrs. slawson passed through the area gateway into the malodorous basement hall, and so to the dingy dining-room beyond. here a group of grimy-clothed tables seemed to have alighted in sudden confusion, reminding one of a flock of pigeons huddled together in fear of the vultures soon to descend on them with greedy, all-devouring appetites. "we can just as well talk here as anywhere," announced mrs. daggett. "it's quarter of an hour before dinnertime, but if you'd rather go up to the parlor we can." "o, dear, no!" said martha slawson suavely. "_any_ place is good enough for me. don't trouble yourself. i'm not particular _where_ i am." unbidden, she drew out a chair from its place beside one of the uninviting tables, and sat down on it deliberately. it creaked beneath her weight. "o--oh! miss lang!" said mrs. daggett, surprised, seeing her young lodger now, for the first time. martha nodded. "yes, it's miss lang, an' i brought her with me, through the turrbl storm, mrs.--a--?" "daggett," supplied the owner of the name promptly. "that's right, daggett," repeated martha. "i brought miss lang with me, mrs. daggett, because i couldn't believe my ears when she told me she was goin' to be--to be _turned out_, if she didn't pay up to-night, _weather_ or no. i wanted to hear the real truth of it from you, ma'am, straight, with her by." mrs. daggett coughed. "well, business is business. i'm not a capitalist. i'm not keeping a boarding-house for my health, you know. i can't afford to give credit when i have to pay cash." "but, of course, you don't mean you'd ackchelly refuse the young lady shelter a night like this, if she come to you, open an' honest, an' said she hadn't the price by her just at present, but she would have it sooner or later, an' then you'd be squared every cent. you wouldn't turn her down if she said that, would you?" "say, mrs. slawson, or whatever your name is," broke in mrs. daggett sharply, "i'm not here to be cross-questioned. when you told me you'd come on business for miss lang, i thought 'twas to settle what she owes. if it ain't--i'm a busy woman. i'm needed in the kitchen this minute, to see to the dishing-up. have the goodness to come to the point. is miss lang going to pay? if she is, well and good. she can keep her room. if she isn't--" the accompanying gesture was eloquent. mrs. slawson's chair gave forth another whine of reproach as she settled down on it with a sort of inflexible determination that defied argument. "so that's your ultomato?" she inquired calmly. "i understand you to say that if this young lady (who any one with a blind eye can see she's _quality_), i understand you to say, that if she don't pay down every cent she owes you, here an' now, you'll put her out, bag an' baggage?" "no, not bag and baggage, mrs. slawson," interposed the boarding-house keeper with a wry smile, bridling with the sense that she was about to say something she considered rather neat, "i am, as you might say, holding her bag and baggage--as security." "now what do you think o' that!" ejaculated martha slawson. "it's quite immaterial to me what anybody thinks of it," mrs. daggett snapped. "and now, if that's all you've got to suggest, why, i'm sure it's all i have, and so, the sooner we end this, the sooner i'll be at liberty to attend to my dinner." still mrs. slawson did not stir. "i suppose you think you're a lady," she observed without the faintest suggestion of heat. "i suppose you think you're a lady, but you certainly ain't workin' at it now. what takes my time, though, is the way you ackchelly seem to be meanin' what you say! why, i wouldn't turn a dog out a night like this, an' you'd let a delicate young girl go into the drivin' storm, a stranger, without a place to lay her head--that is, for all _you_ know. i could bet my life, without knowin' a thing about it, that the good lord never let you have a daughter of your own. he wouldn't trust the keepin' of a child's body, not to speak of her soul, to such as you. that is, he wouldn't if he could help himself. but, thanks be! miss lang ain't dependent. she's well an' able to pay all she owes. supposin' she _has_ been kinder strapped for a little while back, an' had to economize by comin' to such a place as this! i've knowed others, compelled to economize with three trunks alongside a hall-bedroom wall, for a while, too, an' by an' by their circumstances was such that they had money to burn. it's not for the likes of miss lang to try to transack business with your sort. it would soil her lips to bandy words, so i, an old fam'ly servant, an' proud of it! am settlin' up her affairs for her. be kind enough to say how much it is you are ready to sell your claim to christian charity for? how much is it you ain't willin' to lend to the lord on miss lang's account?" she plucked up her skirts, thrust her hand, unembarrassed, into her stocking-leg, and brought forth from that safe depository a roll of well-worn _greenbacks_. mrs. daggett named the amount of claire's indebtedness, and martha slawson proceeded to count it out in slow, deliberate syllables. she did not, however, surrender the bills at once. "i'll take a receipt," she quietly observed, and then sat back with an air of perfect imperturbability, while the boarding-house keeper nervously fussed about, searching for a scrap of paper, hunting for a pen, trying to unearth, from the most impossible hiding-places, a bottle of ink, her indignation at martha's _cheek_ escaping her in audible mumblings. "impudence! what right have you to come here, holding me to account? i've my own way of doing good--" mrs. slawson shrugged. "your own way? i warrant you have! nobody else'd recognize it. i'd like to bet, you don't give a penny to charity oncet in five years. come now, do you?" "god doesn't take into account the amount one gives," announced mrs. daggett authoritatively. "p'raps not, but you can take it from _me_, he keeps a pretty close watch on what we have left--or i miss my guess. an' now, miss claire darlin', if you'll go an' get what belongin's you have, that this generous lady ain't stripped off'n you, to hold for _security_, as she calls it, we'll be goin'. an expressman will be 'round here the first thing in the mornin' for miss lang's trunk, an' it's up to you, mrs. daggett, to see it's ready for'm when he comes. good-night to you, ma'am, an' i wish you luck." never after could claire recall in detail what followed. she had a dim vision of glistening pavements on which the rain dashed furiously, only to rebound with resentful force, saturating one to the skin. of fierce blasts that seemed to lurk around every corner. of street-lamps gleaming meaninglessly out of the murk, curiously suggesting blinking eyes set in a vacant face, and at last--at last--in blessed contrast--an open door, the sound of cheery voices, the feel of warmth and welcome, the sight of a plain, wholesome haven--rest. martha slawson checked her children's vociferous clamor with a word. then her orders fell thick and fast, causing feet to run and hands to fly, causing curiosity to give instant way before the pressure of busy-ness, and a sense of cooperation to make genial the task of each. "hush, everybody! cora, you go make up the bed in the boarder's room. turn the mattress, mind! an' stretch the sheets good an' smooth, like i learned you to do. francie, you get the hot-water bottle, quick, so's i can fill it! sammy, you go down to the cellar, an' tell mr. snyder your mother will be much obliged if he'll turn on a' extra spark o' steam-heat. tell'm, mrs. slawson has a lady come to board with her for a spell, that's fixin' for chills or somethin', onless she can be kep' warm an' comfortable, an' the radianator in the boarder's room don't send out much heat to speak of. talk up polite, sammy; d'you hear me? an' be sure you don't let on snyder might be keepin' a better fire in his furnace if he didn't begrutch the coal so. it's gospel truth, o' course, but landlords is _supposed_ to have feelin's, same as the rest of us, an' a gentle word turneth aside wrath. sabina, now show what a big girl you are, an' fetch mother cora's nicest nightie out o' the drawer in my beaurer--the nightie mrs. granville sent cora last christmas. mother wants to hang it in front of the kitchen-range, so's the pretty lady can go by-bye all warm an' comfy, after she's took her supper off'n the tray, like sabina did when she had the measles." huge sam slawson, senior, overtopping his wife by fully half a head, gazed down upon his little hive, from shaggy-browed, benevolent eyes. he uttered no complaint because his dinner was delayed, and he, hungry as a bear, was made to wait till a stranger was served and fed. instead, he wandered over to where martha was supplementing "ma's" ministrations at the range, and patted her approvingly on the shoulder. "another stray lamb, mother?" he asked casually. martha nodded. "wait till the rush is over, an' the young uns abed an' asleep, an' i'll tell you all about it. stray lamb! i should say as much! a little white corset-lamb, used to eat out o' your hand, with a blue ribbon round its neck. goin' to be sent out to her death--or worse, by a sharp-fangled wolf of a boardin'-house keeper, who'd gnaw the skin off'n your bones, an' then crack the bones to get at the marrer, if you give her the chanct. i'll tell you all about it later, sammy." chapter iii for days claire lay in a state of drowsy quiet. she hardly realized the fact of her changed condition, that she was being cared for, ministered to, looked after. she had brief, waking moments when she seemed to be aware that martha was bringing in her breakfast, or sitting beside her while she ate her dinner, but the intervening spaces, when "ma" or cora served, were dim, indistinct adumbrations of no more substantial quality than the vagrant dreams that ranged mistily across her relaxed brain. the thin walls of the cheaply-built flat did not protect her from the noise of the children's prattling tongues and boisterous laughter, but the walls of her consciousness closed her about, as in a muffled security, and she slept on and on, until the exhausted body was reinforced, the overtaxed nerves infused with new strength. then, one evening, when the room in which she lay was dusky with twilight shadows, she realized that she was awake, that she was alive. she had gradually groped her way through the dim stretches lying between the region of visions and that of the actual, but the step into a full sense of reality was abrupt. she heard the sound of children's voices in the next room. so clear they were, she could distinguish every syllable. "say, now, listen, mother! what do you do when you go out working every day?" it was cora speaking. "i work." "pooh, you know what i mean. what kinder work do you do?" for a moment there was no answer, then claire recognized martha's voice, with what was, undeniably, a chuckle tucked away in its mellow depths, where no mere, literal child would be apt to discern it. "stenography an' typewritin'!" "are you a stenographer an' typewriter, mother? honest?" "well, you can take it from me, if i was _it_ at all, i'd be it honest. what makes you think there's any doubt o' my being one? don't i have the appearance of a high-toned young lady stenographer an' typewriter?" a pause, in which martha's substantial steps were to be heard busily passing to and fro, as she went about her work. her mother's reply evidently did not carry conviction to cora's questioning mind, for a second later she was up and at it afresh. "say, now, listen, mother--if you do stenography an' typewritin', what makes your apron so wet an' dirty, nights when you come home?" "don't you s'pose i clean my machine before i leave? what kinder typewriter d'you think i am? to leave my machine dirty, when a good scrub-down, with a pail o' hot water, an' a stiff brush, an' sapolio, would put it in fine shape for the next mornin'." "mother--say, now, listen! i don't _believe_ that's the way they clean typewriters. miss symonds, she's the principal's seckerterry to our school, an' she sits in the office, she cleans her machine with oil and a little fine brush, like you clean your teeth with." "what you been doin' in the principal's office, miss, i should like to know? been sent up to her for bad behavior, or not knowin' your lessons? speak up now! quick!" "my teacher, she sends me on errands, an' i got a credit-card last week an', say, mother, i don't _believe_ you're a young lady stenographer an' typewriter. you're just trying to fool me." "well, miss smarty, supposin' i am. so long's i don't succeed you've no kick comin'." "say, now listen, mother." "hush! you'll wake the pretty lady. besides, too many questions before dinner is apt to spoil the appetite, to say nothin' of the temper. turn to, an' lend a hand with them potatoes. smash 'em good first, an' then beat 'em with a fork until they're light an' creamy, an' you won't have so much gimp left for snoopin' into things that don't concern you!" "say, now listen, mother!" "well?" "say, mother, something awful funny happened to me last night?" "are you tellin' what it was?" "something woke me up in the middle of the night, 'n' i got up out of bed, an' the clock struck four, 'n' then i knew it was mornin'. 'n' i heard a noise, 'n' i thought it was robbers, 'n' i went to the door, 'n' it was open, 'n' i went out into the hall, 'n'--" "well?" "an' there was _you_, mother, on the stairs--kneelin'!" "guess you had a dream, didn't you?" "no, i didn't." "what'd i be kneelin' on the stairs for, at four o'clock in the mornin', i should like to know?" "it looked like you was brushin' 'em down." "_me_ brushin' down _snyder's_ stairs! well, now what do you think o' that?" her tone of amazement, at the mere possibility, struck cora, and there was a pause, broken at length by martha, in a preternaturally solemn voice. "i s'pose you never tumbled to it i might be _prayin'_." cora's eyes grew wide. "prayin'!" she repeated in an awed whisper. "but, mother, what'd you want to go out in the hall for, to pray on the _stairs_, at four o'clock in the mornin'?" "prayin' is a godly ack. wheresomedever, an' _when_somedever you do it." "but, mother, i don't _believe_ you were prayin'. i heard the knockin' o' your whis'-broom. you was brushin' down the stairs." "well, what if i was? cleanliness is next to godliness, ain't it? prayin' an' cleanin', it amounts to the same thing in the end--it's just a question of what you clean, outside you or _in_." "but say, now, listen, mother, you never cleaned down mr. snyder's stairs before. an' you been making shirtwaists for mrs. snyder, after you get home nights. i saw her with one of 'em on." "cora, do you know what happened to a little girl oncet who asked too many questions?" "no." "well, i won't tell you now. it might spoil your appetite for dinner. but you can take it from me, the end she met with would surprise you." shortly after, claire's door quietly opened, and cora, with a lighted taper in her hand, tiptoed cautiously in, like a young torch-bearing _avant-courrière,_ behind whom mrs. slawson, laden with a wonderful tray, advanced processionally. "light the changelier, an' then turn it low," martha whispered. "an' then you, yourself, light out, so's the pretty lady can eat in comfort." the pretty lady, sitting up among her pillows, awake and alert, almost brought disaster upon the taper, and the tray, by exclaiming brightly, "good-evening! i'm wide awake for good! you needn't tiptoe or hush any more. o, i feel like new! all rested and well and--_ready_ again. and i owe it, every bit, to you! you've been so _good_ to me!" it was hard on cora to have to obey her mother's injunction to "clear out," just when the pretty lady was beginning to demonstrate her right to the title. but martha's word in her little household was not to be disputed with impunity, and cora slipped away reluctantly, carrying with her a dazzling vision of soft, dark hair, starry blue-gray eyes, wonderful changing expressions, and, in and over all, a smile that was like a key to unlock hearts. "my, but it's good to see you so!" said mrs. slawson heartily. "i was glad to have you sleep, for goodness knows you needed it, but if you'd 'a' kep' it up a day or so longer, i'd 'a' called in a doctor--shoor! just as a kind of nacherl percaution, against your settlin' down to a permanent sleepin'-beauty ack, for, you can take it from me, i haven't the business address of any beast, here in new york city, could be counted on to do the prince-turn, when needed. there's plenty of beasts, worse luck! but they're on the job, for fair. no magic, lightenin'-change about _them_. they stay beasts straight through the performance." claire laughed. "but, as it happened, i didn't need a prince, did i? i didn't need a prince or any one else, for i had a good fairy godmother who--o, mrs. slawson, i--i--can't--" "you don't have to. an' i'm not mrs. slawson to you. i'm just martha, for i feel like you was my own young lady, an' if you call me mrs. slawson, i won't feel so, an' here--now--see if you can clear up this tray so clean it'll seem silly to wash the dishes." for a moment there was silence in the little room, while claire tried to compose herself, and martha pretended to be busy with the tray. then claire said, "i'll be very glad to call you martha if you'll let me, and there's something i'd like to say right off, because i've been lying here quite a while thinking about it, and it's very important, indeed. it's about my future, and--" "you'll excuse my interruckting, but before you reely get your steam up, let me have a word on my own account, an' then, if you want to, you can fire away--the gun's your own. what i mean _is_--i don't believe in lyin' awake, thinkin' about the future, when a body can put in good licks o' sleep, restin' from the past. it's against my principles. i'm by the day. i work by the day, an' i live by the day. i reasoned it out so-fashion: the past is over an' done with, whatever it may be, an' you can't change it, for all you can do, so what's the use? you can bet on one thing, shoor, whatever ain't dead waste in your past is, somehow, goin' to get dished up to you in your present, or your future. you ain't goin' to get rid of it, till you've worked it into your system _for health_, as our dear old friend, lydia pinkham, says. as to the future, the future's like a flea--when you can put your finger on the future, it's time enough to think what you'll do with it. folkes futures'd be all right, if they'd just pin down a little tighter to _to-day_, an' make that square up, the best they can, with what they'd oughter do. now, as to _your_ future, there's nothin' to fret about for a minute in it. jus' now, you're here, safe an' sound, an' here you're goin' to stay until you're well an' strong an' fed up, an' the chill o' mrs. daggett is out o' your body an' soul. you can take it from me, that woman is worse than any line-storm _i_ ever struck for dampenin'-down purposes, an' freeze-out, an' generl cussedness. your business to-day--now--is to get well an' strong. then the future'll take care of itself." "but meanwhile," claire persisted, "i'm living on you. eating food for which i haven't the money to pay, having loving care for which i couldn't pay, if i had all the money in the world. i guess i know how you settled my account with mrs. daggett. you gave her money you had been saving for the rent, and now you are working, slaving overtime, at four o'clock mornings, sweeping down the stairs, and late nights, making shirtwaists for mrs. snyder, to help supply what's lacking." "just you wait till i see that cora," observed mrs. slawson irrelevantly. "that's the time _her_ past will have slopped over on her present, so's she can't tell which is which. just you wait till i see that cora!" "no, no--_please_! martha _dear_! it wasn't cora! she's not to blame. i'd have known sooner or later anyway. i always reason things out for myself. please promise not to scold cora." "scold cora? not on your life, my dear; i won't scold cora. i'm old-fashioned in my ways with childern. i don't believe in scoldin'. it spoils their tempers, but a good _lickin'_ oncet in a while, helps 'em to remember, besides bein' good for the circulation." claire was ready to cry. "it's all my fault," she lamented. "i was clumsy. i was tactless. and now cora will be punished for it, and--i make nothing but trouble for you all." "there, there! for mercy sake, don't take on like that. i promise i'll let cora go free, if you'll sit back quiet an' eat your dinner in peace. so now! that's better!" "what i was going to say, martha dear, is, i'm quite well and strong now, and i want to set about immediately looking for something to do. i ought to be able to support myself, you know, for i'm able-bodied, and not so stupid but that i managed to graduate from college. once, two summers ago, i tutored--i taught a young girl who was studying to take the wellesley entrance exams. and i coached her so well she went through without a condition, and she wasn't very quick, either. i wonder if i couldn't teach?" "shoor, you could!" "if i could get a position to teach in some school or some family, i could, maybe, live here with you--rent this room--unless you have some other use for it." "lord, no! i _call_ it the boarder's room because this flat is really too rich for my blood, but you see i don't want the childern brought up in a bad neighborhood with low companions. well, sammy argued the rent was too high, till i told'm we'd let a room an' make it up that way, but what with this, an' what with that, we ain't had any boarders exceptin' now an' then some friend of himself out of a job, or one o' the girls, livin' out in the houses where i work, gettin' bounced suddent, an' in want of a bed, an' none of 'em ever paid us a cent or was asked for it." "well, if i could get a position as teacher or governess, i'd soon be able to pay back what you've laid out for me, and more besides, and--in the houses where you work, are there any children who need a governess? any young girls who need a tutor? that's what i wanted to ask you, martha." mrs. slawson deliberated in silence for a moment. "there's the livingstons," she mused, "but they ain't any childern. only a childish brother-in-law. he's not quite _all there,_ as you might say. it'd be no use tryin' to learn him nothin', seein' he's so odd--seventy-odd--an' his habits like to be fixed. then, there's the farrands. but the girls goes to miss spenny's school, an' the son's at columbia. it might upset their plans, if i was to suggest their givin' up where they're at, an' havin' you. then there's the grays, an' the granvilles, an' the thornes. addin' 'em all together for childern, they'd come to about half a child a pair. talk about your race suicide! they say they 'can't afford to have childern.' you can take it from me, it's the poor people are rich nowadays. _we_ can afford to have childern, all right, all right. then there's mrs. sherman--she's got one boy, but he--radcliffe sherman--well, he's a limb! a reg'lar young villain. you couldn't manage _him_. only lord ronald can manage radcliffe sherman, an' he--" "lord ronald?" questioned claire, when mrs. slawson's meditation threatened to become static. "why, he's mrs. sherman's brother, mr. frank ronald, an' no real lord could be handsomer-lookin', or grander-behavin', or richer than him. mrs. sherman is a widder, or a divorcy, or somethin' stylish like that. anyhow, i worked for her this eight years an' more--almost ever since radcliffe was born, an' i ain't seen hide nor hair o' any mr. sherman yet, an' they never speak o' him, so i guess he was either too good or too bad to mention. mr. frank an' his mother lives with mrs. sherman, an' what mr. frank says _goes_. his word is law. she thinks the world of'm, an' well she may, for he's a thorerbred. the way he treats me, for instants. you'd think i was the grandest lady in the land. he never sees me but it's, 'how d'do, martha?' or, 'how's the childern an' mr. slawson these days?' he certainly has got grand ways with'm, mr. frank has. an' yet, he's never free. you wouldn't dare make bold with'm. his eyes has a sort o' _keep-off-the-grass_ look gener'ly, but when he smiles down at you, friendly-like, why, you wouldn't call the queen your cousin. radcliffe knows he can't monkey with his uncle frank, an' when he's by, butter wouldn't melt in that young un's mouth. but other times--my! you see, mrs. sherman is dead easy. she told me oncet, childern ought to be brought up 'scientifically.' lord! she said they'd ought to be let _express their souls_, whatever she means by that. i told her i thought it was safer not to trust too much to the childern's souls, but to help along some occasional with your own--the sole of your slipper. it was then she said she 'abserlootly forbid' any one to touch radcliffe. she wanted him 'guided by love alone.' well, that's what he's been guided with, an', you can take it from me, love's made a hash of it, as it ushally does when it ain't mixed with a little common sense. you'd oughta see that fella's anticks when his mother, an' lord ronald, ain't by. he'd raise the hair offn your head, if you hadn't a spear of it there to begin with. he speaks to the help as if they was dirt under his feet, an' he'd as lief lie as look at you, an' always up to some new devilment. it'd take your time to think fast enough to keep up with'm. but he ain't all bad--i don't believe no child _is_, not on your life, an' my idea is, he'd turn out o.k. if only he'd the right sort o' handlin'. mr. frank could do it--but when lord ronald is by, radcliffe is a pet lamb--a little woolly wonder. you ast me why i call mr. frank lord ronald. i never thought of it till one time when cora said a piece at a sund'-school ent'tainment. i can't tell you what the piece was, for, to be perfectly honest, i was too took up, at the time, watchin' cora's stockin', which was comin' down, right before the whole churchful. it reely didn't, but i seen the garter hangin', an' i thought it would, any minute. i remember it was somethin' about a fella called lord ronald, who was a reel thorerbred, just like mr. frank is. i recklect one of the verses went: "'lord ronald had the lily-white dough--' (to my way o' thinkin' it's no matter about the color, white or gold or just plain, green paper-money, so long's you've _got_ it), anyhow, that's what it said in the piece-- "'lord ronald had the lily-white dough, which he gave to his cousin, lady clare.' say, wasn't he generous?--'give to his cousin--lady clare'--an'--good gracious! o, excuse me! i didn't mean to jolt your tray like that, but i just couldn't help flyin' up, for i got an idea! true as you live, i got an idea!" chapter iv it did not take long, once claire was fairly on her feet again, to adjust herself to her new surroundings, to find her place and part in the social economy of the little family-group where she was never for a moment made to feel an alien. she appropriated a share in the work of the household at once, insisting, to martha's dismay, upon lending a hand mornings with the older children, who were to be got off to school, and with the three-year-old sabina, who was to stay at home. she assisted with the breakfast preparations, and then, when the busy swarm had flown for the day, she "turned to," to ma's delight, and got the place "rid up" so it was "clean as a whistle an' neat as a pin." ma was not what martha approvingly called "a hustler." "ma ain't thorer," her daughter-in-law confided to claire, without reproach. "she means well, but, as she says, her mind ain't fixed on things below, an' when that's the case, the dirt is bound to settle. ma thinks you can run a fam'ly, readin' the bible an' singin' hymns. well, p'raps you can, only i ain't never dared try. when i married sammy he looked dretful peaky, the fack bein' he hadn't never been properly fed, an' it's took me all of the goin'-on fifteen years now, we been livin' together, to get'm filled up accordin' to his appetite, which is heavy. you see, ma never had any time to attend to such earthly matters as cookin' a square meal--but she's settin' out to have a lot of leisure with the lord." as for ma, she found it pleasant to watch, from a comfortable distance, the work progressing satisfactorily, without any draft on her own energies. "martha's a good woman, miss," she observed judicially, in her detached manner, "but she is like the lady of her name we read about in the blessed book. when _i_ set out in life, i chose the betther part, an' now i'm old, i have the faith to believe i'll have a front seat in heaven. i've knew throuble in me day. i raised ten childern, an' i had three felons, an' god knows i think i earned a front seat in heaven." claire's pause, before she spoke, seemed to ma to indicate she was giving the subject the weighty consideration it deserved. "according to that, it would certainly seem so. you have rheumatism, too, haven't you?" as if that might be regarded as an added guarantee of special celestial reservation. ma paled visibly. "no, miss. i don't never have the rheumatiz now--not so you'd notice it," she said plaintively. "oncet i'd it thurrbl, an' me son sammy had it, too, loikewoise, fierce. i'd uster lay in bed moanin' an' cryin' till you'd be surprised, an' me son sammy, he was a'most as bad. well, for a week or two, martha, she done for us the best she cud, i s'pose, but she didn't make for to stop the pain, an' at last one night, when me son sammy was gruntin', an' i was groanin' to beat the band, martha, she up, all of a suddint, an' says she, she was goin' for to cure us of the rheumatiz, or know the reason why. an' she went, an' got the karrysene-can, an' she poured out two thurrbl big doses, an' she stood over me son sammy an' i, till we swalleyed it down, an' since ever we tuk it, me an' sammy ain't never had a retur-rn. sometimes i have a sharp twinge o' somethin' in me leg or me arrm, but it ain't rheumatiz, an' i wouldn't like for me son sammy's wife to be knowin' it, for the very sight of her startin' for the karrysene--if it's only to fill the lamp, is enough to make me gullup, an' i know it's the same wit' me son sammy, though we never mention the subjeck between us." "but if your son didn't want to take the stuff," claire said, trying to hide her amusement, "why didn't he stand up and say so? he's a man. he's much bigger and stronger than his wife. how could she make him do what he didn't want to?" the question was evidently not a new one to ma. "that's what annywan'd naturrly think," she returned promptly. "but that's because they wouldn't be knowin' me son sammy's wife. it ain't size, an' it ain't stren'th--it's just, well, _martha_. there's that about her you wouldn't like to take any chances wit'. perhaps it's the thing manny does be talkin' of these days. perhaps it's _that_ got a holt of her. annyhow, she says she's _in_ for't. they does be callin' it woman sufferrich, i'm told. in my day a dacint body'd have thought shame to be discoursin' in public to the men. they held their tongues, an' let their betthers do the colloguein', but martha says some of the ladies she works for says, if they talk about it enough the men will give them their rights, an' let 'em vote. i'm an old woman, an' i never had much book-learnin', but i'm thinkin' one like me son sammy's wife has all the rights she needs wit'out the votin'. she goes out worrkin', same's me son sammy, day in, day out. she says sammy could support _her_ good enough, but she won't raise her childern in a teniment, along wit' th' low companions. me son sammy, he has it harrd these days. he'd not be able to pay for such a grrand flat as this, in a dacint, quiet neighborhood, an' so martha turrns to, an' lends a hand. an' wance, when me son sammy was sick, an' out av a job entirely, martha, she run the whole concern herself. she wouldn't let me son sammy give up, or get down-hearted, like he mighta done. she said it was her _right_ to care for us all, an' him, too, bein' he was down an' out, like he was. it seems to me that's fairrly all the rights anny woman'd want--to look out for four childern, an' a man, an' a mother-in-law. but if martha wants to vote, too, why, i'm thinkin' she will." it was particularly encouraging to claire, just at this time, to view martha in the light of one who did not know the meaning of the word fail, for mrs. slawson had assured her that if she would give up all attempt to find employment on her own account, she, mrs. slawson, felt she could safely promise to get her "a job that would be satisfacktry all round, only one must be a little pationate." but a week, ten days, had gone by, since martha announced she had _an idea_, and still the idea had not materialized. meanwhile, claire had ample time to unpack her trunk and settle her belongings about her, so "the pretty lady's room" took on a look of real comfort, and the children never passed the door without pausing before the threshold, waiting with bated breath for some wonderful chance that would give them a "peek" into the enchanted chamber. as a matter of fact, the transformation was effected with singularly few "properties." some good photographs tastefully framed in plain, dark wood. a baghdad rug left over from her college days, some scraps of charming old textiles, and such few of the precious home trifles as could be safely packed in her trunk. there was a daguerreotype of her mother, done when she was a girl. "as old-fashioned as your grandmother's hoopskirt," martha called it. a sampler wrought by some ancient great-aunt, both aunt and sampler long since yellowed and mellowed by the years. a della robbia plaque, with its exquisite swaddled baby holding out eager arms, as if to be taken. a lacquer casket, a string of egyptian mummy-beads--what seemed to the children an inexhaustible stock of wonderful, mysterious treasures. but the object that appeared to interest their mother more than anything else in the whole collection, was a book of unmounted photographs, snap-shots taken by claire at college, during her travels abroad, some few, even, here in the city during those first days when she had dreamed it was easy to walk straight into an art-editorship, and no questions asked. mrs. slawson scrutinized the prints with an earnestness so eager that claire was fairly touched, until she discovered that here was no aching hunger for knowledge, no ungratified yearning "for to admire and for to see, for to be'old this world so wide," but just what looked like a perfectly feminine curiosity, and nothing more. "say, ain't it a pity you ain't any real good likeness of you?" martha deplored. "these is so aggeravatin'. they don't show you up at all. just a taste-like, an' then nothin' to squench the appetite." "that sounds as if i were an entrée or something," laughed claire. "but, you see, i don't want to be _shown up_, martha. i couldn't abear it, as my friend, sairy gamp, would say. when i was little, my naughty big brother used to tease me dreadfully about my looks. he invented the most embarrassing nicknames for me; he alluded to my features with every sort of disrespect. it made me horribly conscious of myself, a thing no properly-constituted kiddie ought ever to be, of course. and i've never really got over the feeling that i am a 'sawed-off,' that my nose is 'curly,' and my hair's a wig, and that the least said about the rest of me, the better. but if you'd actually like to see something my people at home consider rather good, why, here's a little tinted photograph i had done for my dear daddy, the last christmas he was with us. he liked it, and that's the reason i carry it about with me--because he wore it on his old-fashioned watch-chain." she put into martha's hand a thin, flat, dull-gold locket. mrs. slawson opened it, and gave a quick gasp of delight--the sound of triumph escaping one who, having diligently sought, has satisfactorily found. "like it!" martha ejaculated. claire deliberated a moment, watching the play of expression on martha's mobile face. "if you like it as much as all that," she said at last, "i wish you'd take it and keep it. it seems conceited--priggish--to suppose you'd care to own it, but if you really _would_ care to--" mrs. slawson closed one great, finely-formed, work-hardened fist over the delicate treasure, with a sort of ecstatic grab of appropriation. "care to own it! you betcher life! there's nothin' you could give me i'd care to own better," she said with honest feeling, then and there tying its slender ribbon about her neck, and slipping the locket inside her dress, as if it had been a precious amulet. the day following saw her started bright and early for work at the shermans'. when she arrived at the area-gate and rang, there was no response, and though she waited a reasonable time, and then rang and rang again, nobody answered the bell. "they must be up," she said, settling down to business with a steady thumb on the electric button. "what ails the bunch o' them in the kitchen, i should like to know. it'd be a pity to disturb eliza. she might be busy, gettin' herself an extry cup o' coffee, an' couple o' fried hams-an'-eggs, to break her fast before breakfast. but that gay young sprig of a kitchen-maid, _she_ might answer the bell an' open the door to an honest woman." the _gay young sprig_ still failing of her duty, and martha's patience giving out at last, the _honest woman_ began to tamper with the spring-lock of the iron gate. for any one else, it would never have yielded, but it opened to martha's hand, as with the dull submission of the conquered. mrs. slawson closed the gate after her with care. "i'll just step light," she said to herself, "an' steal in on 'em unbeknownst, an' give 'em as good a scare as ever they had in their lives--the whole lazy lot of 'em." but, like mother hubbard's cupboard, the kitchen was bare, and no soul was to be found in the laundry, the pantry or, in fact, anywhere throughout the basement region. softly, and with some real misgiving now, martha made her way upstairs. here, for the first time, she distinguished the sound of a human voice breaking the early morning hush of the silent house. it was radcliffe's voice issuing, evidently, from the dining-room, in which imposing apartment he chose to have his breakfast served in solitary grandeur every morning, what time the rest of his family still slept. martha, pausing on her way up, peeped around the edge of the half-closed door, and then stopped short. along the wall, ranged up in line, like soldiers facing their captain, or victims of a hold-up their captor, stood the household servants--portly shaw the butler, beatrice the parlor-maid, eliza the "chef-cook"--all, down to the gay young sprig, aforesaid, who, as martha had explained to her family in strong disapproval, "was engaged to do scullerywork, an' then didn't even know how to scull." before them, in an attitude of command, not to say menace, stood radcliffe, brandishing a carving-knife which, in his cruelly mischievous little hand, became a weapon full of dangerous possibilities. "don't dare to budge, any one of you," he breathed masterfully to his cowed regiment. "get back there, you shaw! an', beetrice, if you don't mind me, i'll carve your ear off. you better be afraid of me, all of you, an' mind what i say, or i'll take this dagger, an' dag the life out of you! you're all my servants--you're all my slaves! d'you hear me!" evidently they did, and not one of them cared or dared to stir. for a second radcliffe faced them in silence, before beginning to march napoleonically back and forth, his savage young eye alert, his naughty hand brandishing the knife threateningly. a second, and then, suddenly, without warning, the scene changed, and radcliffe was a squirming, wriggling little boy, shorn of his power, grasped firmly in a grip from which there was no chance of escape. "shame on you!" exclaimed martha indignantly, addressing the spellbound line, staring at her blankly. "shame on you! to stand there gawkin', an' never raisin' a finger to this poor little fella, an' him just perishin' for the touch of a real mother's hand. get out of this--the whole crowd o' you," and before the force of her righteous wrath they fled as chaff before the wind. then, quick as the automatic click of a monstrous spring, the hitherto unknown--the supposed-to-be-impossible--befell radcliffe sherman. he was treated as if he had been an iron girder on which the massive clutch of a steam-lift had fastened. he was raised, lowered, laid across what seemed to be two moveless iron trestles, and then the weight as of a mighty, relentless paddle, beat down upon him once, twice, thrice--and he knew what it was to suffer. the whole thing was so utterly novel, so absolutely unexpected, that for the first instant he was positively stunned with surprise. then the knowledge that he was being spanked, that an unspeakable indignity was happening him, made him clinch his teeth against the sobs that rose in his throat, and he bore his punishment in white-faced, shivering silence. when it was over, martha stood him down in front of her, holding him firmly against her knees, and looked him squarely in the eyes. his colorless, quivering lips gave out no sound. "you've got off easy," observed mrs. slawson benevolently. "if you'd been my boy sammy, you'd a got about twict as much an' three times as thora. as it is, i just kinder favored you--give you a lick an' a promise, as you might say, seein' it's you and you ain't used to it--_yet_. besides, i reely like you, an' want you to be a good boy. but, if you should need any more at any other time, why, you can take it from me, i keep my hand in on sammy, an' practice makes perfect." she released the two small, trembling hands, rose to her feet, and made as if to leave the room. then for the first time radcliffe spoke. "s-say," he breathed with difficulty, "s-say--are you--are you goin' to _t-tell?_" martha paused, regarding him and his question with due concern. "tell?" "are y-you going to--t-tell on me, t-to ev-everybody? are y-you going to t-tell--s-sammy?" "shoor i'm not! i'm a perfect lady! i always keep such little affairs with my gen'lemen friends strickly confidential. besides--sammy has troubles of his own." chapter v all that day, martha held herself in readiness to answer at headquarters for what she had done. "he'll shoor tell his mother, the young villyan," said eliza. "an' then it'll be mrs. slawson for the grand bounce." but mrs. slawson did not worry. she went about her work as usual, and when, in the course of her travels, she met radcliffe, she greeted him as if nothing had happened. "say, did you know that sammy has a dog?" no answer. "it's a funny kind o' dog. if you begged your head off, i'd never tell you where he come from." "where did he come from?" "didn't you hear me say i'd never tell you? i do' know. he just picked sammy's father up on the street, an' follered him home, for all the world the same's he'd been a christian." "what kind of dog is he?" "cur-dog." "what kind's that?" "well, a full-blooded cur-dog is somethin' rare in these parts. you wouldn't find him at an ordinary dog-show, like your mother goes to. now, sammy's dog is full-blooded--leastways, he will be, when he's fed up." "my mother's dog is a _pedigree-dog_. is sammy's that kind?" "i ain't ast him, but i shouldn't wonder." "my mother's got a paper tells all about where fifi came from. it's in a frame." "fifi is?" "no, the paper is. the paper says fifi is out of a deller, sired by star. i heard her read it off to a lady that came to see her one day. say, martha, what's a _deller?_" "i do' know." "fifi has awful long ears. what kind of ears has sammy's dog got?" "i didn't notice partic'lar, i must say. but he's got two of 'em, an' they can stand up, an' lay down, real natural-like, accordin' to taste--the dog's taste, which wouldn't be noways remarkable, if it was his tongue, but is what _i_ call extraordinary, seein' it's his _ears_. an' his tail's the same, exceptin' it has even more education still. it can wag, besides standin' up an' layin' down. ain't that pretty smart for a pup, that prob'ly didn't have no raisin' to speak of, 'less you count raisin' on the toe of somebody's boot?" "d'you mean anybody kicked him?" "well, he ain't said so, in so many words, but i draw my own conclusions. he's an honorable, gentlemanlike dog. he keeps his own counsel. if it so happened that he'd needed to be punished at any time, he'd bear it like a little man, an' hold his tongue. you don't catch a reel thorerbred whinin'." "i wish i could see sammy's dog." "well, p'raps you can. but i'll tell you confidential, i wouldn't like flicker to 'sociate with none but the best class o' boys. i'm goin' to see he has a fine line of friends from this time on, an' if sammy ain't what he'd oughter be, why, he just can't mix with flicker, that's all there is _to_ it!" "who gave him that name?" "'his sponsers in baptism--' ho! hear me! recitin' the catechism! i'm such a good 'piscopalian i just can't help it! a little lady-friend of mine gave him that name, 'cause he flickers round so--so like a little yeller flame. did i mention his color was yeller? that alone would show he's a true-breed cur-dog." "say, i forgot--my mother she--she sent me down to tell you she wants to see you right away up in her sittin'-room. i guess you better go quick." mrs. slawson ceased plying her polishing-cloth upon the hardwood floor, sat back upon her heels, and calmly gathered her utensils together. "say, my mother she said tell you she wanted to see you right off, for something particular. ain't you goin' to hurry?" "shoor i am. certaintly." "you don't look as if you was hurrying." "when you get to be a big boy, and have a teacher to learn you knowledge, you'll find that large bodies moves slowly. i didn't have as much schoolin' as i'd like, but what i learned i remember, an' i put it into practice. that's where the use of books comes in--to be put in practice. now, i'm a large body, an' if i tried to move fast i'd be goin' against what's printed in the books, which would be wrong. still, if a lady sends for me post-haste, why, of course, i makes an exception an' answers in the same spirit. so long! see you later!" radcliffe had no mind to remain behind. something subtly fascinating in martha seemed to draw him after her, and he followed on upstairs, swinging himself athletically along, hand over hand, upon the baluster-rail, almost at her heels. "say, don't you wonder what it is my mother's goin' to say to you?" he demanded disingenuously. mrs. slawson shook her head. "wonderin' is a habit i broke myself off of, when i wasn't knee-high to a grasshopper," she replied. "i take things as they come, not to mention as they go. either way suits me, an' annyhow i don't wonder about 'em. if it's somethin' good, why, it'll keep. an' if it's somethin' bad, wonderin' won't make it any better. so what's the use?" "guess i'll go on up, an' see my grandmother in her room," observed radcliffe casually, as they reached mrs. sherman's door. "i won't go in here with you." "dear me, how sorry i am!" martha returned with feeling. "i'd kinder counted on you for--for what they calls moral support, that bein' the kind the male gender is mainly good for, these days. but, of course, if you ain't been invited, it wouldn't be genteel for you to press yourself. i can understand your feelin's. they does credit to your head an' to your heart. as i said before--so long! see you later." the door having closed her in, radcliffe lingered aimlessly about, outside. without, of course, being able to analyze it, he felt as if some rare source of entertainment had been withdrawn from him, leaving life flat and tasteless. he felt like being, what his mother called, "fractious," but--he remembered, as in a flash, "you never catch a thorerbred whinin'," and he snapped his jaws together with manly determination. at martha's entrance, mrs. sherman glanced up languidly from the book she was reading, and inquired with pointed irony, "you didn't find it convenient to come to me directly i sent for you, did you, martha?" mrs. slawson closed the door behind her gently, then stood planted like some massive caryatid supporting the frame. something monumental in the effect of her presence made the question just flung at her seem petty, impudent, and mrs. sherman hastened to add more considerately, "but i sent radcliffe with my message. no doubt he delayed." "no'm," admitted martha, "he told me all right enough, but i was in the middle o' polishin'. it took me a minute or two to get my things collected, an' then it took me a couple more to get _me_ collected, but--better late than never, as the sayin' goes, which, by the same token, i don't believe it's always true." there was not the faintest trace of apology or extenuation in her tone or manner. if she had any misgivings as to the possibility of radcliffe's having complained, she gave no evidence of it. "what i want to say is this," announced mrs. sherman autocratically, making straight for the point. "i absolutely forbid any one in my household to touch--" martha settled herself more firmly on her feet and crossed her arms with unconscious dignity upon her bosom, bracing herself against the coming blow. "i absolutely forbid any one in my household to touch the new marble slabs and nickel fittings in my dressing-rooms with cleaning stuffs containing acids, after this. i have gone to great expense to have the house remodeled this summer, and the bathrooms have all been tiled and fitted up afresh, from beginning to end. i know that, in the past, you have used acid, gritty soaps on the basins and tubs, martha, and my plumber tells me you mustn't do it. he says it's ruinous. he recommends kerosene oil for the bath-tubs and marble slabs. he says it will take any stain out, and is much safer than the soaps. so please use kerosene to remove the stains--" mrs. slawson relaxed. without the slightest hint of incivility she interrupted cheerfully, "an' does your plumber mention what'll remove the stink--i _should_ say, _odor_, of the karrysene?" mrs. sherman laughed. "dear me, no. i'm afraid that's _up to_ you, as radcliffe says." "o, i ain't no doubt it can be done, an' even if it can't, the smell o' karrysene is healthy, an' you wouldn't mind a faint whifft of it now an' then, clingin' to you, comin' outer your bath, would you? or if you did, you might set over against the oil-smell one o' them strong bath-powders that's like the perfumery-counter in a department-store broke loose, an' let 'em fight it out between 'em. to my way o' thinkin', it'd be a _tie_, an' no thanks to your nose." "well, i only follow the plumber's directions. he guarantees his work and materials, but he says acids will roughen the surface of anything--enamel or marble or whatever it may be. i'm sure you'll be careful in the future, now i have spoken, and--er--how are you getting on these days? how are you and your husband and the children?" "tolerable, thank you. sammy, my husband, he ain't been earnin' as much as usual lately, but i says to him, when he's downhearted-like because he can't hand out the price o' the rent, 'say, you ain't fished up much of anythin' certaintly, but count your blessin's. you ain't fell in the river either.' an' be this an' be that, we make out to get along. we never died a winter yet." "dear me, i should think a great, strapping man ought to be able to support his family without having to depend on his wife to go out by the day." "my husband does his best," said martha with simple dignity. "he does his best, but things goes contrairy with some, no doubt o' that." "o, the thought of the day would not bear you out there, i assure you!" mrs. sherman took her up quickly. "science teaches us that our condition in life reflects our character. we get the results of what we are in our environment. you understand? in other words, each receives his desert. i hope i am clear? i mean, what he deserves." martha smiled, a slow, calm, tolerant smile. "you are perfeckly clear," she said reassuringly. "only i ain't been educated up to seein' things that way. seems to me, if everybody got their dessert, as you calls it, some o' them that's feedin' so expensive now at the grand hotels wouldn't have a square meal. it's the ones that ain't _earned_ 'em, _havin'_ the square meal _and_ the dessert, that puts a good man, like my sammy, out o' a job. but that's neither here nor there. it's all bound to come right some day--only meanwhiles, i wish livin' wasn't so high. what with good steak twenty-eight cents a pound, an' its bein' as much as your life is worth to even ast the price o' fresh vegetables, it takes some contrivin' to get along. not to speak o' potatas twenty-five cents the half-peck, an' every last one o' my fam'ly as fond of 'em as if they was fresh from ireland, instead o' skippin' a generation on both sides." "but, my good woman!" exclaimed mrs. sherman, shocked, "what _do_ you mean by talking of porterhouse steak and fresh vegetables this time of year? oughtn't you to economize? isn't it extravagant for you to use such expensive cuts of meat? i'm sure there are others that are cheaper--more suited to your--your income." "certaintly there is. chuck steak is cheap. chuck steak's so cheap that about all it costs you is a few cents to the butcher, an' the price of the store teeth you need, after you've broke your own tryin' to chew it. but, you see, my notion is, to try to give my fam'ly the sort o' stuff that's nourishin'. not just somethin' to _eat_, but _food_. i don't believe their stummicks realize they belong to poor folks. i'm not envyin' the rich, mind you. dear no! i wouldn't be hired to clutter up my insides with the messes i see goin' up to the tables of some i work for. cocktails, an' entrys, an' foody-de-gra-gra, an' suchlike. no! i believe in reel, straight nourishment. the things that builds up your bones, an' gives you red blood, an' good muscle, so's you can hold down your job, an' hold up your head. i believe in payin' for that kind o' food, if i _do_ have to work for it." mrs. sherman took up the book she had dropped at martha's entrance. "you certainly are a character," she observed. "thank you, 'm," said martha. "o, and by the way, before you go--i want you to see that mr. ronald's rooms are put in perfect order to-day. i don't care to trust it to the girls, but you can have one of them to help you, if you like, provided you are sure to oversee her. you know how particular i am about my brother frank's rooms. be sure nothing is neglected." "yes'm," said martha. chapter vi the next morning eliza met her at the area-gate, showing a face of ominous sympathy, wagging a doleful head. "what'd i tell you?" she exclaimed before she had even unlatched the spring-lock. "that young villyan has a head on him old enough to be his father's, if so be he ever had one. he's deep as a well. he didn't tell his mother on ye yesterday mornin', but he done worse--the little fox! he told his uncle frank when he got home last night. leastways, mr. shaw got a message late in the evenin' from upstairs, which was, to tell mrs. slawson, mr. ronald wanted to see her after his breakfast this mornin', an' be sure she didn't forget." mrs. slawson received the news with a smile as of such actual welcome, that eliza, who flattered herself she knew a thing or two about human nature, was rather upset in her calculations. "you look like you _relish_ bein' bounced," she observed tartly. "well, if i'm goin' to get my walkin'-papers, i'd rather get 'em from mr. frank than from anybody else. there's never any great loss without some small gain. at least, if mr. frank is dischargin' me, he's noticin' i'm alive, an' that's somethin' to be thankful for." "that's _as_ you look at it!" snapped eliza. "mr. frank is all right enough, but i must say i'd rather keep my place than have even him kick me out. an' you look as if his sendin' for you was to say you'd come in for a fortune." "p'raps it is," said martha. "you never can tell." "well, if _i_ was makin' tracks for fortunes, i wouldn't start in on mr. frank ronald," eliza observed cuttingly. "which might be exackly where you'd slip up on it," martha returned with a bland smile. and yet, in reality, she was by no means so composed as she appeared. she felt as might one who, moved by a great purpose, had rashly usurped the prerogative of fate and set in motion mighty forces that, if they did not make for success, might easily make for disaster. she had very definitely stuck her thumb into somebody else's pie, and if her laudable intention was to draw forth a plum, not for herself but for the other, why, that was no proof that, in the end, she might not get smartly scorched for her pains. when the summons to the dining-room actually came, martha felt such an unsubstantiality in the region of her knee-joints, that for a moment she almost believed the bones had turned into breadcrumbs. then energetically she shook herself into shape, spurning her momentary weakness from her, with an almost visible gesture, and marched forward to meet what awaited her. shaw had removed the breakfast dishes from the table beside which "lord ronald" sat alone. it was all very imposing, the place, the particular purpose for which she had been summoned, and which was, as yet, unrevealed to her, the _person_, most of all. martha thought that perhaps she had been a little hard on cora, "the time she give her the tongue-lashin' for stumblin' over the first lines of her piece, that evenin' of the sund'-school ent'tainment. it wasn't so dead easy as a body might think, to stand up to a whole churchful o' people, or even one person, when he was the kind that's as good (or as bad) as a whole churchful." martha could see her now, as she stood then, announcing to the assembled multitude in a high, unmodulated treble: _"it was the t-time when l-lilies bub-blow"_ "an' her stockin' fixin' to come down any min'ute!" "ah, martha, good-morning!" at the first sound of his voice mrs. slawson recovered her poise. that _wouldn't-call-the-queen-your-cousin_ feeling came over her again, and she was ready to face the music, whatever tune it might play. so susceptible is the foolish spirit of mortal to those subtle, impalpable influences of atmosphere that we try to describe, in terms of inexact science, as personality, vibration, aura, magnetism. "i asked to see you, martha, because radcliffe tells me--" martha's heart sank within her. so it was radcliffe and the _grand bounce_ after all, and not--well, it was a pity! after all her thinkin' it out, an' connivin', an' contrivin', to have nothin' come of it! to be sent off before she had time to see the thing through! "radcliffe tells me," continued the clear, mellow voice, penetrating the mist of her meditations, "that you own a very rare, a very unusual breed of dog. i couldn't make out much from radcliffe's description, but apparently the dog is a pedigree animal." mrs. slawson's shoulders, in her sudden revulsion of feeling, shook with soundless mirth. "pedigree animal!" she repeated. "certaintly! shoor, he's a pedigree animal. he's had auntsisters as far back as any other dog, an' that's a fack. what's the way they put it? 'out of' the gutter, 'sired by' kicks. you never see a little yeller, mongol, cur-dog, sir, that's yellerer or cur-er than him. i'd bet my life his line ain't never been crossed by anythin' different, since the first pup o' them all set out to run his legs off tryin' to get rid o' the tin-can tied to his tail. but flicker's a winner, for all that, an' he's goin' to keep my boy sammy in order, better'n i could ever do it. you see, i just has to hint to sammy that if he ain't proper-behaved i won't let flicker 'sociate with'm, an' he's as good as pie. i wouldn't be without that dog, sir, now i got intimately acquainted with him, for--" "that touches the question i was intending to raise," interposed mr. ronald. "you managed to get radcliffe's imagination considerably stirred about flicker, and the result is, he has asked me to see if i can't come to an understanding with you. he wants me to buy flicker." martha's genial smile faded. "why, goodness gracious, lor--i _should_ say, _mr._ ronald, the poor little rascal, dog rather, ain't worth two cents. he's just a young flagrant pup, you wouldn't be bothered to notice, 'less you had the particular likin' for such things we got." "radcliffe wants flicker. i'll give you ten dollars for him." "i--i couldn't take it, mr. ronald, sir. it wouldn't be fair to you!" "fifteen dollars." "it ain't the money--" "twenty!" "i--i can't!" "twenty-five dollars, martha. radcliffe's heart is set on the dog." a quick observer, looking attentively at mrs. slawson's face, could have seen something like a faint quiver disturb the firm lines of her lips and chin for a moment. a flash, and it was gone. "i'd _give_ you the dog, an' welcome, mr. ronald," she said presently, "but i just can't do it. the little feller, he never had a square deal before, an' because my husband an' the rest of us give it to him, he loves us to death, an' you'd think he'd bark his head off for joy when the raft o' them gets home after school. an' then, nights--(i ben workin' overtime lately, doin' outside jobs that bring me home late)--nights, when i come back, an' all in the place is abed an' asleep, an' i let myself in, in the black an' the cold, the only livin' creature to welcome me is flicker. an' there he stands, up an' ready for me, the minute he hears my key in the lock, an' when i open the door, an' light the changelier (he don't dare let a bark out of'm, he knows better, the smart little fella!), there he stands, a-waggin' his stump of a tail like a christian, an'--mr. ronald, sir--that wag ain't for sale!" for a moment something akin in both held them silent. then mr. ronald slowly inclined his head. "you are quite right, martha. i understand your feeling." martha turned to go. she had, in fact, reached the door when she was recalled. "o--one moment, please." she came back. "my sister tells me you worked in my rooms yesterday. was any one there with you at the time?" "no, sir. mrs. sherman said i might have one of the girls, but i perfer to see to your things myself." "then you were quite alone?" "yes, sir." "do you know if any one else in the household had occasion to go into my rooms during the day?" "of course i can't be pos'tive. but i don't think so, sir." "then i wonder if this belongs to you?" he extended his hand toward her. in his palm lay a small, flat, gold locket. something like the faintest possible electric shock passed up mrs. slawson's spine, and contracted the muscles about her mouth. for a second she positively grinned, then quickly her face regained its customary calm. with a clever, if slightly tardy, movement, her hand went up to her throat. "yes, sir--shoor, it's mine! now what do you think of that! me losin' somethin' i think the world an' all of, an' have wore for, i do' know how long, an' never missin' it!" mr. ronald's eyes shot out a quick, quizzical gleam. "o, you have been accustomed to wear it?" "yes, sir." "mrs. sherman tells me she never remembers to have seen you with any sort of ornament, even a gold pin. she thought the locket could not possibly belong to you." "well, it does. an' the reason she hasn't noticed me wearin' it is, i wear it under my waist, see?" again mr. ronald fixed her with his keen eyes. "i see. you wear it under your waist. of course, that explains why she hasn't noticed it. yet, _if_ you wear it under your waist, how came it to get out from under and be on my desk?" martha's face did not change beneath his scrutiny. during a rather long moment she was silent, then her answer came glibly enough. "when i'm workin' i'm ap' to get het-up, an' then i sometimes undoes the neck o' my waist, an' turns it back to give me breathin'-room." mr. ronald accepted it gravely. "well, it is a very pretty locket, martha--and a very pretty face inside it. of course, as the trinket was in my room, and as there was no name or sign on the outside to identify it, i opened it. i hope you don't mind." "certainly not," martha assured him. "certainly not!" "the inscription on the inside puzzles me. 'dear daddy, from claire.' now, assuredly, you're not _dear daddy,_ martha." mrs. slawson laughed. "not on your life, i ain't _dear daddy,_ sir. dear daddy was judge lang of grand rapids--you know, where the furnitur' an' the carpet-sweepers comes from--he died about a year ago, an' miss claire, knowin' how much store i set by her, an' how i'd prize her picture, she give me the locket, as you see it." "you say grand rapids?--the young lady, miss claire, as you call her, lives in grand rapids?" "yes, sir." "i suppose you think i am very inquisitive, asking so many questions, but the fact is, i am extremely interested. you will see why, when i explain that several weeks ago, one day downtown, i saw a little girl--a young lady--who might have been the original of this very picture, the resemblance is so marked. but, of course, if your young lady lives in grand rapids, she can't be my little girl--i should say, the young woman i saw here in new york city. but if they were one and the same, they couldn't look more alike. the only difference i can see, is that the original of your picture is evidently a prosperous 'little sister of the rich,' and the original of mine--the one i've carried in my mind--is a breadwinner. she was employed in an office where i had occasion to go one day on business. the next time i happened to drop in there--a few days later--she was gone. i was sorry. that office was no place for her, but i would have been glad to find her there, that i might have placed her somewhere else, in a safer, better position. i hope she has come to no harm." martha hung fire a moment. then, suddenly, her chin went up, as with the impulse of a new resolve. "i'll be open an' aboveboard with you, sir," she said candidly. "the world is certaintly small, an' the way things happen is a caution. now, who'd ever have thought that you'd 'a' seen my miss claire, but i truly believe you have. for after her father died she come to new york, the poor lamb! for to seek her fortune, an' her as innercent an' unsuspectin' as my sabina, who's only three this minit. she tried her hand at a lot o' things, an' thank god an' her garden-angel for keepin' her from harm, for as delicate an' pretty as she is, she can't _help_ attractin' attention, an' you know what notions some as calls themselves gen'lemen has, in this town. well, miss claire is livin' under my roof, an' you can betcher life i'm on the job--relievin' her garden-angel o' the pertectin' end o' the business. but miss claire's that proud an' inderpendent-like she ain't contented to be idle. she's bound to make her own livin', which, she says, it's everybody's dooty to do, some ways or other. so my eye's out, as you might say, for a place where she can teach, like she's qualified to do. did i tell you, she's a college lady, an' has what she calls a 'degree,' which i didn't know before anythin' but masons like himself had 'em. "you oughter see how my boy sammy gets his lessons, after she's learned 'em to him. she's a wizard at managin' boys. my sammy useter to be up to all sorts o' mischief. they was a time he took to playin' hookey. he'd march off mornin's with his sisters, bold as brass, an' when lunchtime come, in he'd prance, same as them, an' nobody ever doubtin' he hadn't been to his school. an' all the time, there he was playin' in the open lots with a gang o' poor little neglected dagos. i noticed him comin' in evenin's kinder dissipated-lookin', but i hadn't my wits about me enough to be onto'm, till his teacher sent me a note one day, by his sister cora, askin' what was ailin' sammy. that night somethin' ailed sammy for fair. he stood up to his dinner, an' he wouldn't 'a' had a cravin' to set down to his breakfast next mornin', only francie put a pilla in his chair. but miss claire, she's got him so bewitched, he'd break his heart before he'd do what she wouldn't like. the thought of her goin' away makes him sick to his stummick, the poor fella! yet, it ain't to be supposed anybody so smart, an' so good-lookin' as her, but would be snapped up quick by them as has the sense to see the worth of her. there's no question about her gettin' a job, the only worry _i_ have is her gettin' one that will take her away from this, out of new york city, where i can't see her oncet in a while. she's the kind you'd miss, like you would a front tooth. you feel you can't get on without her, an' true for you, you can't. but, beggin' your pardon, sir, for keepin' you so long with my talkin'. if that's all, i'll get to my work." "that is all," said mr. ronald, "except--" he rose and handed her the locket. she took it from him with a smile of perfect good-fellowship, and passed from the room. once outside the threshold, with the door closed upon her, she drew a long, deep breath of relief. "well, i'm glad _that's_ over, an' i got out of it with a whole skin," she ruminated. "lord, but i thought he had me shoor, when he took me up about how the thing got out o' me dress, with his gimlet eyes never stirrin' from my face, an' me tremblin' like an ashpan. if i hadn't 'a' had my wits about me, i do' know where i'd 'a' come out. but all's well that ends swell, as miss claire says, an' bless her heart, it's her as'll end swell, if what i done this day takes root, an' i believe it will." chapter vii when martha let herself into her flat that night, she was welcomed by another beside flicker. "you _naughty_ martha!" whispered claire. "what do you mean by coming home so late, all tired out and worked to death! it is shameful! but here's a good cup of hot chocolate, and some big plummy buns to cheer you up. and i've got some good news for you besides. i didn't mean to tell right off, but i just can't keep in for another minute. _i've got a job!_ a fine, three-hundred-dollars-a-year-and-home-and-laundry job! and a raise, as soon as i show i'm worth it! now, what do you think of that? isn't it splendid? isn't it--_bully_?" she had noiselessly guided martha into her own room, got her things off, and seated her in a comfortable morris chair before the lighted oil-stove, from whose pierced iron top a golden light gleamed cheerily, reflecting on the ceiling above in a curious pattern. "be careful of the chocolate, it's burning hot. i kept it simmering till i heard you shut the vestibule door. and--o, yes! no danger in sipping it that way! but you haven't asked a single thing about my job. how i came to know of it in the first place, and how i was clever enough to get it after i'd applied! you don't look a bit pleased and excited over it, you bad martha! and you ought to be so glad, because i won't need to spend anything _like_ all the money i'll get. i'm to have my home and laundry free, and one can't make many outside expenses in a boarding-school 'way off in schoharie--and so i can send you a lot and a lot of dollars, till we're all squared up and smoothed out, and you won't have to work so hard any more, and--" "say now, miss claire, you certaintly are the fastest thing on record. if you'd been born a train, you'd been an express, shoor-pop an' no mistake. didn't i tell you to hold on, pationate an' uncomplainin', till i giv' you the sign? didn't i say i had my eye on a job for you that was a job worth talkin' about? one that'd be satisfactry all around. well, then! an' here you are, tellin' me about you goin' to the old harry, or some such, with home an' laundry thrown in. not on your life you ain't, miss claire, an' that (beggin' your pardon!) is all there is _to_ it!" "but, martha--" "don't let's waste no more words. the thing ain't to be thought of." "but, martha, it's over two weeks since you said that, about having an idea about a certain job for me that was going to be so splendid. don't you know it is? and i thought it had fallen through. i didn't like to speak about it, for fear you'd think i was hurrying you, but two weeks are two weeks, and i can't go on indefinitely staying here, and getting so deep in debt i'll never be able to get out again. and i saw this advertisement in _the outlook._ 'twas for a college graduate to teach high school english in a girls' boarding-school, and i went to the agency, and they were very nice, and told me to write to the principal, and i did--told her all about myself, my experience tutoring, and all that, and this morning came the letter saying she'd engage me. i can tell you all about schoharie, martha. it's 'up-state' and--" "miss claire, child, no! it won't do. i can't consent. i can't have you throwin' away golden opportoonities to work like a toojan for them as'll stint you in the wash, an' prob'ly give you oleo-margerine instead of butter, an' cold-storage eggs that had forgot there was such a thing as a hen, long before they ever was laid away. i wasn't born yesterday, myself, an' i know how they treat the teachers in some o' them schools. the young-lady scholars, so stylish an' rich, as full of airs as a music-box, snubbin' the teacher because they're too ignorant to know how smart _she_ has to be, to get any knowledge into their stupid heads, an' the principal always eyein' you like a minx, 'less you might be wastin' her precious time an' not earnin' the elegant sal'ry she gives you, includin' your home an' laundry. o my! i know a thing or two about them schools, an' a few other places. no, miss claire, dear, it won't do. an' besides, i have you bespoke for mrs. sherman. the last thing before i come away from the house this night, she sent for me upstairs, an' ast me didn't i know some one could engage with her for radcliffe--to learn him his lessons, an' how to be a little lady, an' suchlike. she wants, as you might say, a trained mother for'm, while his own untrained one is out gallivantin' the streets, shoppin', an' playin' bridge, an' attendin' the horse-show. "i hemmed an' hawed an' scratched my head to see if, happen, i did know anybody suitable, an' after a while (not to seem to make you too cheap, or not to look like i was jumpin' down her throat) i told her: 'curious enough, i do know just the one i think will please you--_if_ you can get her.' "then she ast me a lot about you, an' i told her what i know, an' for the rest i trusted to providence, an' in the end we made a sorter deal--so's it's all fixed you're to go there day after to-morrer, to talk to her, an' let her look you over. an' if you're the kind o' stuff she wants, she'll take a half-a-dozen yards o' you, which is the kind o' way those folks has with people they pay money to. i promised mrs. sherman you'd come, an' i couldn't break my word to her, now could i? i'd be like to lose my own job if i did, an' i'm sure you wouldn't ast that o' me!" "but," said claire, troubled, "you told me radcliffe is so unmanageable." mrs. slawson devoted herself to her chocolate and buns for a moment or two. "o, never you fear about radcliffe," she announced at length. "he's a good little fella enough, as little fellas goes. when you know how to handle'm--which is _right side up_ with care. him an' me come to an understandin' yesterday mornin', an' he's as meek an' gentle as a baa-lamb ever since. i'll undertake you'll have no trouble with radcliffe." "is this the wonderful plan you spoke of? is _this_ the job you said was going to be so satisfactory all 'round?" inquired claire, her misgivings, in connection with her prospective pupil, by no means allayed. "well, not eggsackly. i can't say it is. _that_ job will come later. but we got to be pationate, an' not spoil it by upsettin' our kettles o' fish with boardin'-schools, an' such nonsense. meanwhile we can put in time with mrs. sherman, who'll pay you well, an' won't be too skittish if you just keep a firm hand on her. this mornin' she got discoursin' about everythin' under the canopy, from nickel-plated bathroom fixin's, an' marble slobs, to that state o' life unto which it has pleased god to call me. she told me just what i'd oughter give my fam'ly to eat, an' how much i'd oughter pay for it, an'--i say, but wasn't she grand to have give me all that good advice free?" claire laughed. "she certainly was, and now you've just _got_ to go to bed. i don't dare look at the clock, it's so late. good-night, you _good_ martha! and thank you, from way deep down, for all you've done for me." but long after mrs. slawson had disappeared, the girl sat in the solitude of her shadowy room thinking--thinking--thinking. unable to get away from her thoughts. there was something about this plan, to which martha had committed her, that frightened, overawed her. she felt a strange impulse to resist it, to follow her own leading, and go to the school instead. she knew her feeling was childish. suppose radcliffe were to be unruly, why, how could she tell that the girls in the schoharie school might not prove even more so? the fact was, she argued, she had unconsciously allowed herself to be prejudiced against mrs. sherman and the boy, by martha's whimsical accounts of them, good-natured as they were. and this strange, premonitory instinct was no premonitory instinct at all, it was just the natural reluctance of a shy nature to face a new and uncongenial situation. and yet--and yet--and yet, try as she would, she could not shake off the impression that, beyond it all, there loomed something a hidden inner sense made her hesitate to approach. just that moment, a dim, untraceable association of ideas drew her back until she was face-to-face with a long-forgotten incident in her very-little girlhood. once upon a time, there had been a moment when she had experienced much the same sort of feeling she had now--the feeling of wanting to cry out and run away. as a matter of fact, she _had_ cried out and run away. why, and from what? as it came back to her, not from anything altogether terrible. on the contrary, something rather alluring, but so unfamiliar that she had shrunk back from it, protesting, resisting. what was it? claire suddenly broke into a smothered little laugh and covered her face with her hands, before the vision of herself, squawking madly, like a startled chicken, and running away from "big" handsome, twelve-year-old bobby van brandt, who had just announced to the world at large, that "he liked claire lang a lot, 'n' she was his best girl, 'n' he was goin' to kiss her." she had been mortally frightened, had screamed, and run away, but (so unaccountable is the heart of woman) she had never liked bobby quite so well after that, because he had shown the white feather and hadn't carried out his purpose, in spite of her. but if she should scream and run away now, there would be none to pursue. her foolish outburst would disturb no one. she could cry and cry, and run and run, and there would be no big bobby van brandt, or any one else to hear and follow. an actual echo of the cries she had not uttered seemed to mock her foolish musing. she paused and listened. again and again came the muffled sounds, and, at last, so distinct they seemed, she went to her door, unlatched it, and stood, listening, on the threshold. from martha's room rose a deep rumble, as of a distant murmurous sea. "mr. slawson. he's awake. he must have heard the crying, too. o, it's begun again! how awful! martha, what is it, o, what is it?" for mrs. slawson had appeared in her own doorway, and was standing, night-robed and ghostly, listening attentively to the intermittent signs of distress. "it's that bloomin' dutchman, langbein, acrost the hall. every time he goes on a toot, he comes back an' wallops his wife for it. go to bed, miss claire, child, an' don't let it worry you. it ain't _your_ funeral." came the voice of big sam slawson from within his chamber: "just what i say to _you_, my dear. it ain't your funeral. come back, martha, an' go to bed." "well, that's another pair o' shoes, entirely, sammy," whispered martha. "this business has been goin' on long enough, an' i ain't proposin' to put up with it no longer. such a state o' things has nothin' to recommend it. if it'd help such a poor ninny as mrs. langbein any to beat her, i'd say, 'go ahead! never mind _us!_' but you couldn't pound sense inter a softy like her, no matter what you done. in the first place, she lets that fella get away from her evenin's when, if she'd an ounce o' sense, she could keep him stickin' so close at home, a capcine plaster wouldn't be in it. then, when he comes home, a little the worse for wear, she ups an' reproaches 'm, which, god knows, that ain't no time to argue with a man. you don't want to _argue_ with a fella when he's so. you just want to _tell_m'. tell'm with the help of a broomstick if you want to, but _tell'_m, or leave'm alone. an' it's bad for the childern--all this is--it's bad for cora an' francie. what idea'll they get o' the holy estate o' matrimony, i should like to know? that the _man_ has the upper hand? that's a _nice_ notion for a girl to grow up with, nowadays. hark! my, but he's givin' it to her good an' plenty this time! sammy slawson, shame on ye, man! to let a poor woman be beat like that, an' never raise a hand to save your own childern from bein' old maids. another scream outer her, an' i'll go in myself, in the face of you." "now, martha, be sensible!" pleaded sam slawson. "you can't break into a man's house without his consent." "can't i? well, just you watch me close, an' you'll see if i can't." "you'll make yourself liable to the law. he's her husband, you know. she can complain to the courts, if she's got any kick comin'. but it's not _my_ business to go interferin' between husband and wife. 'what god hath joined together, let no man put asunder.'" martha wagged an energetic assent. "shoor! that certaintly lets _you_ out. but there ain't no mention made o' _woman_ not bein' on the job, is there?" she covered the narrow width of the hall in a couple of strides, and beat her knuckles smartly against the panel of the opposite door. by this time the baluster-railing, all the way up, was festooned with white-clad tenants, bending over, looking down. "martha," protested sam slawson, "you're in your nightgown! you can't go round like that! everybody's lookin' at you!" "say, you--mr. langbein in there! open the door. it's me! mrs. slawson! let me in!" was martha's only reply. her keen ear, pressed against the panel, heard nothing in response but an oath, following another even more ungodly sound, and then the choking misery of a woman's convulsive sobs. mrs. slawson set her shoulder against the door, braced herself for a mighty effort, and-- "did you ever see the like of her?" muttered sam, as, still busy fastening the garments he had hurriedly pulled on, he followed his wife into the langbeins' flat, into the langbeins' bedroom. there he saw her resolutely march up to the irate german, swing him suddenly about, and send him crashing, surprised, unresisting, to the opposite side of the room. for a second she stood regarding him scornfully. "you poor, low-lived dutchman, you!" she brought out with deliberation. "what d'you mean layin' your hand to a woman who hasn't the stren'th or the spirit to turn to, an' lick you back? why don't you fight a fella your own size an' sect? that's fair play! a fine man _you_ are! a fine neighbor _you_ are! just let me hear a peep out of you, an' i'll thrash you this minit to within a inch of your life. _i_ don't need no law nor no policeman to keep the peace in any house where i live. i can keep the peace myself, if i have to lick every tenant in the place! i'm the law an' the policeman on my own account, an' if you budge from that floor till i tell you get up, i'll come over there an' set down on ye so hard, your wife won't know you from a pancake in the mornin'. i'll show you the power o' the _press!"_ sam slawson was no coward, but his face was pallid with consternation at martha's hardihood. his mighty bulk, however, seeming to supplement hers, had its effect on the sobered german. he did not attempt to rise. "as to you, you poor weak sister," said mrs. slawson, turning to the wife, "you've had your last lickin' so long as you live in this house. believe _me!_ i'm a hard-workin' woman, but i'm never too tired or too busy to come in an' take a round out of your old man, if he should ever dare lay finger to you again. _i_ don't mind a friendly scrap oncet in a while with a neighbor. my muscles is good for more than your fat, beer-drinkin' dutchman's any day. let him up an' try 'em oncet, an' he'll see. why don't you have some style about you an' land him one, where it'll do the most good, or else--_leave_ him? but no, you wouldn't do that--i _know_ you wouldn't! some women has to cling to somethin', no matter if they have to support it themselves." mrs. langbein's inarticulate sobbing had passed into a spasmodic struggle for breathless utterance. "he--don't mean--no harm, mis' slawson. he's all right--ven he's soper. only--it preaks my heart ven he vips me, und i don't deserve it." "breaks your heart? it ain't your _heart i'm_ worryin' about. if he don't break your bones you're in luck!" "und i try to pe a goot vife to him. i tend him hand und foot." "ye-es, i know you do," returned martha dryly. "but suppose you just try the _foot_ in the future. see how it works." "i to my pest mit dryin' to pe a goot cook. i geep his house so glean as a bin. vat i _don't_ do, gott weiss, i don't know it. i ain't esk him for ein tcent already. i ain't drouble him mit pills off of de grocer oder de putcher, oder anny-von. i makes launtry efery veek for some liddle peoples, und mit mine own money i bays my pills. ven you dell me how it iss i could make eferyting more smoother for him, i do it!" "that's eggsackly the trouble," proclaimed mrs. slawson conclusively. "you make 'em too smooth. you make 'em so smooth, they're ackchelly slippery. no wonder the poor fella falls down. no man wants to spend all his life skatin' round, doin' fancy-figger stunts, because his wife's a dummy. let'm get down to hard earth, an' if he kicks, heave a rock at'm. he'll soon stand up, an' walk straight like a little man. let _him_ lend a hand with the dooty-business, for a change. it'll take his attention off'n himself, give'm a rest from thinkin' he's an angel, an' that you hired out, when you married'm, to shout 'glory!' every time he flaps a wing! that sort o' thing ain't healthy for men. it don't agree with their constitutions--an' now, good-night to you, an' may you have sweet dreams! mr. langbein, i ain't the slightest objeckshun to your gettin' up, if you want to. you know me now. i'm by the day, as you may have heard. but i can turn my hand to an odd job like this now an' then by the night, if it's necess'ry, so let me hear no more from you, sir, an' then we'll all be good friends, like we're partin' now. good-night!" chapter viii before setting out for his work the next morning, sam slawson tried to prepare ma and miss lang for the more than probable appearance, during the day, of the officer of the law, he predicted friedrich langbein would have engaged to prosecute martha. "he has a clear case against you, mother, no doubt o' that. you'd no business in his place at all, let alone that you assaulted an' battered him. he can make it hot for us, an' i don't doubt he will." mrs. slawson attended with undivided care to the breakfast needs of such of her flock as still remained to be fed. the youngsters had all vanished. "if he wants to persecute me, let him persecute me. i guess i got a tongue in my head. i can tell the judge a thing or two which, bein' prob'ly a mother himself, he'll see the sense of. do you think i want sammy growin' up under my very eyes, a beer-drinkin' wife-beater?--because he seen the eggsample of it set before'm by a dutchman, when he was a boy? such things makes an impression on the young--which they ain't sense enough to know the difference between a eggsample an' a warnin'. an' the girls, too! as i told you las' night, it's bad for the country when matrimony ain't made to look like a prize-package, no matter what it _reely_ is. what's goin' to become o' the population, i should like to know? here's cora now, wantin' to be a telefoam-girl when she grows up, an' there's no knowin' what francie'll choose. but you can take it from me, they'll both of 'em drop their votes for the single life. they'll perfer to thump a machine o' their own, with twelve or fifteen _per_, comin' to 'em, rather than be the machine that's thumped, an' pay for the privilege out'n their own pockets besides." as fate would have it, the day went placidly by, in spite of mr. slawson's somber prognostications. no one came to disturb the even tenor of its way. then, at eveningfall, while martha was still absent, there was a gentle rap upon the door, and claire, anxious to anticipate ma, made haste to answer it, and saw a stranger standing on the threshold. it was difficult, at first, to distinguish details in the dusk of the dim hallway, but after a moment she made out the rotund figure of mr. langbein. she could not see his face, but his voice was more than conciliatory. "eggscoose me, lady!" he began apologetically. "i haf for mis' slawson a liddle bresent here. i tink she like it. she look so goot-netchered, und i know she iss kind to bum animals. my vife, her maltee cat vas having some liddle kittens already, a mont' ago. i tink mis' slawson, she lige to hef von off dem pussies, ja? annyhow, i bring her von here, und i esk you vill gif it to her mit my tanks, und my kint regarts, und pest vishes und annyting else you tink i could do for her. you tell mis' slawson i lige her to esk me to do someting whenefer she needs it--yes?" "now what do you think of that?" was martha's only comment, when claire related the incident, and great sam slawson shook with laughter till his sides ached, and a fit of coughing set in, and said it was "a caution, but mother always did have a winning way about her with the men." "it's well i have, or i wouldn't 'a' drew you, sammy--an' you shoor are a trump--only i wisht you'd get rid o' that cough--you had it just about long enough," martha responded, half in mockery, half in affectionate earnest. "an' now, me lad, leave us be, me an' miss claire. we has things of importance to talk over. it's to-morrow at ten she's to go see mrs. sherman. miss claire, you must be lookin' your best, for the first minit the madam claps eyes to you, that'll be the decidin' minit for _you_. have you everything you need, ready to your hand? is all your little laces an' frills done up fresh an' tidy, so's you can choose the becomingest? where's that lace butterfly for your neck, i like so much? i washed it as careful as could be, a couple o' weeks ago, but have you wore it since?" claire hesitated. "i think i'll put on the simplest things i've got, martha," she replied evasively. "just one of my linen shirtwaists, with the stiff collar and cuffs. no fluffy ruffles at all." "but that scrap o' lace at your throat, ain't fluffy ruffles. an' stiff, starched things don't kinder become you, miss claire. they ain't your style. you don't wanter look like you been dressed by your worst enemy, do you? you're so little an' dainty, you got to have delicate things to go _with_ you. say, just try that butterfly on you now. i want to see if it'll do, all right." by this time claire knew martha well enough to realize it was useless to attempt to temporize or evade. "i can't wear the butterfly, martha dear," she said. "why can't you?" "well, now please, _please_ don't worry, but i can't wear it, because i can't find it. i dare say it'll turn up some day when i least expect, but just now, it seems to be lost." martha looked grave. "it come out o' the wash all right, didn't it?" she inquired anxiously. "i remember distinkly leavin' it soak in the suds, so's there wouldn't be no strain-like, rubbin' it, an' the dust'd just drop out natural. but now i come to think of it, i don't recklect ironin' it. now honest, did it come outer the wash, miss claire?" "no, martha--but--" "there ain't no _but_ about it. i musta gone an' lost your pretty lace for you, an' it was reel at that!" "never mind! it's of no consequence. truly, please don't--" "worry? shoor i won't worry. what's the use worryin'? but i'll make it right, you betcher life, which is much more to the purpose. say, i shouldn't wonder but it got into the tub someways, an' then, when i let the water out, the suckage drew it down the pipe. believe _me,_ that's the very thing that happened, and--'i'll never see sweet annie any more!'" "it doesn't make a particle of difference, martha. i never liked that butterfly as much as you did, you know." "perhaps you did an' perhaps you didn't, but all the same you're _out_ a neck-fixin', an' it's _my_ fault, an' so you're bound to let me get square, to save my face, miss claire. you see how it is, don't you? well, last christmas, mrs. granville she give me a lace jabbow--reel irish mull an' carrickmacross (that's lace from the old country, as you know as well as me). she told me all about it. fine? it'd break your heart to think o' one o' them poor innercent colleens over there pricklin' her eyes out, makin' such grandjer for the like o' me, when no doubt she thought she was doin' it for some great dame, would be sportin' it out loud, in her auta on fifth avenoo. what use have i, in my business, for that kinder decoration, i should like to know! it'd only be distractin' me, gettin' in me pails when i'm scrubbin'. an' by the time cora an' francie is grown up, jabbows will be _out_. i'd much more use for the five-dollar-bill was folded up in the box alongside. _that_, now, was becomin' to my peculiar style o' beauty. but the jabbow! there ain't no use talkin', miss claire, you'll have to take it off'n my hands, i mean my chest, an' then we'll be quits on the butterfly business, an' no thanks to your nose on either side." it was useless to protest. the next morning when claire started forth to beard the lioness in her den, she was tricked out in all the bravery of martha's really beautiful "jabbow," and looked "as pretty as a picture, an' then some," as mrs. slawson confidentially assured sam. but the heart beneath the frilly lace and mull was anything but brave. it felt, in fact, quite as white and fluttery as the _jabbow_ looked, and when claire found herself being actually ushered into the boudoir of the august _presence_, and told to "wait please," she thought it would stop altogether for very abject fright. martha had tried, in a sort of casual, matter-of-course way, to prepare her little lady for the trial, by dropping hints every now and then, as to the best methods of dealing with employers--the proper way to carry oneself, when one "went to live out in private fam'lies." "you see, you always been the private fam'ly yourself, miss claire, so it'll come kinder strange to you first-off, to look at things the other way. but it won't be so bad after you oncet get used to it. there's one thing it's good to remember. them high-toned folks has somehow got it fixed in their minds that _the rich must not be annoyed,_ so it'll be money in your pocket, as the sayin' is, if you can do your little stunt without makin' any fuss about it, or drawin' their attention. just saw wood an' say nothin', as my husband says. "mrs. sherman she told me, when i first went there, an' radcliffe was a little baby, she 'strickly forbid anybody to touch'm.' it was on account o' what she called _germs_ or somethin'. well, i never had no particular yearnin' to inflect him with none o' my germs, but when she was off gallivantin', an' that poor little lonesome fella used to cry, an' put out his arms to be took, i'd take'm, an' give'm the only reel mother-huggin' he ever had in his life, an' no harm to any of us--to me that give it, or him that got it, or her that was no wiser. then, later, when he was four or five, an' around that, she got a notion he was a angel-child, an' she'd useter go about tellin' the help, an' other folks, 'he must be guided by love alone.' i remember she said oncet he'd be 'as good as a kitten for hours at a time if you only give'm a ball of twine to play with.' well, his nurse, she give'm the ball of twine one day when she had somethin' doin' that took up all her time an' attention on her own account, an' when she come back from her outin', you couldn't walk a step in the house without breakin' your leg (the nurse she did sprain her ankle), on account o' the cat's-cradle effect the young villain had strung acrost the halls, an' from one doorknob to the other, so there wasn't an inch o' the place free. an' he'd got the tooth-paste toobs, an' squoze out the insides, an' painted over every bit o' mahogany he could find--doors, an' furnitur', an' all. you can take it from me, that house was a sight after the angel-child got through with it. the girls an' me--the whole push--was workin' like mad clearin' up after'm before the madam'd come home, an' the nurse cryin' her eyes out for the pain, an' scared stiff 'less she'd be sent packin'. also, 'if radcliffe asked questions, we was to answer them truthful,' was another rule. an' the puzzles he'd put to you! one day, i remember, he got me cornered with a bunch that was such fierce propositions, solomon in all his glory couldn't 'a' give him their truthful answers. says he--radcliffe, not solomon--says he: 'i want another leg.' "'you can't have it,' says i. "'why?' says he. "'they ain't pervided,' i says. 'little boys that's well-reggerlated, don't have but two legs.' "'why don't they?' "'because god thought two was enough for'm.' "'why did god think tho?' "'you ask too many questions.' "'well, but--juth lithen--i want to know--now lithen--doth puthy-caths lay eggth?' "'no!' "'why don't puthy-caths lay eggth?' "'because hens has a corner on the egg business.' "'why have they?' "'because they're born lucky, like mr. carnegie an' mr. rockefella.' "'doth mr. carnegie an' mr. rockefella--' _"'no!'_ "'why don't they?' "'say, radcliffe, i ain't had a hard day,' says i. 'but _you_ make me tired.' "'why do i? now--juth wonth more--now--now lithen wonth more--ith god a lady?'" as claire sat waiting for mrs. sherman, stray scraps of recollection, such as these, flitted through her mind and helped to while the time away. then, as she still waited, she grew gradually more composed, less unfamiliar with her surroundings, and the strange predicament in which she found herself. she could, at length, look at the door she supposed led into mrs. sherman's room, without such a quick contraction of the heart as caused her breath to come in labored gasps, could make some sort of sketchy outline of the part she was foreordained to take in the coming interview, and not find herself barren of resource, even if mrs. sherman _should_ say so-and-so, instead of so-and-so. she had waited so long, had had such ample time to get herself well in hand, that when, at last, a door opened (not mrs. sherman's door at all, but another), and a tall, upright masculine figure appeared in the doorway, she at once jumped to the conclusion it was shaw, the butler, come to summon her into _the presence,_ and rose to follow, without too much inner perturbation. "mrs. sherman is prevented from keeping her appointment with you this morning," descended to her from an altitude far above her own. "she hopes you will excuse her. she has asked me to talk with you in her stead. you are miss lang, i believe? i am mrs. sherman's brother. my name is ronald." chapter ix it is hard to readjust all one's prearranged plans in the twinkling of an eye. claire felt as if she had received a sudden dash of cold water square in the face. she quite gulped from the shock of it. how in the world was she to adapt herself to this brand-new set of conditions on such short notice--on no notice at all? how was she to be anything but awkwardly monosyllabic? "sit down, please." obediently she sat. "martha--mrs. slawson--tells me, your father was judge lang of michigan?" "yes--grand rapids." "you are a college graduate?" "wellesley." "you have taught before?" "i tutored a girl throughout a whole summer. prepared her for her college entrance exams." "she passed creditably?" "she wasn't conditioned in anything." "how are you on discipline?" "i don't know." "you have had no experience? never tried your hand at training a boy, for example?" claire's blue-gray eyes grew suddenly audacious, and the bridge of her short nose wrinkled up delightfully in a roguish smile. "i trained my father. he was a dear old boy--the dearest in the world. he used to say he had never been brought up, until i came along. he used to say i ruled him with a rod of iron. but he was very well-behaved before i got through with him. he was quite a model boy, really." glancing quickly up into the steadfast eyes that had, at first, seemed to her so stern as to be almost forbidding, she met an expression so mild, so full of winning kindness, that she suddenly remembered and understood what martha had meant when she said once: "a body wouldn't call the queen her cousin when he looks at you like that!" "your father was a credit to your bringing-up, certainly. i never had the honor of meeting judge lang, but i knew him by reputation. i remember to have heard some one say of him once--'he was a judge after socrates' own heart. he heard courteously, he answered wisely, he considered soberly, he decided impartially. added to this, he was one whom kings could not corrupt.' that is an enviable record." claire's eyes filled with grateful moisture, but she did not allow them to overflow. she nodded rapidly once or twice in a quaint, characteristic little fashion, and then sat silent, examining the links in her silver-meshed purse, with elaborate attention. "perhaps mrs. slawson has told you that my young nephew is something of a pickle." the question restored claire at once. "i'm fond of pickles." "good! i believe there are said to be fifty-eight varieties. are you prepared to smack your lips over him, whichever he may be?" "well, if i can't smack my lips, there's always the alternative of smacking _him_." mr. ronald laughed. "not allowed," he announced regretfully. "my sister won't have it. radcliffe is to be guided 'by love alone.'" "whose love, please? his or mine?" again mr. ronald laughed. "now you've got me!" he admitted. "perhaps a little of both. do you think you could supply your share? i have no doubt of your being able to secure his." "i like children. we've always managed to hit it off pretty well, the kiddies and i, but, of course, i can't guarantee anything definite in connection with your little boy, because, you see, i've never been a governess before. i've only had to do with youngsters who've come a-visiting, or else the small, lower east-siders at the settlement. but i'll promise to do my best." "'who does the best his circumstance allows, does well, acts nobly. _angles_ could no more,' as i wrote in my sister's autograph-album when i was a boy," announced mr. ronald gravely. claire smiled over at him with appreciation. "i'd love to come and try," she said heartily. she did not realize she had lost all sensation of alarm, had forgotten her altered position, that she was no longer one whom these people would regard as their social equal. she was talking as one talks to a friend. "and if radcliffe doesn't get on--if he doesn't improve, i should say--if you don't _like_ me, you can always send me away, you know." for a very long moment mr. ronald sat silent. so long a moment, indeed, that claire, waiting in growing suspense for his answer, suddenly remembered all those things she had forgotten, and her earlier embarrassment returned with a wave of bitter self-reproach. she accused herself of having been too free. she had overstepped her privilege. it was not apparent to her that he was trying to visualize the picture she had drawn, the possibility of his _not liking her and sending her away, you know,_ and that, to his utter consternation, he found it was something he could not in the least conceive of himself as doing. that, on the contrary, the vision of her going away for any reason, of her passing out of his life, now she had once stepped into it, left him with a chill sensation in the cardiac region that was as unexpected as it was disturbing. when he spoke at last, it was with a quick, authoritative brevity that seemed to claire to bear out her apprehension, and prove he thought she had forgotten her place, her new place as "hired help," and must be checked lest she presume on good nature and take a tone to her employers that was not to be tolerated. "you will come without fail on monday morning." "very well." her manner was so studiously cold and ceremonious, so sharply in contrast with her former piquant friendliness, that mr. ronald looked up in surprise. "it is convenient for you to come on monday, i hope?" "perfectly." "i presume my sister, mrs. sherman, will take up with you the question of--er--compensation." "o--" quickly, with a little shudder, "that's all right!" "if it isn't all right, it shall be made so," said mr. ronald cordially. claire winced. "it is quite, it is perfectly all right!" she repeated hurriedly, anxious to escape the distasteful subject, still smarting under the lash of her own self-condemnation--her own wounded pride. how could she have forgotten, even for a moment, that she was no longer in a position to deal with these people on equal terms? that now, kindness on their part meant patronage, on hers presumption. of course, she deserved the snub she had received. but, all the same, it hurt! o, but it hurt! she knew her george eliot well. it was a pity she did not recall and apply a certain passage in maggie tulliver's experience. "it did not occur to her that her irritation was due to the pleasanter emotion which preceded it, just as when we are satisfied with a sense of glowing warmth, an innocent drop of cold water may fall upon us with a sudden smart." mr. ronald, searching her face for some clue to the abrupt change in her voice and manner, saw her cheeks grow white, her lips and chin quiver painfully. "you are not well?" he asked, after a second of troubled groping in the dark. "o, perfectly." she recollected martha's injunction, "never you let on to 'em, any of your worries. the rich must not be annoyed," and pulled herself together with a determined mental grip. "it is good that, being so far away from home, you can be under the care of your old nurse," observed mr. ronald thoughtfully. "my old nurse," claire mechanically repeated, preoccupied with her own painful meditations. "martha. it is good, it certainly must be comforting to those who care for you, to know you are being looked after by so old and trusted a family servant." claire did not reply. she was hardly conscious he was speaking. "when martha first mentioned you to me--to mrs. sherman, rather--she described you as her young lady. she has a very warm feeling for you. i think she considers you in the light of personal property, like a child of her own. that's excusable--it's commendable, even, in such a case as this. i believe she said she nursed you till you were able to walk." with a shock of sudden realization, claire waked to the fact that something was wrong somewhere--something that it was _up to_ her to make right at once. and yet, it was all so cloudy, so confused in her mind with her duty to martha, her duty to herself, and to these people--her fear of being again kindly but firmly put back in her _place_ if she ventured the merest fraction of an inch beyond the boundary prescribed by this grandee of the autocratic bearing and "keep-off-the-grass expression," that she hesitated, and her opportunity was lost. "i think i must go now," she announced abruptly, and rose, got past him somehow, and made blindly for the door. then there was the dim vista of the long hall stretching before her, like a path of escape, and she fled its length, and down that of the staircase. then out at the street-door, and into the chill of the cold december noonday. when she had vanished, francis ronald stood a moment with eyes fixed in the direction she had taken. then, abruptly, he seized the telephone that stood upon the table beside him, switched it to connect with the basement region, and called for mrs. slawson. "this is mr. ronald speaking. is martha there?" "yes, sir. please hold the wire, and i'll call her." "be quick!" "yes, sir!" a second, and martha's voice repeated his name. "mr. ronald, this is martha!" "good! i want you to put on your things at once, and follow miss lang," he directed briefly. "i do not think she's sick, but as she was talking to me, i noticed she grew suddenly quite pale, and seemed troubled and anxious. waste no time! go at once!" the only answer was a sharp click over the wire, as mrs. slawson snapped the receiver into its crotch. but though claire was not five minutes in advance of her, martha was unable to make up the distance between them, and by the time she had mounted the stairs leading to the elevated, and stood panting for breath on the platform, the train she had hoped to catch was to be seen disappearing around the curve at fifty-third street. all the way uptown she speculated as to the why and wherefore of mr. ronald's immediate concern about claire. "it's kinder previous, his gettin' so stirred up over her at this stage o' the game," she pondered. "it ain't natural, or it ain't lucky. i'd much liefer have it go slower, an' be more thora. a thing like this affair i'm tryin' to menoover, is like some o' the things you cook. you want to leave 'em get good an' het-up before the stirrin' begins. if they're stirred up too soon, they're ap' to cruddle on you, an' never get that nice, smooth, thick, _gooey_ look you like to see in rich custuds, same as love-affairs. i hope she didn't go an' have a scare on, an' give 'em to think she ain't healthy. she's as sound as a nut, but if mis' sherman once is fixed with the notion she's subjeck to faint-spells, nothin' on earth will change her mind, an' then it'll be nit, not, nohow for martha's little scheme. i must caution miss claire about showin' the white feather. no matter how weak-kneed she feels, she's just _got_ to buck up an' ack like she's a soldier. that's how--" martha had reached her own street, and was turning the corner, when she stopped with a sensation as of a quick, fierce clutching at her heart. evidently there had been some sort of accident, for a great crowd was gathered on the sidewalk, and beside the gutter-curbstone, just ahead of her, stood waiting an ambulance. her healthy, normal mind did not easily jump at tragic conclusions. she did not, as a general thing, fear the worst, did not even accept it when it came, but now, somehow, a close association of ideas suggested claire in an instant, and before ever she had stirred a step, she saw in her mind's eye the delicate little form she loved, lying injured, maybe mangled, stretched out upon the asphalt, in the midst of the curious throng. she hurried, hurried faster than any of the others who were also hurrying, and pushed her way on through the press to the very edge of the crowd. a crying woman caught wildly at her arm, as she stood for a second struggling to advance. "it's a child!--a little girl--run over by an automobile! o god help the poor mother!" the stranger sobbed hysterically. martha freed herself from the clinging fingers and pressed forward. "a child--miss claire's such a little thing, no wonder they think she's a child," she murmured. "true for you, my good woman, god help the poor mother!" "you know her?" "i know miss claire." for some reason the crowd made way, and let her through to the very heart of it, and there--sure enough, there was claire, but claire crying and kneeling over an outstretched little form, lying unconscious on the pavement. "why, it's--my francie!" said martha quietly. chapter x through all the days of suspense and doubt, claire swung like a faithful little pendulum between home, the shermans, and the hospital. then, as hope strengthened, she was the bearer of gifts, flowers, fruit, toys from mr. ronald and his sister, which martha acknowledged in her own characteristic fashion. "tell'm the slawson fam'ly is bound to be _in it._ it seems it's the whole style for ladies to go under a operation, an' as i ain't eggsackly got the time, francie, she's keepin' up the tone for us. if you wanter folla the fashions these days, you got to gather your skirts about you, tight as they are, an' run. but what's a little inconvenience, compared with knowin' you're cuttin' a dash! "tell'm i thank'm, an' tell lor'--mister ronald, it's good of'm to be tryin' to get damages for francie out o' the auta that run her down, an' if there was somethin' comin' to us to pay the doctors an' suchlike, it'd be welcome. but, somehow, i always was shy o' monkeyin' with the law. it's like to catch a body in such queer places, where you'd least expect. before a fella knows it, he's _up_ for liable, or breaches o' promise, an' his private letters to the bosom of his fam'ly (which nowadays they're mostly ruffles), his letters to the bosom of his fam'ly is read out loud in court, an' then printed in the papers next mornin', an' everybody's laughin' at'm, because he called his wife 'my darlin' tootsie,' which she never been accustomed to answer to anythin' but the name o' sarah. an' it's up to him to pay the costs, when ten to one it's the other party's to blame. i guess p'raps we better leave good enough alone. if we begin to get the l'yers after us, no tellin' where we'll end. who knows but they might find the accident injured the auto, 'stead o' francie. if we work hard, an' they give us time, me an' sammy can, maybe, make out to pay the doctors. but add to that, to have to buy a brand-new machine for the fella that run over francie--that'd be sorter discouragin'." she paused, and claire began to pull on her gloves. "by the way," said martha, "how's things down to the shermans'? seems like a hunderd years since i was there. the las' time i laid eyes on eliza, she was in excellent spirits--i seen the bottle. i wonder if she's still--very still, takin' a sly nip on the side, as she calls it, which means a sly nip off the sideboard. you can take it from me, if she don't let up, before she knows it she'll be a teetotal wrack." "i haven't had the pleasure of meeting eliza," observed claire, smiling. "why, of course, you haven't, which it wouldn't be a pleasure, anyhow. but what i reely want to know is, how you makin' out with radcliffe? i been so took up with francie all this while, i clean forgot to ask before. is he behavin' all right? does he mind what you say? does he do his lessons good?" claire's brows drew together in a troubled little frown, as she labored over the clasp of her glove. "o, radcliffe," she let fall carelessly. "radcliffe's an unruly little hessian, of course, but i suppose all boys are mischievous at times." martha pondered. "well, not all boys are mischievous in just the same way, thank god! this trouble o' francie's has threw me all out in more ways than one. if everything had 'a' went as i'd expected, i'd been workin' at the shermans' straight along these days, an' you wouldn't 'a' had a mite o' trouble with the little fella. him an' i understands each other perfeckly, an' with me a loomin' up on the landscape, he kinder sees the sense o' walkin' a chalk-line, not kickin' up his heels too frisky. i'd calculated on being there, to sorter back you up, till you'd got uster the place, an' made 'em understand you mean business." claire laughed, a quick, sharp little laugh. "o, i think i'm gradually making them understand i mean business," she said. "and i'm sure it is better, since i have to be there at all, that i should be there without you, independent of any help. i couldn't make radcliffe respect my authority, if i depended on some one else to enforce it. it's just one of those cases where one has to fight one's own battle alone." "then it _is_ a battle?" martha inquired quietly. "o, it's a battle, 'all right,'" laughed claire mirthlessly, and before mrs. slawson could probe her further, she managed to make her escape. she did not wish to burden martha with her vexations. martha had troubles of her own. moreover, those that were most worrisome to claire, martha, in the very nature of things, would not understand. claire's first few weeks at the shermans' had been uneventful enough. radcliffe had found amusement in the novelty of the situation, had deigned to play school with her, and permitted her to "make believe" she was "the teacher." he was willing to "pretend" to be her "scholar," just as he would have been willing to pretend to be the horse, if he and another boy had been playing, and the other boy had chosen to be driver for a while. but turn about is fair play, and when the days passed, and claire showed no sign of relinquishing her claim, he grew restless, mutinous, and she had all she could do to keep him in order. gradually it began to dawn upon him that this very little person, kind and companionable as she seemed, suffered under the delusion that he was going to obey her--that, somehow, she was going to constrain him to obey her. of course, this was the sheerest nonsense. how could she make him do anything he didn't want to do, since his mother had told her, in his presence, that he was to be governed by love alone, and, fortunately, her lack of superior size and strength forbade her _love_ from expressing itself as, he shudderingly remembered, martha's had done on one occasion. no, plainly he had the advantage of miss lang, but until she clearly understood it, there were apt to be annoyances. so, without taking the trouble to make the punishment fit the crime, he casually locked her in the sitting-room closet one morning. she had stepped inside to hang up her hat and coat as usual, and it was quite easy, swiftly, noiselessly, to close the door upon her, and turn the key. he paused a moment, choking back his nervous laughter, waiting to hear her bang on the panel, and clamor to be let out. but when she made no outcry, when, beyond one or two futile turnings of the knob, there was no further attempt on her part to free herself, he stole upstairs to the schoolroom, and made merry over his clever exploit. for a full minute after she found herself in darkness, claire did not realize she was a prisoner. the door had swung to after her, she thought, that was all. but, when she turned the knob, and still it did not open, she began to suspect the truth. her first impulse was to call out, but her better judgment told her it would be better to wait with what dignity she might until radcliffe tired of his trick, or some one else came and released her. radcliffe would tire the more quickly, she reasoned, if she did not raise a disturbance. when he saw she was not to be teased, he would come and let her out. she stood with her hot cheek pressed against the cool wood of the closet-door, waiting for him to come. and listening for his steps, she heard other steps--other steps which approached, and entered the sitting-room. she heard the voices of mrs. sherman and mr. ronald in earnest conversation. "if i thought such a thing were possible i'd send her away to-morrow," mrs. sherman was saying in a high-pitched, excited voice. "why such delay? why not to-day?" inquired mr. ronald ironically. "but, of course," continued his sister, ignoring his interruption, "i know there's nothing to be really afraid of." "well, then, if you know there's nothing to be afraid of, what _are_ you afraid of?" "i'm not really afraid. i'm just talking things over. you see, she's so uncommonly pretty, and--men are men, and you're no exception." "i hope not. i don't want to be an exception." "don't you think she's uncommonly pretty?" "no, i don't think i should call her--_pretty_," said mr. ronald with an emphasis his sister might well have challenged, if she had not been so preoccupied with her own thoughts that she missed its point. "well, _i_ do. i think she's quite pretty enough to excuse, i mean, _explain_ your having a passing fancy for her." "i haven't a passing fancy for her." "well, i'm much relieved to hear you say so, for even if it were only a passing fancy, i'd feel i ought to send her away. you never can tell how such things will develop." "you certainly can't." "and you may rest assured mother and i don't want you to ruin your life by throwing yourself away on a penniless, unknown little governess, when you might have your choice from among the best-born, wealthiest girls in town." "miss lang is as well-born as any one we know." "we have only her word for it." "no, her nurse, an old family servant, martha slawson, corroborates her--if you require corroboration." "don't you? would you be satisfied to pick some one off the street, as it were, and take her into your house and give her your innocent child to train?" "my innocent children being so extremely vague, i am not concerning myself as to their education. but i certainly accept miss lang's word, and i accept martha's." "you're easily satisfied. positively, frank, i believe you _have_ a fancy for the girl, in spite of what you say. and for all our sakes, for mother's and mine and yours and--yes--even hers, it will be best for me to tell her to go." "i rather like the way you rank us. mother and you first--then i come, and last--_even_ the poor little girl!" "well, you may laugh if you want to, but when a child like radcliffe notices that you're not indifferent to her, there must be some truth in it. he confided to me last night, 'uncle frank likes miss lang a lot. i guess she's his best girl! isn't she his best girl?' i told him _certainly not_. but i lay awake most of the night, worrying about it." mr. ronald had evidently had enough of the interview. claire could hear his firm steps, as he strode across the floor to the door. "i advise you to quit worrying, catherine," he said. "it doesn't pay. moreover, i assure you i've no _passing fancy_ (i quote your words) for miss lang. i hope you won't be so foolish as to dismiss her on my account. she's an excellent teacher, a good disciplinarian. it would be difficult to find another as capable as she, one who, at the same time, would put up with radcliffe's waywardness, and your--_our_--(i'll put it picturesquely, after the manner of martha) our indiosincrazies. take my advice. don't part with miss lang. she's the right person in the right place. good-morning!" "frank, frank! don't leave me like that. i know i've terribly annoyed you. i can't bear to feel you're provoked with me, and yet i'm only acting for your good. please kiss me good-by. i'm going away. i won't see you for two whole days. i'm going to tuxedo this morning to stay over night with amy pelham. there's a man she's terribly interested in, and she wants me to meet him, and tell her what i think of him. he's been attentive to her for ever so long, and yet he doesn't--his name is mr. robert--" her words frayed off in the distance, as she hurriedly followed her brother out into the hall and downstairs. how long claire stood huddled against the closet-door she never knew. the first thing of which she was clearly conscious was the feel of a key stealthily moved in the lock beneath her hand. then the sounds of footsteps lightly tiptoeing away. mechanically she turned the knob, the door yielded, and she staggered blindly out from the darkness into the sunlit room. it was deserted. if mrs. sherman had been there, claire would have given way at once, letting her sense of outraged pride escape her in a torrent of tears, a storm of indignant protest. happily, there being no one to cry to, she had time to gather herself together before going up to face radcliffe. when she entered the schoolroom, he pretended to be studiously busied with his books, and so did not notice that she was rather a long time closing the door after her, and that she also had business with the lock of the door opposite. he really only looked up when she stationed herself behind her desk, and summoned him to recite. "i do' want to!" announced radcliffe resolutely. "very well," said claire, "then we'll sit here until you do." radcliffe grinned. it seemed to him things were all going his way, this clear, sunny morning. he began to whistle, in a breathy undertone. claire made no protest. she simply sat and waited. radcliffe took up his pencil, and began scrawling pictures over both sides of his slate, exulting in the squeaking sounds he produced. still _the teacher_ did not interfere. but when, tired of his scratching, he concluded the time had arrived for his grand demonstration, his crowning declaration of independence, he rose, carelessly shoved his books aside, strode to the door, intending masterfully to leave the room, and--discovered he was securely locked and bolted in. in a flash he was across the room, tearing at the lock of the second door with frantic fingers. that, too, had been made fast. he turned upon claire like a little fiend, his eyes flashing, his hands clenched. "you--you--you two-cent willie!" he screamed. claire pretended not to see or hear. in reality she was acutely conscious of every move he made, for, small as he was, his pent-in rage gave him a strength she might well fear to put to the test. it was the tug of war. the question was, who would be conqueror? through the short hours of the winter forenoon, hours that seemed as interminable to claire as they did to radcliffe, the battle raged. there was no sign of capitulation on either side. in the course of the morning, and during one of radcliffe's fiercest outbreaks, claire took up the telephone instrument and quietly instructed shaw to bring no luncheon-trays to the schoolroom at mid-day. "two glasses of hot milk will be all we need," she said, whereupon radcliffe leaped upon her, trying to wrest the transmitter from her hand, beating her with his hard little fists. "i won't drink milk! i won't! i won't!" he shouted madly. "an' i'll _kill_ you, if you won't let me have my lunch, you--you--you _mizzer'ble_ two-cent willie!" as the day drew on, his white face grew flushed, her fevered one white, and both were haggard and lined from the struggle. then, at about three o'clock, mr. ronald telephoned up to say he wished radcliffe to go for a drive with him. claire replied it was impossible. "why?" came back to her over the wire. "because he needs punishment, and i am going to see that he gets it." "and if i interfere?" "i resign at once. even as it is--" "do you think you are strong enough--strong enough _physically_, to fight to the finish?" "i am strong enough for anything." "i believe you. but if you should find him one too many for you, i shall be close at hand, and at a word from you i will come to the rescue." "no fear of my needing help. good-by!" she hung up the receiver with a click of finality. outside, the sky grew gray and threatening. inside, the evening shadows began to gather. first they thickened in the corners of the room; then spread and spread until the whole place turned vague and dusky. the first violence of his rage was spent, but radcliffe, sullen and unconquered still, kept up the conflict in silent rebellion. he had not drunk his milk, so neither had claire hers. the two glasses stood untouched upon her desk, where she had placed them at noon. it was so still in the room claire would have thought the boy had fallen asleep, worn out with his struggles, but for the quick, catching breaths that, like soundless sobs, escaped him every now and then. it had been dark a long, long time when, suddenly, a shaft of light from a just lit window opposite, struck over across to them, reflecting into the shadow, and making visible radcliffe's little figure cowering back in the shelter of a huge leather armchair. he looked so pitifully small and appealing, that claire longed to gather him up in her arms, but she forebore and sat still and waited. then, at last, just as the clock of a nearby church most solemnly boomed forth eight reverberating strokes, a chastened little figure slid out of the great chair, and groped its way slowly, painfully along until it reached claire's side. "i will--be--good!" radcliffe whispered chokingly, so low she had to bend her head to hear. claire laid her arms about him and he clung to her neck, trembling. chapter xi it was almost ten o'clock when claire left the house. she waited to see radcliffe properly fed, and put to bed, before she went. she covered him up, and tucked him in as, in all his life, he had never been covered up, and tucked in, before. then, dinnerless and faint, she slipped out into the bleak night. she was too exhausted to feel triumphant over her conquest. the only sensations she realized were a dead weariness that hung on her spirit and body like a palpable weight, and, far down in her heart, something that smouldered and burned like a live ember, ready to burst forth and blaze at a touch. she had walked but a block or two when, through her numbness, crept a dim little shadow of dread. at first it was nothing more than an inner suggestion to hasten her steps, but gradually it became a conscious impulse to outstrip something or some one behind her--some one or something whose footfalls, resounding faintly through the deserted street, kept such accurate pace with her own, that they sounded like their echo. it was not until she had quickened her steps, and found that the other's steps had quickened, too, not until she had slowed down to almost a saunter, only to discover that the one behind was lagging also, that she acknowledged to herself she was being followed. then, from out the far reaches of her memory, came the words of aunt amelia's formula: "sir, you are no gentleman. if you were a gentleman--" but straightway followed martha's trenchant criticism. "believe _me_, that's rot! it might go all right on the stage, for a girl to stop, an' let off some elercution while the villain still pursued her, but here in new york city it wouldn't work. not on your life it wouldn't. villains ain't pausin' these busy days, in their mad careers, for no recitation-stunts, i don't care how genteel you get 'em off. if they're on the job, you got to step lively, an' not linger 'round for no sweet farewells. now, you got your little temper with you, all right, all right! if you also got a umbrella, why, just you make a _com_bine o' the two an'--aim for the bull's eye, though his nose will do just as good, specially if it's the bleedin' v'riety. no! p'licemen ain't what i'd reckmend, for bein' called to the resquer. in the first place, they ain't ap' to be there. an', besides, they wouldn't know what to do if they was. p'licemen is funny that way. "they mean well, but they get upset if anythin' 's doin' on their beat. they like things quiet. an' they don't like to _run in_ their friends, an' so, by the time you think you made 'em understand what you're drivin' at, _the villain_ has got away, an' you're like to be hauled up before the magistrate for disturbin' the peace, which, bein' so shy an' bashful before high officials, p'licemen don't like to blow in at court without somethin' to show for the way they been workin'." it all flashed across claire's mind in an instant, like a picture thrown across a screen. then, without pausing to consider what she meant to do, she halted, turned, and--was face to face with francis ronald. before he could speak, she flashed upon him two angry eyes. "what do you mean by following me?" "it is late--too late for you to be out in the streets alone," he answered quietly. claire laughed. "you forget i'm not a society girl. i'm a girl who works for her living. i can't carry a chaperon about with me wherever i go. i must take care of myself, and--i know how to do it. i'm not afraid." "i believe you." "then--good-night!" "i intend to see you home." "i don't need you." "nevertheless, i intend to see you home." "i don't--_want_ you." "notwithstanding which--" he hailed a passing motor-taxi, gave the chauffeur martha's street and number, after he had succeeded in extracting them from claire, and then, in spite of protests, helped her in. for a long time she sat beside him in silence, trying to quell in herself a weak inclination to shed tears, because--because he had compelled her to do something against her will. he did not attempt any conversation, and when, at last, she spoke, it was of her own accord. "i've decided to resign my position." "is it permitted me to know why?" "i can't stay." "that is no explanation." "i don't feel i can manage radcliffe." "pardon me, you know you can. you have proved it. he is your bond-slave, from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer." claire laughed, a sharp, cutting little laugh that was like a keen knife turned on herself. "o, it would have to be for poorer--'all right, all right,' as martha says," she cried scornfully. "but it has been too hard--to-day. i can't endure any more." "you won't have to. radcliffe is conquered, so far as you are concerned. 'twill be plain sailing, after this." "i'd rather do something else. i'd like something different." "i did not think you were a quitter." "i'm not." "o, yes, you are, if you give up before the game is done. no good sport does that." "i've no ambition to be a good sport." "perhaps not. but you _are_ a good sport. a thorough good sport. _and you won't give up till you've seen this thing through_." "is that a prediction, or a--command? it sounds like a command." "it is whatever will hold you to the business you've undertaken. i want you to conquer the rest, as you've conquered radcliffe." "the rest?" "yes." "what do you mean by the rest?" "i mean circumstances. i mean obstacles. i mean, my mother--my sister." "i don't--understand." "perhaps not." "and suppose (forgive me if i seem rude), suppose i don't consider _the rest_ worth conquering? why should i? what one has to strive so for--" "is worth the most. one has to strive for everything in this world, everything that is really worth while. one has to strive to get it, one has to strive to keep it." "well, i don't think i care very much to-night, if i never get anything ever again in all my life to come." "poor little tired girl!" claire's chin went up with a jerk. "i don't need your pity, i won't have it. i am a stranger to you and to your friends. i am--" the defiant chin began to quiver. "if you were not so tired," francis ronald said gravely, "i'd have this thing out with you, here and now. i'd _make_ you tell me why you so wilfully misunderstand. why you seem to take pleasure in saying things that are meant to hurt me, and must hurt you. as it is--" claire turned on him impetuously. "i don't ask you to make allowances for me. if i do what displeases you, i give you perfect liberty to find fault. i'm not too tired to listen. but as to your _making_ me do or say anything i don't choose, why--" he shook his head. "i'm afraid you are a hopeless proposition, at least for the present. perhaps, some time i may be able to make you understand--forgive me! i should say, perhaps, some time you may be willing to understand." their chauffeur drew up beside the curbstone in front of martha's door, then sprang down from his seat to prove to his lordly-looking "fare" that he knew his business, and was deserving of as large a tip as a correct estimate of his merit might suggest. francis ronald took claire's key from her, fitted it into the lock of the outer door, and opened it for her. "and you will stand by radcliffe? you won't desert him?" he asked, as she was about to pass into the house. "i'll show you that, at least, i'm not a quitter, even if i _am_ a hopeless proposition, as you say." a faint shadow of a smile flitted across his face as, with head held proudly erect, she turned and left him. "no, you're not a quitter," he muttered to himself, "but--neither am i!" the determined set of his jaw would have rekindled that inner rebellious fire in claire, if she had seen it. but she was seeing nothing just at that moment, save martha, who, to her amazement, stood ready to receive her in the inner hall. "ain't it just grand?" inquired mrs. slawson. "they told me yesterday, 'all things bein' equal,' they'd maybe leave us back soon, but i didn't put no stock in it, knowin' they never _is_ equal. so i just held me tongue an' waited, an' this mornin', like a bolster outer a blue sky, come the word that at noon we could go. believe _me_, i didn't wait for no old shoes or rice to be threw after me. i got into their old amberlance-carriage, as happy as a blushin' bride bein' led to the halter, an' francie an' me come away reji'cin'. say, but what ails _you?_ you look sorter--sorter like a--strained relation or somethin'. what you been doin' to yourself to get so white an' holler-eyed? what kep' you so late?" "i had a tussle with radcliffe." "who won out?" "i did, but it took me all day." "never mind. it'd been cheap at the price, if it had 'a' took you all week. how come the madam to give you a free hand?" "she was away." "anybody else know what was goin' on? any of the fam'ly?" "yes, mr. ronald. he brought me home. i didn't want him to, but he did. he just _made_ me let him, and--o, martha--i can't bear--i can't bear--" "you mean you can't bear _him?"_ claire nodded, choking back her tears. "now, what do you think o' that!" ejaculated mrs. slawson pensively. "an' he so _pop'lar_ with the ladies! why, you'd oughter hear them stylish lady-friends o' mrs. sherman praisin' 'm to her face. it'd make you blush for their modesty, which they don't seem to have none, an' that's a fac'. you can take it from me, you're the only one he ever come in contract with, has such a hate on'm. i wouldn't 'a' believed it, unless i'd 'a' had it from off of your own lips. but there's no use tryin' to argue such things. taste is different. what pleases one, pizens another. in the mean time--an' it _is_ a mean time for you, you poor, wore-out child--i've some things here, hot an' tasty, that'll encourage your stummick, no matter how it's turned on some other things. as i says to sammy, it's a poor stummick won't warm its own bit, but all the same, there's times when somethin' steamin' does your heart as much good as it does your stummick, which, the two o' them bein' such near neighbors, no wonder we get 'em mixed up sometimes, an' think the one is starved when it's only the other." chapter xii it proved altogether easier for martha, now francie was at home again. "you see, i can tend her an' sandwich in some work besides," mrs. slawson explained cheerfully. "an' ma's a whizz at settin' by bedsides helpin' patients get up their appetites. says she, 'now drink this nice glass o' egg-nog, francie, me child,' she says. 'an' if you'll drink it, i'll take one just like it meself.' an' true for you, she does. the goodness o' ma is astonishin'." then one day sam slawson came home with a tragic face. "i've lost my job, martha!" he stated baldly. for a moment his wife stood silent under the blow, and all it entailed. then, with an almost imperceptible squaring of her broad shoulders, she braced herself to meet it, as she herself would say, like a soldier. "well, it's kinder hard on _you_, lad," she answered. "but there's no use grievin'. if it had to happen, it couldn't 'a' happened at a better time, for you bein' home, an' able to look after francie, will give me a chance to go out reg'lar to my work again. an' before you know it, francie, she'll be running about as good as new, an' you'll have another job, an' we'll be on the top o' the wave. here's miss claire, bless her, payin' me seven dollars a week board, which she doesn't eat no more than a bird, an' sammy singin' in the surplus choir, an' gettin' fifty cents a week for it, an' extra for funer'ls (it'd take your time to hear'm lamentin' because business ain't brisker in the funer'l line!). why, _we_ ain't no call to be discouraged. you can take it from me, sammy slawson, when things seem to be kinder shuttin' down on ye, an' gettin' black-like, same's they lately been doin' on us, that ain't no time to be chicken-hearted. anybody could fall down when they're knocked. that's too dead-easy! no, what we want, is buck up an' have some style about us. when things shuts down an' gets dark at the movin'-picture show, then it's time to sit up an' take notice. that means somethin's doin'--you're goin' to be showed somethin' interestin'. well, it's the same with us. but if you lose your sand at the first go-off, an' sag down an' hide your face in your hands, well, you'll miss the show. you won't see a bloomin' thing." and martha, sleeves rolled up, enveloped in an enormous blue-checked apron, returned to her assault on the dough she was kneading, with redoubled zeal. "bread, mother?" asked sam dully, letting himself down wearily into a chair by the drop-table, staring indifferently before him out of blank eyes. "shoor! an' i put some currants in, to please the little fella. i give in, my bread is what you might call a holy terror. ain't it the caution how i can't ever make bread fit to be eat, the best i can do? an' yet, i can't quit tryin'. you see, home-made bread, _if it's good_, is cheaper than store. perhaps some day i'll be hittin' it right, so's when you ask me for bread i won't be givin' you a stone." she broke off abruptly, gazed a moment at her husband, then stepped to his side, and put a floury hand on his shoulder. "say, sam, what you lookin' so for? you ain't lost your sand just because they fired you? what's come to you, lad? tell martha." for a second there was no sound in the room, then the man looked up, gulped, choked down a mighty sob, and laid his head against her breast. "martha--there's somethin' wrong with my lung. that's why they thrown me down. they had their doctor from the main office examine me--they'd noticed me coughin'--and he said i'd a spot on my lung or--something. i shouldn't stay here in the city, he said. i must go up in the mountains, away from this, where there's the good air and a chance for my lung to heal, otherwise--" martha stroked the damp hair away from his temples with her powdery hand. "well, well!" she said reflectively. "now, what do you think o' that!" "o, martha--i can't stand it! you an' the children! it's more than i can bear!" mrs. slawson gave the head against her breast a final pat that, to another than her husband, might have felt like a blow. "more'n you can bear? don't flatter yourself, sammy my lad! not by no means it ain't. i wouldn't like to have to stand up to all i could ackchelly bear. it's god, not us, knows how much we can stand, an' when he gets in the good licks on us, he always leaves us with a little stren'th to spare--to last over for the next time. now, i'm not a bit broke down by what you've told me. i s'pose you thought you'd have me sobbin' on your shoulder--to give you a chanct to play up, an' do the strong-husband act, comfortin' his little tremblin' wife. well, my lad, if you ain't got on to it by now, that i'm no little, tremblin' wife, you never will. those kind has nerves. i only got nerve. that's where i'm _singular_, see? a joke, sammy! i made it up myself. out of my own head, just now. but to go back to what i was sayin'--why should i sob on your shoulder? there ain't no reason for't. in the first place, even if you _have_ got a spot on your lung, what's a spot! it ain't the whole lung! an' _one_ lung ain't _both_ lungs, an' there you are! as i make it out, even grantin' the worst, you're a lung-an'-then-some to the good, so where's the use gettin' blue? there's always a way out, somehow. if we can't do one way, we'll do another. now you just cheer up, an' don't let ma an' the childern see you kinder got a knock-outer in the solar plexus, like jeffries, an' before you know it, there'll be a suddent turn, an' we'll be atop o' our worries, 'stead o' their bein' atop o' us. see! say, just you cast your eye on them loaves! ain't they grand? appearances may be deceitful, but if i do say it as shouldn't, my bread certainly looks elegant this time. now, sammy, get busy like a good fella! go in an' amuse francie. the poor child is perishin' for somethin' to distrack her. what with cora an' sammy at school, an' miss claire havin' the shermans so bewitched, they keep her there all day, an' lucky for us if they leave her come home nights at all, the house is too still for a sick person. give francie a drink o' hygee water to cool her lips, an' tell her a yarn-like. an', sammy, i wisht you'd be good to yourself, an' have a shave. them prickles o' beard reminds me o' the insides o' mrs. sherman's big music-box. i wonder what tune you'd play if i run your chin in. go on, now, an' attend to francie, like i told you to. she needs to have her mind took off'n herself." when he was gone, martha set her loaves aside under cover to rise, never pausing a moment to take breath, before giving the kitchen a "scrub-down" that left no corner or cranny harboring a particle of dust. it was twilight when she finished, and "time to turn to an' get the dinner." cora and sammy had long since returned from school. sammy had gone out again to play, and had just come back to find his mother taking her bread-pans from the oven. she regarded them with doleful gaze. "i fairly broke my own record this time for a bum bread-maker!" she muttered beneath her breath. "this batch is the worst yet." "say--mother!" said sammy. "well?" "say, mother, may i have a slice of bread? i'm awfully hungry." "shoor you may! this here's just fresh from the oven, an' it has currants in it." "say, mother, a feller i play with, joe eagan, _his_ mother's hands ain't clean. would you think he'd like to eat the bread she makes?" "can she make _good_ bread?" "i dunno. she give me a piece oncet, but i couldn't eat it, 'count o' seein' her fingers. i'm glad your hands are so clean, mother. say, this bread tastes awful good!" martha chuckled. "well, i'm glad you like it. it might be worse, if i do say it! only," she added to herself, "it'd have a tough time managin' it." "say, mother, may i have another slice with butter on, an' sugar sprinkled on top, like this is, to give it to joe eagan? he's downstairs. i want to show him how _my_ mother can make the boss bread!" "certainly," said martha heartily. "by all means, give joe eagan a slice. i like to see you thoughtful an' generous, my son. willin' to share your good things with your friends," and as sammy bounded out, clutching his treasures, she winked solemnly across at her husband, who had just re-entered. "now do you know what'll happen?" she inquired. "sammy'll always have the notion i make the best bread ever. an' when he grows up an' marries, if his wife is a chef-cook straight out of the toniest kitchen in town, at fifty dollars a month, he'll tell her she ain't a patch on me. an' he'll say to her: 'susan, or whatever-her-name-is, them biscuits is all right in their way, but i wisht i had a mouthful o' bread like mother used to make.' an' the poor creature'll wear the life out o' her, tryin' to please'm, an' reach my top-notch, an' never succeed, an' all the time--say, sammy, gather up the rest o' the stuff, like a good fella, an' shove it onto the dumb-waiter, so's it can go down with the sw--there's the whistle now! that's him callin' for the garbage." chapter xiii "hullo, martha!" said radcliffe. mrs. slawson bowed profoundly. "hullo yourself! i ain't had the pleasure of meetin' you for quite some time past, an' yet i notice my absents ain't made no serious alteration for the worst in your appearance. you ain't fell away none, on account of my not bein' here." "fell away from what?" asked radcliffe. "fell away from nothin'. that's what they call a figger o' speech. means you ain't got thin." "well, _you've_ got thin, haven't you, martha? i don't 'member your cheeks had those two long lines in 'em before." "lines?" repeated martha, regarding herself in the mirror of an étagère she was polishing. "them ain't _lines_. them's dimples." radcliffe scrutinized her critically for a moment. "they're not like miss lang's dimples," he observed at last. "miss lang's dimples look like when you blow in your milk to cool it--they're there, an' then they ain't there. she vanishes 'em in, an' she vanishes 'em out, but those lines in your face, they just stay. only they weren't there before, when you were here." "the secret is, my dimples is the kind that takes longer to vanish 'em out when you once vanished 'em in. mine's way-train dimples. miss lang's is express. but you can take it from me, dimples is faskinatin', whatever specie they are." "what's _faskinatin'?"_ "it's the thing in some things that, when it ain't in other things, you don't care a thing about 'em." "are _you_ faskinatin'?" "that's not for me to say," said martha, feigning coyness. "but this much i will confess, that some folks which shall be nameless, considers me so. an' they'd oughter know." "is miss lang faskinatin'?" "ask your uncle frank." "why must i ask him?" "if you wanter know." "does he know?" "prob'ly. he's a very well-informed gen'l-man on most subjecks." "i do' want to ask my uncle frank anything about miss lang. once i asked him somethin' about her, an' he didn't like it." "what'd you ask him?" "i asked him if she wasn't his best girl." "what'd he say?" "he said 'no!' quick, just like that--'no!' i guess he was cross with me, an' i know he didn't like it. when i asked my mother why he didn't like it, she said because miss lang's only my governess. an' when i told miss lang what my mother, she told me, miss lang, she didn't like it either." "now, what do you think o' that?" ejaculated martha. "nobody didn't seem to like nothin' in that combination, did they? you was the only one in the whole outfit that showed any tack." "what means that--_tack?"_ "it's a little thing that you use when you want to keep things in place--keep 'em from fallin' down. there's two kinds. one you must hammer in, an' the other you mustn't." "i wisht miss lang _was_ my uncle frank's best girl. but i guess she's somebody else's." "eh?" said martha sharply, sitting back on her heels and twisting her polishing-cloth into a rope, as if she were wringing it out. "now, whose best girl do you think she is, if i may make so bold?" radcliffe settled down to business. "yesterday miss lang an' me was comin' home from the tippydrome, an' my mother she had comp'ny in the drawin'-room. an' i didn't know there was comp'ny first-off, coz shaw he didn't tell us, an' i guess i talked kinder loud in the hall, an' my mother she heard me, an' she wasn't cross or anythin', she just called to me to come along in, an' see the comp'ny. an' i said, 'no, i won't! not less miss lang comes too.' an' my mother, she said, 'miss lang, come too.' an' miss lang, she didn't wanter, but she hadter. an' the comp'ny was a gen'l'man an' a lady, an' the minit the gen'l'man, he saw miss lang, he jumped up outer his chair like a jumpin'-jack, an' his eyes got all kinder sparkly, an' he held out both of his hands to her, an' sorter shook her hands, till you'd think he'd shake 'em off. an' my mother, she said, 'i see you an' miss lang are already 'quainted, mr. van brandt.' an' he laughed a lot, the way you do when you're just tickled to death, an' he said, ''quainted? well, i should say so! miss lang an' i are old, old friends!' an' he kep' lookin' at her, an' lookin' at her, the way you feel when there's somethin' on the table you like, an' you're fearful 'fraid it will be gone before it's passed to you. an' my mother she said to the other comp'ny, 'miss pelham, this is radcliffe.' an' miss pelham, she was lookin' sideways at miss lang an' mr. what's-his-name, but she pertended she was lookin' at me, an' she said (she's a smarty-smarty-gave-a-party, miss pelham is), she said, 'radcliffe, radcliffe? i wonder if you're any relation to radcliffe college?' an' i said, 'no. i wonder if you are any relation to pelham manor?' an' while they was laughin', an' my mother she was tellin' how percoshus i am, my uncle frank he came in. he came in kinder quiet, like he always does, an' he stood in the door, an' mr. what's-his-name was talkin' to miss lang so fast, an' lookin' at her so hard, they didn't neither of 'em notice. an' when my uncle frank, he noticed they didn't notice, coz they was havin' such fun by themselves, he put his mouth together like this--like when your tooth hurts, an' you bite on it to make it hurt some more, an' then he talked a lot to miss pelham, an' didn't smile pleasant an' happy at mr. what's-his-name an' miss lang, when my mother, she interdooced 'em. an' soon miss lang, she took me upstairs an' she didn't look near so tickled to death as mr. van brandt, he looked. an' when i asked her if she wasn't, she said: 'o' course i am. mr. van brandt was a friend o' mine when i was a little girl. an' when you're a stranger in a strange land, anybody you knew when you was at home seems dear to you.' but she didn't look near so pleased as he did. she looked more like my uncle frank, he did before he got talkin' so much to miss pelham. an' now i guess the way of it is, miss pelham's my uncle frank's best girl an' miss lang's mr. what's-his-name's." "well, now! who'd believed you could 'a' seen so much? why, you're a reg'ler old sleuth the detective, or sherlock holmes, or somebody like that, for discoverin' things, ain't you?" "i don't want miss pelham to be my uncle frank's best girl, an' i don't see why that other man he don't have her for his, like she was first-off, an' leave my miss lang alone." "it all is certainly very dark an' mysterious," said mrs. slawson, shaking her head. "you don't know where you're at, at all. like when you wake up in the black night, an' hear the clock give one strike. you couldn't tell, if your life hung in the ballast, if it's half-past twelve, or one, or half-past." radcliffe pondered this for a space, but was evidently unable to fathom its depth, for presently he let it go with a sigh, and swung off to another topic. "say, do you know our cook, 'liza--the one we uster have--has gone away?" "so i gathered from not havin' saw her fairy-figger hoverin' round the kitchen as i come in, an' meetin' another lady in her place--name of augusta, beetrice said." "yes, sir! augusta's the new one. i guess augusta don't drink." "which, you are suggesting 'liza does?" "well, my mother, she don't know i know, but i do. i heard shaw tellin' 'bout it. it was 'liza's day out, an' she went an' got 'toxicated, an' a p'liceman he took her up, an' nex' mornin' my uncle frank, they sent to him out of the station-house to have him _bail her out_." "my, my! she was as full as that?" "what's bail her out?" inquired radcliffe. mrs. slawson considered. "when a boat gets full of water, because o' leakin' sides or heavy rains or shippin' seas, or whatever they calls it, you bail her out with a tin can or a sponge or anythin' you have by you." "was liza full of water?" "i was describin' _boats_," said martha. "an' talkin' o' boats, did i tell you we got a new kitten to our house? he's a gray maltee. his name is nixcomeraus." "why is his name nix--why is his name _that_?" "nixcomeraus? his name's nixcomeraus because he's from the dutchman's house. if you listen good, you'll see that's poetry-- "'nixcomeraus from the dutchman's house!' "i didn't make it up, but it's poetry all the same. a dutchman gen'l'man who lives nex' door to me, made him a present to our fam'ly." "do you like him?" "the dutchman gen'l'man?" "no, the--the nix--the _cat_?" "certaintly we like him. he's a decent, self-respectin' little fella that 'tends to his own business, an' keeps good hours. an' you'd oughter see how grand him an' flicker gets along! talk o' a cat-and-dog existence! why, if all the married parties i know, not to speak o' some others that ain't, hit it off as good as flicker an' nixcomeraus, there wouldn't be no occasion for so many ladies takin' the rest-cure at reno." "what's reno?" "reno? why, reno's short for merino. like i'd say, nix for nixcomeraus, which is a kinder woolen goods you make dresses out of. there! did you hear the schoolroom bell? i thought i heard it ringin' a while ago, but i wasn't sure. hurry now, an' don't keep miss lang waitin'. she wants you to come straight along up, so's she can learn you to be a big an' handsome gen'l'man like your uncle frank." when radcliffe had left her, martha went over in her mind the items he had guilelessly contributed to her general fund of information. take it all in all, she was not displeased with what they seemed to indicate. "confidence is a good thing to have, but a little wholesome doubt don't hurt the masculine gender none. i guess, if i was put to it, i could count on one hand with no fingers, the number o' gen'l'men, no matter how plain, have died because 'way down in their hearts they believed they wasn't reel _a- winners._ that's one thing it takes a lot o' hard usage to convince the sect of. they may feel they ain't gettin' their doos, that they're misunderstood, an' bein' sold below cost. but that they're ackchelly shopworn, or what's called 'seconds,' or put on the _as is_ counter because they're cracked, or broke, or otherwise slightly disfigured, but still in the ring--why, _that_ never seems to percolate through their brains, like those coffee-pots they use nowadays, that don't make no better coffee than the old kind, if you know how to do it good, in the first place. "on the other hand, ladies is dretful tryin'! they act like they're the discoverers of perpetchal emotion, an' is _on the job_ demonstratin'. you can't count on 'em for one minit to the next, which they certaintly was never born to be aromatic cash-registers. an' p'raps that's the reason, bein' natchelly so poor at figgers, they got to rely to such a extent on corsets. i'm all for women myself. i believe they're the comin' man, but i must confess, if i'm to speak the truth, it ain't for the simple, uninfected, childlike mind o' the male persuasion to foller their figaries, unless he's some of a trained acrobat. "now, the harsh way miss claire has toward mr. ronald! you'd think he had give himself dead away to her, an' was down on his knee-pans humble as a 'piscerpalian sayin' the literny in lent, grubbin' about among the dust she treads on, to touch the hem o' her garment. whereas, in some way unbeknownst to me, an' prob'ly unbeknownst to him, he's touched her pride, which is why she's so up in arms, not meanin' his--worse luck! an' it would have all worked out right in the end, an' will yet, _if_ this new party that radcliffe mentioned ain't mr. buttinsky, an' she don't foller the dictates of her _art_ an' flirt with him too outrageous, or else marry him to spite herself, which is what i mean to pervent if i can, but which, of course, it may be i can't." chapter xiv "frank," said mrs. sherman one sunday morning, some weeks later, stopping her brother on his way to the door, "can you spare me a few moments? i've something very important i want to discuss with you. i want you to help me with suggestions and advice in a matter that very closely concerns some one in whom i'm greatly interested." mr. ronald paused. "meaning?" he suggested. "i don't know that i ought to tell you. you see, it's--it's confidential." "suggestions and advice are foolish things to give, catherine. they are seldom taken, never thanked for." "well, in this case mine have been actually solicited. and i feel i ought to do something, because, in a way, i'm more or less responsible for the--the imbroglio." slipping her hand through his arm, she led him back into the library. "you see, it's this way. perhaps, after all, it will be better, simpler, if i don't try to beat about the bush. amy pelham has been terribly devoted to mr. van brandt for ever so long--oh, quite six months. and he has been rather attentive, though i can't say he struck me as very much in love. you know she asked me out to tuxedo not long ago. she wanted me to watch him and tell her if i thought he was _serious._ well, i watched him, but i couldn't say i thought he was _serious._ however, you never can tell. men are so extraordinary! they sometimes masquerade so, their own mothers wouldn't know them." "or their sisters." "what did you say?" "nothing worth repeating. go on with your story." "well, then, one evening she brought him here, you remember. i'd asked him to come, when i was in tuxedo, and he evidently wanted to do so, for he proposed to amy that she bring him. of course, i'd no idea he and miss lang had ever met before, and when i innocently ordered her in, i did it simply because radcliffe was refractory and refused to come without her, and i couldn't have a scene before guests." "well?" "i didn't know mr. van brandt came from grand rapids. how should i? one never thinks of those little, provincial towns as having any _society_." "you dear insular, insolent new yorker." "well, you may jeer as much as you like, but that's the way one feels. i didn't know that, as martha says, he was 'formerly born' in michigan. i just took him for granted, as one does people one meets in our best houses. he's evidently of good stock, he has money (not a fortune, perhaps, but enough), he's handsome, and he's seen everywhere with the smartest people in town." "well?" "well, naturally amy doesn't want to lose him, especially as she's really awfully fond of him and he _is_ uncommonly attractive, you know." "well?" "it looks as if that one glimpse of miss lang had been enough to upset everything for amy. he's hardly been there since." "and what does she propose to do about it?" "she doesn't know what to do about it. that's where my suggestions and advice are to come in." "i see." "of course, we can't be certain, but from what bob van brandt has dropped and from what amy has been able to gather from other sources, from people who knew miss lang and him in their native burg, he was attached to her when she was no more than a kiddie. then, when they grew up, he came east and she went abroad, and they lost sight of each other. but, as i say, that one glimpse of her was enough to ignite the old flame. you must have seen yourself how frankly, openly he showed his feeling that night." "well?" "what is one to do about it?" "do about what?" "why--the whole thing! don't you see, i'm responsible in a way. if i hadn't called miss lang in, bob van brandt wouldn't have known she was here, and then he would have kept on with amy. now he's dropped her it's up to me to make it up to her somehow." "it's up to you to make _what_ up to amy?" "how dense you are! why, the loss of bob van brandt." "but if she didn't have him, how could she lose him?" "she didn't exactly have him, but she had a fighting chance." "and she wants to fight?" "i think she'd be willing to fight, if she saw her way to winning out." "winning out against miss lang?" "yes, if you want to put it so brutally." "i see you are assuming that miss lang is keen about van brandt." "would you wonder if she were? it would be her salvation. of course, i don't feel about her any longer as i did once. i know _now_ she's a lady, but the fact of her poverty remains. if she married bob van brandt, she'd be comfortably settled. she'd have ease and position and, oh, of course she'll marry him if he asks her." "so the whole thing resolves itself down to--" "to this--if one could only devise a way to prevent his asking her." "am i mistaken, or did i hear you say something about putting it brutally, a few moments ago." "well, i know it sounds rather horrid, but a desperate case needs desperate medicine." "catherine, you have asked for suggestions and advice. my suggestion to miss pelham is that she gracefully step down and out. my advice to you is that you resist the temptation to meddle. if mr. van brandt wishes to ask miss lang to marry him, he has a man's right to do so. if miss lang wishes to marry mr. van brandt after he has asked her, she has a woman's right to do so. any interference whatsoever would be intolerable. you can take my advice or leave it. but _if_ you leave it, if you attempt to mix in, you will regret it, for you will not be honorably playing the game." mrs. sherman's lips tightened. "that's all very well," she broke out impatiently. "that's the sort of advice men always give to women, and never act on themselves. it's not the masculine way to sit calmly by and let another carry off what one wants. if a man _cares,_ he fights for his rights. it's only when he isn't interested that he's passive and speaks of _honorably playing the game_. all's fair in love and war! if you were in amy's place--if the cases were reversed--and you saw something you'd set your heart on being deliberately taken away from you, i fancy _you_ wouldn't gracefully step down and out. at least i don't see you doing it, in my mind's eye, horatio!" "ah, but you miss the point! there's a great difference between claiming one's own and struggling to get possession of something that is lawfully another's. if i were in miss pelham's place, and were _sure_ the one i loved belonged to me by divine right, i'd have her--i'd have her in spite of the devil and all his works. but the thing would be to be _sure_. and one couldn't be sure so long as another claimant hadn't had his chance to be thrown down. when he'd had his chance, and the decks were cleared--_then_--!" "goodness, frank! i'd no idea you could be so intense. and i'll confess i've never given you credit for so much imagination. you've been talking of what you'd do in amy's place quite as if you actually felt it. your performance of the determined lover is really most convincing." francis ronald smiled. "a man who's succeeded in _convincing_ a woman has not lived in vain," he said. "well, i must be off, catherine. good luck to you and to miss pelham--but bad luck if either of you dares stick her mischievous finger in other people's pies." he strode out of the room and the house. meanwhile, martha, industriously engaged in brushing miss lang's hair, was gradually, delicately feeling her way toward what was, in reality, the same subject. "well, of course, you can have cora if you want her. she'll be only too glad o' the ride, but _do_ you think--now do you _reelly_ think it's advisable to lug a third party along when it's clear as dish-water he wants you alone by himself an' _yourself_? it's this way with men. if they set out to do a thing, they gener'ly do it. but believe _me_, if you put impederments in their way, they'll shoor do it, an' then some. now all them flowers an' candy that's been comin' here lately so reg'ler, they means business on mr. van brandt's part _if_ pleasure on yours. he's strewin' your path with roses an' pavin' it with huyler's chocolates, so's some day in the near future he can come marchin' along it, an' walk straight up to the captain's office an' hand in his applercation for the vacancy. now, the question is as plain as the nose on your face. do you want him to do it first or do you want him to do it last? it's up to you to decide the time, but you can betcher life it's goin' to be some time, cora or no cora, _ohne oder mit_ as our dutch friend acrost the hall says." claire's reflection in the mirror she sat facing, showed a pair of sadly troubled eyes. "o, it's very puzzling, martha," she said. "somehow, life seems all topsy-turvy to me lately. so many things going wrong, so few right." "now what, if i may make so bold, is wrong with your gettin' a first-class offer from a well-off, good-lookin' gen'l'man-friend, that's been keepin' comp'ny with you, off an' on, as you might say, ever since you was a child, which shows that his heart's in the right place an' his intentions is honorable. you know, you mustn't let the percession get by you. life's like standin' on the curbstone watching the parade--at least, that's how it seems to young folks. they hear the music an' they see the banners an' the floats an' they think it's goin' to be a continuous performance. after a while they've got so used to the band a-playin' an' the flags a-wavin' that it gets to be an old story, an' they think that's what it'll be right along, so they don't trouble to keep their eye peeled for the fella with the water-can, which he asked 'em to watch out for him. no, they argue he's good enough in his way, but--'_think_ o' the fella with the drum!' or even, it might be, who knows?--the grand one with his mother's big black muff on his head, doin' stunts with his grandfather's gold-topped club, his grandpa havin' been a p'liceman with a pull in the ward. an' while they stand a-waitin' for all the grandjer they're expectin', suddenly it all goes past, an' they don't see nothin' but p'raps a milk-wagon bringin' up the rear, an' the ashfalt all strewed with rag-tag-an'-bobtail, an' there's nothin' doin' in their direction, except turn around an' go home. now, what's the matter with mr. van brandt? if you marry him you'll be all to the good. no worry about the rent, no pinchin' here an' plottin' there to keep the bills down. no goin' out by the day, rain or shine, traipsin' the street on your two feet when you're so dead tired you could lay down an' let the rest walk over you. why, lookin' at it from any standpoint-of-view i can't see but it's a grand oppertoonity. an' you're fond of him, ain't you?" "o, yes, i'm very fond of mr. van brandt. but i'm fond of him as a friend. i couldn't--couldn't--couldn't ever marry him." "what for you couldn't? it ain't as if you liked some other fella better! if you liked some other fella better, no matter how little you might think you'd ever get the refusal of'm, i'd say, _stick to the reel article: don't be put of with substitoots_. it ain't no use tryin' to fool your heart. you can monkey with your brain, an' make it believe all sorts of tommyrot, but your heart is dead on to you, an' when it once sets in hankerin' it means business." claire nodded unseeingly to her own reflection in the glass. "now _my_ idea is," martha continued, "my idea is, if you got somethin' loomin', why, don't hide your face an' play it isn't there. there ain't no use standin' on the ragged edge till every tooth in your head chatters with cold an' fright. you don't make nothin' _by_ it. if you love a man like a friend or if you love a friend like a man, my advice is, take your seat in the chair, grip a-holt o' the arms, brace your feet, an'--let'er go, gallagher! it'll be over in a minit, as the dentists say." "but suppose you had something else on your heart. something that had nothing to do with--with that sort of thing?" claire asked. "what sorter thing?" "why--love. suppose you'd done something unworthy of you. suppose the sense of having done it made you wretched, made you want to make others wretched? what would you do--then?" "now, my dear, don't you make no mistake. i ain't goin' to be drew into no blindman's grab-bag little game, not on your sweet life. i ain'ter goin' to risk havin' you hate me all the rest o' your nacherl life becoz, to be obligin' an' also to show what a smart boy am i, i give a verdick without all the everdence in. if you wanter tell me plain out what's frettin' you, i'll do my best accordin' to my lights, but otherwise--" "well--" began claire, and then followed, haltingly, stumblingly, the story of her adventure in the closet. "at first i felt nothing but the wound to my pride, the sting of what he--of what _they_ said," she concluded. "but, after a little, i began to realize there was something else. i began to see what _i_ had done. for, you know, i had deliberately listened. i needn't have listened. if i had put my hands over my ears, if i had crouched back, away from the door, and covered my head, i need not have overheard. but i pressed as close as i could to the panel, and hardly breathed, because i wanted not to miss a word. and i didn't miss a word. i heard what it was never meant i should hear, and--i'm nothing but a common--_eavesdropper_!" "now, what do you think of that?" observed mrs. slawson. "now, what do you think of that?" "i've tried once or twice to tell him--" continued claire. "tell who? tell mr. van brandt?" "no, mr. ronald." "o! you see, when you speak o' _he_ an' _him_ it might mean almost any gen'l'man. but i'll try to remember you're always referrin' to mr. ronald." "i've tried once or twice to tell him, for i can't bear to be untruthful. but, then, i remember i'm 'only the governess'--'the right person in the right place'--of so little account that--that he doesn't even know whether i'm pretty or not! and the words choke in my throat. i realize it wouldn't mean anything to him. he'd only probably gaze down at me, or he'd be kind in that lofty way he has--and put me in my place, as he did the first time i ever saw him. and so, i've never told him. i couldn't. but sometimes i think if i did--if i just _made_ myself do it, i could hold up my head again and not feel myself growing bitter and sharp, because something is hurting me in my conscience." "that's it!" said martha confidently. "it's your conscience. believe _me_, consciences is the dickens an' all for makin' a mess o' things, when they get right down to business. now, if i was you, i wouldn't bother mr. ronald with my squalms o' conscience. very prob'ly when it comes to consciences he has troubles of his own--at least, if he ain't, he's an exception an' a rare curiosity, an' mr. pierpont morgan oughter buy him for the museum. when your conscience tells you you'd oughter tell, ten to one you'd oughtn't. give other folks a chance. what they don't know can't worry 'em. besides, your just _tellin_' a thing don't let you out. you can't get clear so easy as that. it's up to you to work it out, so what's wrong is made _right_, an' do it _yourself_--not trust to nobody else. you can't square up by heavin' your load offn your own shoulders onto another fella's. you think you feel light coz you done your dooty, when ten to one you _done_ your friend. no! i wouldn't advise turnin' state's everdence on yourself unless it was to save another from the gallus. as it is, you can take it from me, the best thing you can do for that--conscience o' yours, is get busy in another direction. dress yourself up as fetchin' as you can, go out motorin' with your gen'l'man friend like he ast you to, let him get his perposal offn his chest, an' then tell'm--you'll be a sister to'm." chapter xv sam slawson had gone to the adirondacks in january, personally conducted by mr. blennerhasset, mr. ronald's secretary, mr. ronald, in the most unemotional and business-like manner, having assumed all the responsibilities connected with the trip and sam's stay at the sanatorium. it was claire who told mr. ronald of the slawsons' difficulty. how martha saw no way out, and still was struggling gallantly on, trying single-handed to meet all obligations at home and, in addition, send her husband away. "that's too much--even for martha," he observed. "if i only knew how to get sam to the mountains," claire said in a sort of desperation. "you have just paved the way." "how?" "you have told me." "you are going to help?" "yes." "o, how beautiful!" "i am glad that, for once, i have the good fortune to please you." claire's happy smile faded. she turned her face away, pretending to busy herself with radcliffe's books. "i see i have offended once more." she hesitated a moment, then faced him squarely. "there can be no question of your either pleasing or offending me, mr. ronald. what you are doing for martha makes me glad, of course, but that is only because i rejoice in any good that may come to her. i would not take it upon myself to praise you for doing a generous act, or to blame you if you didn't do it." "'cr-r-rushed again!'" observed francis ronald gravely, but with a lurking, quizzical light of laughter in his eyes. for an instant claire was inclined to be resentful. then, her sense of humor coming to the rescue, she dropped her heroics and laughed out blithely. "how jolly it must be to have a lot of money and be able to do all sorts of helpful, generous things!" she said lightly. "you think money the universal solvent?" "i think the lack of it the universal _in_solvent." "i hope you don't lay too much emphasis on it." "why?" "because it might lead you to do violence to your better impulses, your higher instincts." "why should a man think he has the right to say that sort of thing to a woman? would you consider it a compliment if i suggested that your principles were hollow--negotiable? that they were for sale or to let, like an empty house?" "i suppose most men would tell you they have no use for principle in their business--only principal." "and you think women--" "generally women have both principle and interest in the business of life. that's why we look to them to keep up the moral standard. that's why we feel it to be unworthy of her when a girl makes a mercenary marriage." the indignant blood sprang to claire's cheeks. what business had he to interfere in her affairs, to warn her against marrying bob van brandt, assuming that, if she did marry him, it would be only for money. she was glad that radcliffe bounded in just then, throwing himself upon her in his eagerness to tell her all that had befallen him during their long separation of two hours, when he had been playing on the mall under beetrice's unwatchful eye. in spite of martha, claire had just been on the point of confessing to mr. ronald. he had seemed so friendly, so much less formidable than at any time since that first morning. but she must have been mistaken, for here were all the old barriers up in an instant, and with them the resentful fire in her heart. perhaps it was the memory of this conversation that made her feel so ill at ease with robert van brandt. she could not understand herself. why should she feel so uncomfortable with her old friend? she could not help being aware that he cared for her, but why did the thought of his telling her so make her feel like a culprit? why should he not tell her? why should she not listen? one thing she felt she knew--if he did tell her, and she refused to listen, he would give it up. he would not persist. she remembered how, as a little girl, she had looked up to him reverentially as "big robby van brandt." he was a hero to her in those days, until--he had let himself be balked of what he had started out to get. if he had only persisted, _in_sisted, who knows--maybe--. she was sure that if he offered her his love and she refused to accept it, he would not, like the nursery-rhyme model, try, try again. he would give up and go away--and in her loneliness she did not want him to go away. was she selfish? she wondered. selfish or no, she could not bring herself to follow martha's advice and "let'm get his perposal offn his chest." it was early in april before he managed to do it. she and radcliffe had gone to the park. radcliffe was frisking about in the warm sunshine, while claire watched him from a nearby bench, when, suddenly, mr. van brandt dropped into the seat beside her. he did not approach his subject gradually. he plunged in desperately, headlong, heartlong, seeming oblivious to everything and every one save her. when, at last, he left her, she, knowing it was for always, was sorely tempted to call him back. she did care for him, in a way, and the life his love opened up to her would be very different from this. and yet-- she closed her cold fingers about radcliffe's little warm ones, and rose to lead him across the plaza. she did not wonder at his being so conveniently close at hand, nor at his unwonted silence all the way home. she had not realized, until now that it was snapped, how much the link between this and her old home-life had meant to her. it meant so much that tears were very near the surface all that day, and even at night, when martha was holding forth to her brood, they were not altogether to be suppressed. "easter comes early this year," mrs. slawson observed. "'m i going to have a new hat?" inquired cora. "what for do you need a new hat, i should like to know? i s'pose you think you'll walk up fifth avenoo in the church parade, an' folks'll stare at you, an' nudge each other an' whisper--'looka there! that's miss cora slawson that you read so much about in the papers. that one on the right-hand side, wearin' the french _shappo_, with the white ribbon, an' the grand vinaigrette onto it. ain't she han'some?'" "i think you're real mean to make fun of me!" pouted cora. "i got a dollar an' a half for the easter singin'," announced sammy. "coz i'm permoted an' i'm goin' to sing a solo!" "careful you don't get your head so turned you sing outer the other side o' your mouth," cautioned martha. "'stead o' crowin' so much, you better make sure you know your colic." "what you goin' to do with your money?" inquired francie, unable to conceive of possessing such vast riches. "i do' know." "come here an' i'll tell you," said his mother. "whisper!" at first sammy's face did not reveal any great amount of satisfaction at the words breathed into his ear, but after a moment it fairly glowed. "ain't that grand?" asked martha. sammy beamed, then went off whistling. "he's goin' to invest it in a hat for cora as a s'prise, me addin' my mite to the fun' an' not lettin' him be any the wiser. an' cora, she's goin' to get _him_ a pair o' shoes with her bank pennies, an' be this an' be that, the one thinks he's clothin' the other, an' is proud as punch of it, which they're learnin' manners the same time they're bein' dressed," martha explained to claire later. "i wish you'd tell that to radcliffe," claire said. "he loves to hear about the children, and he can learn so much from listening to what is told of other kiddies' generosities and self-denials." martha shook her head. "there's nothin' worth tellin'," she said. "an' besides, if i told'm, he might go an' tell his mother or his uncle frank, an' they might think i was puttin' in a bid for a easter-egg on my own account. radcliffe is a smart little fella! he knows a thing or two--an' sometimes three, an' don't you forget it." that radcliffe "knew a thing or two--an' sometimes three," he proved beyond a doubt to martha next day when, as she was busy cleaning his uncle frank's closet, he meandered up to her and casually observed: "say, you know what i told you once 'bout miss lang bein' mr. van brandt's best girl?" "yes." "well, she ain't!" "why ain't she?" "i was lookin' out o' the window in my mother's sittin'-room yesterday mornin', an' when my mother an' my uncle frank they came up from breakfast, they didn't see me coz i was back o' the curtains. my mother she had a letter shaw, he just gave her, and when she read it she clapped her hands together an' laughed, an' my uncle frank he said, 'why such joy?' an' she said, 'the greatest news! amy pelham is engaged to mr. van brandt!' an' my uncle frank, his face got dark red all at once, an' he said to my mother, 'catherine, are you 'sponsible for that?' an' she said, 'i never lifted a finger. i give you my word of honor, frank!' an' then my uncle frank he looked better. an' my mother she said, 'you see, he couldn't have cared for miss lang, after all--i mean, the way we thought.' an' he said, 'why not?' an' she said, 'coz if he had asked her, she would have taken him, for no poor little governess is going to throw away a chance like that. no sensible girl would say _no_ to bob van brandt with all his 'vantages. she'd jump at him, an' you couldn't blame her.' "an' then my mother an' my uncle frank _they_ jumped, for i came out from behind the curtains where i'd been lookin' out, an' i said, 'she would too say _no_! my miss lang, she's sensible, an' one time in the park, when mr. van brandt he asked her to take him an' everything he had (that's what he said! "take me an' everything i have, an' do what you want with me!"), miss lang she said, "no, bob, i can't! i wish i could, for your sake, if you want me so--but--i can't." an' mr. van brandt he felt so bad, i was sorry. when i thought miss lang was his best girl, i didn't like him, but i didn't want him to feel as bad as that. an' he went off all alone by himself, an' miss lang--'only i couldn't tell any more, for my uncle frank, he said reel sharp, 'that's enough, radcliffe!' but last night he brought me home a dandy boat i can sail on the lake, with riggin' an' a center-board, an', o, lots o' things! an' so i guess he wasn't so very mad, after all." chapter xvi "most like it's the spring," said martha. it was memorial day. she and miss lang were at home, sitting together in claire's pretty room, through the closed blinds of which the hot may sun sent tempered shafts of light. claire regarded mrs. slawson steadily for a moment, seeming to make some sort of mental calculation meanwhile. "well, if it _is_ the spring," she observed at length with a whimsical little frown knitting her brows, "it's mighty forehanded, for it began to get in its fine work as far back as january. ever since the time sam went to the sanatorium you've been losing flesh and color, martha, and--i don't know what to do about it!" "do about it!" repeated mrs. slawson. "why, there ain't nothin' _to_ do about it, but let the good work go on. i'm in luck, if it's true what you say. believe _me_, there's lots o' ladies in this town, is starvin' their stummicks an' everythin' else about 'em, an' payin' the doctors high besides, just to get delicate-complected, an' airy-fairy figgers, same's i'm doin' without turnin' a hand. did you never hear o' bantin'? it's what the high-toned doctors recommend to thin down ladies who have it so comfortable they're uncomfortable. the doctors prescribes exercise for'm, an' they take it, willin' as doves, whereas if their husbands said, 'say, old woman, while you're restin', just scrub down the cellar-stairs good--that'll take the flesh off'n you quicker'n anythin' else _i_ know!' they'd get a divorce from him so quick you couldn't see 'em for dust. no, they'd not do anythin' so low as cellar-stairs, to save their lives. you couldn't please 'em better'n to see another woman down on her marra-bones workin' for 'em, but get down themselves? not on your sweet life, they wouldn't. they'd rather _bant_. bantin' sounds so much more stylisher than scrubbin'." claire smiled, but her eyes were very serious as she said, "all the same, martha, i believe you are grieving your heart out for sam. i've been watching you when you didn't know it, and i've seen the signs and the tokens. your heart has the hunger-ache in it!" "now, what do you think o' that!" exclaimed mrs. slawson. "what do _you_ know about hearts an' hunger-aches, i should like to know. you, an unmarried maiden-girl, without so much as the shadder or the skelegan of a beau, as far as _i_ can see. what do _you_ know about a woman hungerin' an' cravin' for her own man? you have to have reelly felt them things yourself, to know the signs of 'em in other folks." claire's lip trembled, but she did not reply. when martha spoke again it was as if she had replied. "o, go 'way! _you_ ain't never had a leanin' in any gen'l'man's direction, i'd be willin' to wager. an' yet, i may as well tell you, you been gettin' kinder white an' scrawny yourself lately, beggin' your pardon for bein' so bold as notice it. mind, i ain't the faintest notion of holdin' it against you! i know better than think you been settin' your affections on anybody. there's other things _besides_ love gives you that tired feelin'. what you need is somethin' to brace you up, an' clear your blood, like hoodses sassperilla. everybody feels the way you do, this time o' year. i heard a young saleslady (she wasn't a woman, mind you, she was a sales_lady_), i heard a young saleslady in the car the other mornin' complain--she was the reel dressy kind, you know, with more'n a month's pay of hair, boilin' over on the back of her head in puffs an' things--the gallus sort that, if you want to buy a yard o' good flannen off her, will sass you up an' down to your face, as fresh as if she was your own daughter--she was complainin' 'the spring always made her feel so sorter, kinder, so awful la-anguid.'" "martha, dear," broke in claire irrelevantly, "i wonder if you'd mind very much if i told mr. ronald the truth. he thinks you were an old family servant. he thinks you nursed me till i was able to walk." martha considered. "well, ain't that the truth?" she asked blandly. "i lived out from the time i was twelve years old. that was in mrs. granville's mother's house. when i was sixteen i went to mrs. granville's. i was kitchen-maid there first-off, an' gradjelly she promoted me till i was first housemaid. i never left her till i got married. if that don't make me an old family servant, i'd like to know." "but he thinks you were an old family servant in _our_ house." "well, bless your heart, that's _his_ business, not mine. how can i help what he thinks?" "didn't you tell him, martha dear, that you nursed me till i was able to walk?" "shoor i did! an' it's the livin' truth. what's the matter with that? believe _me_, you wasn't good for more than a minit or two more on your legs, when i got you into your bed that blessed night. you was clean bowled over, an' you couldn't 'a' walked another step if you'd been killed for it. didn't i nurse you them days you was in bed, helplesslike as a baby? didn't i nurse you till you could walk?" "indeed you did. and that's precisely the point!" said claire. "if mr. ronald--if mrs. sherman knew the truth, that i was poor, homeless, without a friend in new york the night you picked me up on the street, and carried me home and cared for me without knowing a thing about me, they mightn't--they _wouldn't_ have taken me into their house and given me their little boy to train. and because they wouldn't, i want to tell them. i want to square myself. i ought to have told them long ago. i want--" "you want 'em to bounce you," observed mrs. slawson calmly. "well, there's always more'n one way of lookin' at things. for instance any good chambermaid, _with experience_, will tell you there's three ways of dustin'. the first is, do it thora, wipin' the rungs o' the chairs, an' the backs o' the pictures, an' under the books on the table like. the second is, just sorter flashin' your rag over the places that shows, an' the third is--pull down the shades. they're all good enough ways in their own time an' place, an' you foller them accordin' to your disposition or, if you're nacherelly particular, accordin' to the other things you got to do, in the time you got to do 'em _in_. now, _i'm_ particular. i'm the nacherelly thora kind, but if i'm pressed, an' there's more important things up to me than the dustin', i give it a lick an' a promise, same as the next one, an' let it go at that, till the time comes i can do better. life's too short to fuss an' fidget your soul out over trifles. it ain't always what you _want_, but what you _must_. you sometimes got to cut short at one end so's you can piece out at another, an' you can take it from me, you only pester folks by gettin' 'm down where they can't resist you, an' forcin' a lot of hard facks down their throats, which ain't the _truth_ anyhow, an' which they don't want to swaller on no account. what do they care about the machinery, so long as it turns out the thing they want? believe _me_, it's foolishness to try to get 'em back into the works, pokin' about among the inside wheels an' springs, an' so forth. you likely get knocked senseless by some big thing-um-bob you didn't know was there. now i know just eggsackly what's in your mind, but you're wrong. you think i told mr. ronald fibs. i didn't tell'm fibs. i just give'm the truth the way he'd take it, like you give people castor-oil that's too dainty to gullup it down straight. some likes it in lemon, an' some in grobyules, but it's castor-oil all the same. he wanted to know the truth about you, an' i let him have it, the truth bein' you're as fine a lady as any in the land. if i'd happened to live in grand rapids at the time, i'd most likely of lived out with your grandmother, an' been an old family servant in your house like i was at mrs. granville's, an' i certainly would of nursed you if i'd had the chanct. it was just a case o' happenso, my _not_ havin' it. the right kind o' folks here in new york is mighty squeamish about strangers. they want recommendations--they want 'em because they want to be sure the ones they engage is o.k. that's all recommendations is for, ain't it? now i knew the minit i clapped eye to you, that, as i say, you was as grand a lady as any in the land, an' that bein' the case, what was the use o' frettin' because i hadn't more than your sayso to prove it. but if i'd pulled a long face to mrs. sherman, an' told her, hesitatin'-like an' nervous, about--well, about what took place that night, she, not havin' much experience of human nature (only the other kind that's more common here in new york city), she'd have hemmed, an' hawed, an' thought she'd better not try it, seein' radcliffe is such an angel-child an' not to be trained except by a a-i lady." "but the truth," persisted claire. "i tell the truth," mrs. slawson returned with quiet dignity. "i only don't waste time on trifles." "it is not wasting time on trifles to be exact and accurate. an architect planning a house must make every little detail _true_, else when the house goes up, it won't stand." "don't he have to reckon nothin' on the _give_ or _not-give_ of the things he's dealin' with?" demanded martha. "i'm only a ignorant woman, an' i ask for information. when you're dress-makin' you have to allow for the seams, an' when you're makin'--well, other things, you have to do the same thing, only spelled a little different--you have to allow for the _seems_. most folks don't do it, an' that's where a lot o' trouble comes in, or so it appears to me." claire twisted her ring in silence, gazing down at it the while as if the operation was, of all others, the most important and absorbing. "we may not agree, martha dear," she said at last, "but anyway i know you're good, good, _good_, and i wouldn't hurt your feelings for the world." "shoor! i know you wouldn't! an' they ain't hurt. not in the least. you got one kinder conscience an' i got another, that's all. consciences is like hats. one that suits one party would make another look like a guy. you got to have your own style. you got to know what's best for you, an' then _stick to it_!" "and you won't object if i tell mr. ronald?" "objeck? certainly not! tell'm anything you like. _i_ always was fond o' mr. ronald myself. i never thought he was as hard an' stern with a body as some thinks. some thinks he's as hard as nails, but--" "o, i'm _sure_ he's not," cried claire with unexpected loyalty. "his manner may seem a little cold and proud sometimes, but i know he's very kind and generous." "certaintly. so do i know it," said mrs. slawson. "i don't say i mayn't be mistaken, but i have the highest opinion o' lor--mr. ronald. i think you could trust'm do the square thing, no matter what, an' if he was kinder harsh doin' it, it's only because he expects a body to be perfect like he is himself." in the next room sabina was shouting at the top of her lungs--"come back to ear-ring, my voornean, my voornean!" "ain't it a caution what lungs that child has--considerin'?" martha reflected. "just hear her holler! she'd wake the dead. i wonder if she's tryin' to beat that auta whoopin' it up outside. have you ever noticed them autas nowadays? some of them has such croupy coughs, before i know it i'm huntin' for a flannen an' a embrercation. 'xcuse me a minit while i go answer the bell." a second later she returned. a step in advance of her was mr. ronald. "i am lucky to find you at home, martha," were the first words claire heard him say. martha, by dint of a little unobservable maneuvering, managed to superimpose her substantial shadow upon claire's frail one. "yes, sir. when i get a day to lay off in, you couldn't move me outer the house with a derrick," she announced. "miss lang's here, too. bein' so dim, an' comin' in outer the sunlight, perhaps you don't make out to see her." "she ain't had time yet to pull herself together," mrs. slawson inwardly noted. "but, lord! i couldn't stand in front of her forever, an' even if a girl _is_ dead in love with a man (more power to her!), that's no reason she should go to the other extreme to hide it, an' pertend she's a cold storage, warranted to freeze'm stiff, like the artificial ice they're makin' these days, in the good old summertime." the first cold greetings over, claire started to retreat in the direction of the door. "excuse me, please--i promised francie--she's expecting me--she's waiting--" "pshaw now, let her wait!" said martha. "don't let me detain miss lang if she wishes to go," interposed mr. ronald. "my business is really with you, martha." "thank you, sir. but i'd like miss lang to stay by, all the same--that is, if you don't objeck." "as a witness? you think i need watching, eh?" "i think it does a body good to watch you, sir!" "i didn't know before, you were a flatterer, martha. but i see you're a lineal descendant of the blarney stone." claire felt herself utterly ignored. she tried again to slip away, but martha's strong hand detained her, bore her down into the place she had just vacated. "how is francie?" inquired mr. ronald, taking the chair mrs. slawson placed for him. "_fine_--thank you, sir. the doctors says they never see a child get well so fast. she's grown so fat an' big, there ain't a thing belongs to her will fit her any longer, they're all shorter, an' she has to go whacks with cora on her clo'es." "perhaps she'd enjoy a little run out into the country this afternoon in my car. the other children, too? and--possibly--miss lang." "i'm sure they'd all thank you kindly, sir," began martha, when--"i'm sorry," said claire coldly, "i can't go." mr. ronald did not urge her. "it is early. we have plenty of time to discuss the ride later," he observed quietly. "meanwhile, what i have in mind, martha, is this: mr. slawson has been at the sanatorium now for--?" "goin' on five months," said martha. "and the doctors think him improved?" "well, on the whole, yes, sir. his one lung (sounds kinder chineesy, don't it?), his one lung ain't no worse--it's better some--only he keeps losin' flesh an' that puzzles'm." "do you think he is contented there?" "he says he is. he says it's the grand place, an' they're all as good to'm as if he was the king o' harlem. _you_ seen to that, sir--he says. an' sam, he's always pationate, no matter what comes, but--" "well--_but_?" "but--only just, it ain't _home_, you know, sir!" "i see. and the doctors think he ought to stay up there? not return home--_here_, i mean?" "that's what they say." "have you--the means to keep him at the sanatorium over the five months we settled for in january?" "no, sir. that is, not--not _yet_." "would you like to borrow enough money to see him through the rest of the year?" martha deliberated. "i may _have_ to, sir," she said at last with a visible effort. "but i don't like to borrer. i notice when folks gets the borrerin'-habit they're slow payin' back, an' then you don't get thanks for a gift or you don't get credit for a loan." this time it was mr. ronald who seemed to be considering. "right!" he announced presently. "i notice you go into things rather deep, martha." mrs. slawson smiled. "well, when things _is_ deep, that's the way you got to go into them. what's on your plate you got to chew, an' if you don't like it, you can lump it, an' if you don't like to lump it, you can cut it up finer. but there it _is_, an' there it stays, till you swaller it, somehow." "do you enjoy or resent the good things that are, or seem to be, heaped on other people's plates?" "why, yes. certaintly i enjoy 'em. but, after all, the things taste best that we're eatin' ourselves, don't they? an' if i had money enough like some, so's i didn't have to borrer to see my man through, why, i don't go behind the door to say i'd be glad an' grateful." "would you take the money as a gift, martha?" "you done far more than your share already, sir." "then, if you won't _take_, and you'd rather not borrow, we must find another way. a rather good idea occurred to me last night. i've an uncommonly nice old place up in new hampshire--in the mountains. it was my father's--and my grandfather's. it's been closed for many years, and i haven't given it a thought, except when the tax-bills came due, or the caretaker sent in his account. it's so far away my sister won't live there, and--it's too big and formidable for one lone man to summer in by himself. now, why wouldn't it be a capital idea for you to pack up your goods and chattels here, and take your family right up there--make that your home? the lodge is comfortable and roomy, and i don't see why mr. slawson couldn't recover there as well, if not better, than where he is. i'd like to put the place in order--make some improvements, do a little remodeling. i need a trusty man to oversee the laborers, and keep an eye and close tab on the workmen i send up from town. if mr. slawson would act as superintendent for me, i'd pay him what such a position is worth, and you would have your house, fuel, and vegetables free. don't try to answer now. you'd be foolish to make a decision in a hurry that you might regret later. write to your husband. talk it over with him. he might prefer to choose a job for himself. and remember--it's 'way out in the country. the children would have to walk some distance to school." "give 'em exercise, along of their exercises," said martha. "the church in the village is certainly three miles off." "my husband don't go to church as reg'lar as i might wish," mrs. slawson observed. "i tell'm, the reason men don't be going to church so much these days, is for fear they might hear something they believe." "you would find country life tame, perhaps, after the city." "well, the city life ain't been that _wild_ for me that i'd miss the dizzy whirl. an' anyhow--we'd be _together_!" martha said. "we'd be together, maybe, come our weddin'-day. the fourth o' july. we never been parted oncet, on that day, all the fifteen years we been married," she mused, "but--" "well?" "but, come winter, an' mis' sherman opens the house again, an' wants miss claire back, who's goin' to look out for _her_?" "why--a--as to _that_--" said mr. ronald, so vaguely it sounded almost supercilious to claire. in an instant her pride rose in revolt, rebelling against the notion he might have, that she could possibly put forth any claim upon his consideration. "o, please, _please_ don't think of me, martha," she cried vehemently. "i have entirely other plans. you mustn't give me, or my affairs, a thought, in settling your own. you must do what's best for _you_. you mustn't count for, or _on_, me in the least. i have not told you before, but i've made up my mind i must resign my position at mrs. sherman's, anyway. i'll write her at once. i'll tell her myself, of course, but i tell you now to show that you mustn't have me in mind, at all, in making your plans." martha's low-pitched voice fell upon claire's tense, nervous one with soothing calmness. "certaintly not, miss claire," she said. "and you'll write to your husband and report to him what i propose," suggested mr. ronald, as if over claire's head. "shoor i will, sir!" "and if he likes the idea, my secretary will discuss the details with him later. wages, duties--all the details." "yes, sir." "and you may tell the children i'll leave orders that the car be sent for them some other day. i find it's not convenient, after all, for me to take them myself this afternoon. i spoke too fast in proposing it. but they'll not be disappointed. mr. blennerhasset will see to that. i leave town to-night to be gone--well, indefinitely. in any case, until well on into the autumn or winter. any letter you may direct to me, care of mr. blennerhasset at the office, will be attended to at once. good-by, martha!--miss lang--" he was gone. when the car had shot out of sound and sight, martha withdrew from the window, from behind the blinds of which she had been peering eagerly. "he certainly _is_ a little woolly wonder, meaning no offense," she observed with a deep-drawn sigh. "yes, mr. ronald is as good as they make 'em, an' dontcher forget it!" she seated herself opposite claire, drawing her chair quite close. "pity you an' him is so on the outs. i'm not speakin' o' _him_, s'much, but anybody with half an eye can see _you_ got a reg'lar hate on'm. _any one_ can see that!" a moment of silence, and then claire flung herself, sobbing and quivering, across martha's lap, ready to receive her. "o, _martha_!" she choked. chapter xvii "well now, what do you think o' that! ain't it the end o' the law? the high-handed way he has o' doin' things! think o' the likes o' _me_ closin' up my '_town-house' _an' takin' my fam'ly (includin' flicker an' nixcomeraus) 'to the country-place'--for all the world like i was a lady, born an' bred.--sammy, you sit still in your seat, an' eat the candy mr. blennerhasset brought you, an' quit your rubberin', or the train'll start suddently, an' give you a twist in your neck you won't get over in a hurry.... ma, you comfortable?.... cora an' francie, see you behave like little ladies, or i'll attend to you later. see how quiet sabina is--say, sabina, what you doin'? now, what do you think o' that! if that child ain't droppin' off to sleep, suckin' the red plush o' the seat! for all the world like she didn't have a wink o' rest last night, or a bite or a sup this mornin'--an' she slep' the clock 'round, an' et a breakfast fit for a trooper. say, sabina--here, wake up! an' take your tongue off'n that beautiful cotton-backed plush, d'you hear? in the first place, the gen'l'men that owns this railroad don't want their upholsterry et by little girls, an', besides, it's makin' your mouth all red--an', second-place, the cars isn't the time to sleep--leastwise, not so early in the mornin'. miss claire, child, don't look so scared! you ain't committin' no crime goin' along with us, an' _he_'ll never suspicion anyhow. he's prob'ly on the boundin' biller by this time, an' mr. blennerhasset he don't know you from a hole in the ground. besides, whose business is it, anyway? you ain't goin' as _his_ guest, as i told you before. you're _my_ boarder, same's you've always been, an' it's nobody's concern if you board down here or up there... "say, ain't these flowers just grand? the box looks kinder like a young coffin, but never mind that... "a body would think all that fruit an' stuff was enough of a send-off, but lor--_mr_. ronald, he don't do things by halves, does he? it wouldn't seem so surprisin' now, if he'd 'a' knew you was comin' along an' all this (mr. blennerhasset himself helpin' look after us, an' see us off--as if i was a little tender flower that didn't know a railroad ticket from a trunk-check), i say, it wouldn't seem so surprisin' if he'd 'a' knew _you_ was comin' along. i'd think it was on your account. what they calls _delicate attentions_. the sorter thing a gen'l'man does when he's got his eye on a young lady for his wife, an' is sorter breakin' it to her gently--kinder beckonin' with a barn-door, as the sayin' is. "but mr. ronald ain't the faintest notion but you've gone back to your folks in grand rapids, an' so all these favors is for _me_, of course. well, i certainly take to luckshurry like a duck takes to water. i never knew it was so easy to feel comfortable. i guess i been a little hard on the wealthy in the past. now, if _you_ should marry a rich man, i don't believe--" claire sighed wearily. "i'll never marry anybody, martha. and besides, a rich man wouldn't be likely to go to a cheap boarding-house for a wife, and next winter i--o, isn't it warm? don't you _wish_ the train would start?" at last the train did start, and they were whirled out of the steaming city, over the hills and far away, through endless stretches of sunlit country, and the long, long hours of the hot summer day, until, at night, they reached their destination, and found sam slawson waiting there in the cool twilight to welcome them. followed days of rarest bliss for martha, when she could marshal out her small forces, setting each his particular task, and seeing it was done with thoroughness and despatch, so that in an inconceivably short time her new home shone with all the spotless cleanliness of the old, and added comeliness beside. "ain't it the little palace?" she inquired, when all was finished. "i wouldn't change my lodge for the great house, grand as it is, not for anything you could offer me! nor i wouldn't call the queen my cousin now we're all in it together. i'm feelin' that joyful i'd like to have what they calls a house-swarmin', only there ain't, by the looks of it, any neighbors much, to swarm." "no," said ma regretfully, "i noticed there ain't no neighbors--to speak of." "well, then, we can't speak o' them," returned martha. "which will save us from fallin' under god's wrath as gossips. there's never any great loss without some small gain." "but we must have some sort of jollification," claire insisted. "doesn't your wedding-day--the anniversary of it, i mean--come 'round about this time? you said the fourth, didn't you?" martha nodded. "sam slawson an' me'll be fifteen years married come fourth of july," she announced. "we chose that day, because we was so poor we knew we couldn't do nothin' great in the line o' celebration ourselves, so we just kinder managed it, so's without inconveniencin' the nation any or addin' undooly to its expenses, it would do our celebratin' for us. you ain't no notion how grand it makes a body feel to be woke up at the crack o' dawn on one's weddin' mornin' with the noise o' the bombardin' in honor o' the day! i'm like to miss it this year, with only my own four young yankees spoilin' my sleep settin' off torpeders under my nose." "you won't miss anything," said claire reassuringly, "but you mustn't say a word to sam. and you mustn't ask any questions yourself, for what is going to happen is to be a _wonderful_ surprise!" "you betcher life it is!" murmured martha complacently to herself, after claire had hastened off to confer with the children and plan a program for the great day. ma to make the wedding-cake! cora to recite her "piece." francie and sammy to be dressed as pages and bear, each, a tray spread with the gifts it was to be her own task and privilege to contrive. sabina to hover over all as a sort of cupid, who, if somewhat "hefty" as to avoirdupois, was in all other respects a perfect little love. it seemed as if the intervening days were winged, so fast they flew. claire never could have believed there was so much to be done for such a simple festival, and, of course, the entire weight fell on her shoulders, for ma was as much of a child in such matters as any, and martha could not be appealed to, being the _bride_, and, moreover, being away at the great house, where tremendous changes were in progress. but at last came the wonderful day, and everything was in readiness. first, a forenoon of small explosive delights for the children--then, as the day waned, a dinner eaten outdoors, picnic-fashion on the grass, under the spreading trees, beneath the shadows of the mighty mountain-tops. what difference if ma's cake, crowning a perfect feast, had suffered a little in the frosting and its touching sentiment, traced in snowy lettering upon a bridal-white ground, _did_ read fifteen years of marred life. it is sometimes one's ill-luck to misspell a word, and though a wedding-cake is usually large and this was no exception, the space was limited, and, besides, no one but sam senior and miss lang noticed it anyhow. a quizzical light in his eye, mr. slawson scrawled on a scrap of paper which he passed to claire (with apologies for the liberty) the words: "she'd been nearer the truth if she'd left out the two _rr_s while she was about it, and had it: fifteen years of ma'd life." then came cora's _piece_. her courtesy, right foot back, knees suddenly bent, right hand on left side (presumably over heart, actually over stomach), chin diving into the bony hollow of her neck--cora's courtesy was a thing to be remembered. lady clare she announced it with ceremony, and this time, martha noticed, the recalcitrant garter held fast to its moorings. "''twas the time when lilies blow and clouds are highest up in air, lord ronald brought a lily-white doe--'" _"his!"_ prompted martha in a loud stage-whisper. _"his_--not 'a'--" cora accepted the correction obediently, but her self-confidence was shaken. she managed to stammer, "'give t-to--his c-cousin, l-lady c-clare,'" and then a storm of tears set in, drowning her utterance. "well, what do you think o' _that_?" exclaimed martha, amazed at the undue sensitiveness of her offspring. "never mind, cora! you done it grand!--as far as you went." to cover this slight mishap, claire gave a hurried signal to the pages, who appeared forthwith in splendid form, if a little overweighted by the burdens they bore. in some strange way claire's simple gifts had been secretly augmented until they piled up upon the trays, twin-mountains of treasure. when the first surprise was past, and the wonders examined and exclaimed over, martha bent toward claire, from her seat of honor on the grass. "didn't i think to tell you mr. blennerhasset come up on the early train? sammy, he drove down to the station himself to meet'm. mr. blennerhasset brought up all them grand things--for mr. ronald. ain't he--i mean mr. ronald--a caution to 've remembered the day? i been so took up with things over there to the great house, i musta forgot to tell you about mr. blennerhasset. ain't everything just elegant?-- "it's pretty, the way the night comes down up here. with the sharp pin-heads o' stars prickin' through, one by one. they don't seem like that in the city, do they? an' the moon's comin' up _great_!" claire's eyes were fixed on the grassy slope ahead. "who are those three men over there?" she asked. "what are they doing? i can't make out in the dusk anything but shadow-forms." "sam, an' mr. blennerhasset, an'--an'--another fella from the neighborhood. mr. blennerhasset he brought up some fire-works to surprise the young uns, an' they're goin' to set 'em off. it's early yet, but the sooner it's over the sooner to sleep. an' the kids has had a excitin' day." up shot a rocket, drawing the children's breaths skyward with it in long-drawn "a-ahs!" of perfect ecstasy. then pin-wheels, some of which, not to belie their nature, balked obstinately, refusing to be coerced or wheedled into doing their duty. "say, now, mother," cried francie excitedly--"that pin-wheel--in the middle of it was a cork. when it got over spinning fast, i saw the cork." "don't you never do that no more," cautioned martha. "never you see the cork. it's the _light_ you want to keep your eye on!" which, as claire thought it over, seemed to her advice of a particularly shrewd and timely nature. she was still pondering this, and some other things, when she felt mrs. slawson's hand on her shoulder. "it's over now, an' i'm goin' to take the young 'uns in, an' put 'em to bed. but don't you stir. just you sit here a while in the moonlight, an' enjoy the quiet in peace by yourself. you done a hard day's work, an' you give me an' sammy what we won't forget in a hurry. so you just stay out here a few minits--or as long as you wanter--away from the childern's clatter, an'--god bless you!" claire's gaze, following the great form affectionately, saw it pass into the darker shadows, then forth--out into the light that shone from the open door of the lodge. "she's _home_--and they're _together_!" unconsciously, she spoke her grateful thought aloud. "yes, she's _home_--and they're _together_!" the words were repeated very quietly, but there was that in the well-known voice, so close at hand, that seemed to claire to shake the world. in an instant she was upon her feet, gazing up speechless, into francis ronald's baffling eyes. "you are kind to every one," he said, "but for me you have only a sting, and yet--i love you." * * * * * martha was still busy wrestling with the pyramid of dishes left over from the feast, when at last claire came in alone. "did you get a chance to compose yourself, an' quiet down some under the stars?" inquired mrs. slawson. "it's been a noisy day, with lots doin'. i don't wonder you're so tired--your cheeks is fairly blazin' with it, an' your eyes are shinin' like lit lamps." "you knew--you knew he was here!" said claire accusingly. "_he?_ who? o, you mean mr. ronald? didn't i think to tell you, he come up along with mr. blennerhasset? i been so flustrated with all the unexpected surprises of the day, it musta slipped my mind." "i've seen mr. ronald!" claire said." i've spoken with him!" "now, what do you think o' that! wonders never cease!" "do you know what i did?" "search me!" "i told him--the _truth_." "we-ell?" "and--_i'm going to marry him!"_ mrs. slawson sat down hard upon the nearest chair, as if the happy shock had deprived her of strength to support her own weight. "no!" she fairly shouted. "_yes!" _cried claire. "and, o, martha! i'm _so_ happy! and--did you ever _dream_ such a thing could possibly happen?" "well, you certaintly have give me a start. i often thought how i'd _like_ to see mr. ronald your _financiay_ or your _trosso_, or whatever they call it. but, that it would really come to pass--" she paused. "o, you don't know how i dreaded next winter," claire said, as if she were thinking aloud. "i went over it--and i went over it, in my mind--what i'd do--where i'd go--and now--_now!_... i couldn't take that fine job you had your eye on for me, not even if it had come to something. don't you remember? i mean, the splendid job you had the idea about, that first night i was sick. i shan't need it now, shall i, martha?" "you got it!" said martha. claire's wide eyes opened wider in wonderment. she stared silently at mrs. slawson for a moment. then the light began to break in upon her slowly, but with unmistakable illumination. "you--don't--mean?" she stammered. "certaintly!" said martha. the end mind amongst the spindles. a miscellany, wholly composed by the factory girls. selected from the lowell offering. with an introduction by the english editor, and a letter from harriet martineau. boston: jordan, swift & wiley. . [illustration: dow and jackson's press] contents. introduction. by the english editor abby's year in lowell the first wedding in salmagundi "bless, and curse not" ancient poetry the spirit of discontent the whortleberry excursion the western antiquities the fig tree village pastors the sugar-making excursion prejudice against labor joan of arc susan miller scenes on the merrimac the first bells evening before pay-day the indian pledge the first dish of tea leisure hours of the mill girls the tomb of washington life among farmers a weaver's reverie our duty to strangers elder isaac townsend harriet greenough fancy the widow's son witchcraft cleaning up visits to the shakers the lock of gray hair lament of the little hunchback this world is not our home dignity of labor the village chronicle ambition and contentment a conversation on physiology [illustration: decoration] introduction, by the english editor. in the american state of massachusetts, one of the new england states, which was colonized by the stern puritans who were driven from our country by civil and religious persecution, has sprung up within the last thirty years the largest manufacturing town of the vast republic. lowell is situated not a great distance from boston, at the confluence of the rivers merrimac and concord. the falls of these rivers here afford a natural moving power for machinery; and at the latter end of the year a small cotton manufacture was here set up, where the sound of labor had not been heard before. the original adventure was not a prosperous one. but in the works were bought by a company or corporation; and from that time lowell has gone on so rapidly increasing that it is now held to be "the greatest manufacturing city in america." according to mr. buckingham, there are now ten companies occupying or working thirty mills, and giving employment to more than , operatives, of whom , are females. the situation of the female population is, for the most part, a peculiar one. unlike the greater number of the young women in our english factories, they are not brought up to the labor of the mills, amongst parents who are also workers in factories. they come from a distance; many of them remain only a limited time; and they live in boarding houses expressly provided for their accommodation. miss martineau, in her "society in america," explains the cause not only of the large proportion of females in the lowell mills, but also of their coming from distant parts in search of employment: "manufactures can to a considerable degree be carried on by the labor of women; and there is a great number of unemployed women in new england, from the circumstance that the young men of that region wander away in search of a settlement on the land, and after being settled find wives in the south and west." again, she says, "many of the girls are in the factories because they have too much pride for domestic service." in october, , appeared the first number of a periodical work entitled "the lowell offering." the publication arose out of the meetings of an association of young women called "the mutual improvement society." it has continued at intervals of a month or six weeks, and the first volume was completed in december, . a second volume was concluded in . the work was under the direction of an editor, who gives his name at the end of the second volume,--abel c. thomas. the duties which this gentleman performed are thus stated by him in the preface to the first volume:-- "the two most important questions which may be suggested shall receive due attention. " st. are all the articles, in good faith and exclusively the productions of females employed in the mills? we reply, unhesitatingly and without reserve, that they are, the verses set to music excepted. we speak from personal acquaintance with all the writers, excepting four; and in relation to the latter (whose articles do not occupy eight pages in the aggregate) we had satisfactory proof that they were employed in the mills. " d. have not the articles been materially amended by the exercise of the editorial prerogative? we answer, they have not. we have taken _less liberty_ with the articles than editors usually take with the productions of other than the most experienced writers. our corrections and additions have been so slight as to be unworthy of special note." of the merits of the compositions contained in these volumes their editor speaks with a modest confidence, in which he is fully borne out by the opinions of others:-- "in estimating the talent of the writers for the 'offering,' the fact should be remembered, that they are actively employed in the mills for more than twelve hours out of every twenty-four. the evening, after eight o'clock, affords their only opportunity for composition; and whoever will consider the sympathy between mind and body, must be sensible that a day of constant manual employment, even though the labor be not excessive, must in some measure unfit the individual for the full development of mental power. yet the articles in this volume ask no unusual indulgence from the critics--for, in the language of 'the north american quarterly review,'--'many of the articles are such as satisfy the reader at once, that if he has only taken up the "offering" as a phenomenon, and not as what may bear criticism and reward perusal, he has but to own his error, and dismiss his condescension, as soon as may be.'" the two volumes thus completed in were lent to us by a lady whose well-earned literary reputation gave us the assurance that she would not bestow her praise upon a work whose merit merely consisted in the remarkable circumstance that it was written by young women, not highly educated, during the short leisure afforded by their daily laborious employments. she told us that we should find in those volumes some things which might be read with pleasure and improvement. and yet we must honestly confess that we looked at the perusal of these closely-printed eight hundred pages as something of a task. we felt that all literary productions, and indeed all works of art, should, in a great degree, be judged without reference to the condition of the producer. when we take up the poems of burns, we never think that he was a ploughman and an exciseman; but we have a painful remembrance of having read a large quarto volume of verses by ann yearsly, who was patronized in her day by horace walpole and hannah more, and to have felt only the conviction that the milkwoman of bristol, for such was their authoress, had better have limited her learning to the score and the tally. but it was a duty to read the "lowell offering." the day that saw us begin the first paper was witness to our continued reading till night found us busy at the last page, not for a duty, but a real pleasure. the qualities which most struck us in these volumes were chiefly these: _first_--there is an entire absence of all pretension in the writers to be what they are not. they are factory girls. they always call themselves "girls." they have no desire to be fine ladies, nor do they call themselves "ladies," as the common fashion is of most american females. they have no affectations of gentility; and by a natural consequence they are essentially free from all vulgarity. they describe the scenes amongst which they live, their labors and their pleasures, the little follies of some of their number, the pure tastes and unexpensive enjoyments of others. they feel, and constantly proclaim without any effort, that they think it an honor to labor with their hands. they recognize the real dignity of all useful employments. they know that there is no occupation really unworthy of men or women, but the selfish pursuits of what is called pleasure, without the desire to promote the good of others by physical, intellectual, or moral exertions. _secondly_--many of these papers clearly show under what influences these young women have been brought up. an earnest feeling of piety pervades their recollections of the past, and their hopes for the future. the thoughts of home, too, lie deep in their hearts. they are constantly describing the secluded farm-house where they were reared, the mother's love, the father's labors. sometimes a reverse of fortune falling upon a family has dispersed its once happy members. sometimes we see visions of past household joy through the orphan's tears. not unfrequently the ardent girl, happy in the confirmed affection of some equal in rank, looks exultingly towards the day when she may carry back from the savings' bank at lowell a little dower to furnish out their little farm on the hill side, where the barberries grew, so deliciously red and sour, in her remembrance of childhood. _thirdly_--there is a genuine patriotism in the tone of many of these productions, which is worthy the descendants of the stern freemen who, in the new england solitudes, looked tearfully back upon their father-land. the institutions under which these young women live are different from our own; but there is scarcely a particle of what we have been too apt to call republican arrogance. the war of independence is spoken of as it ought to be by every american, with feelings of honest exultation. but that higher sentiments than those of military triumph mingle with the memory of that war, and render patriotism something far nobler than mere national pride, may be seen in the little poem which we gladly reprint, "the tomb of washington." the paper called "the lock of gray hair" is marked by an honest nationality, which we would be ashamed not to reverence.--_fourthly_--like all writers of good natural taste, who have not been perverted into mere imitators of other writers, they perceive that there is a great source of interest in describing, simply and correctly, what they have witnessed with their own eyes. thus, some of the home pictures of these volumes are exceedingly agreeable, presenting to us manners and habits wholly different from our own, and scenes which have all the freshness of truth in their delineations.--the old stories, too, which they sometimes tell of past life in america, are equally interesting; and they show us how deeply in all minds is implanted the love of old things, which are tenderly looked back upon, even though they may have been swept away by what is real improvement.--_lastly_--although there are necessarily in these volumes, as in every miscellany, some things which are tedious, and some puerile, mock sentimentalities and labored efforts at fine writing, we think it would be difficult upon the whole for a large body of contributors, writing under great indulgence, to produce so much matter with so little bad taste. of pedantry there is literally none. the writers are familiar with good models of composition; they know something of ancient and modern history; the literature of england has reached them, and given a character and direction to their thoughts. but there is never any attempt to parade what they know; and we see they have been readers, only as we discover the same thing in the best educated persons, not in a display of their reading, but in a general tone which shows that cultivation has made them wiser and better. such were the opinions we had formed of "the lowell offering," before we were acquainted with the judgment pronounced upon the same book by a writer whose original and brilliant genius is always under the direction of kindly feelings towards his fellow-creatures, and especially towards the poor and lowly of his human brethren. mr. dickens, in his "american notes," thus mentions "the lowell offering," of which he says, "i brought away from lowell four hundred good solid pages, which i have read from beginning to end:"--"of the merits of 'the lowell offering,' as a literary production, i will only observe, putting entirely out of sight the fact of the articles having been written by these girls after the arduous labors of the day, that it will compare advantageously with a great many english annuals. it is pleasant to find that many of its tales are of the mills and of those who work in them; that they inculcate habits of self-denial and contentment, and teach good doctrines of enlarged benevolence. a strong feeling for the beauties of nature, as displayed in the solitudes the writers have left at home, breathes through its pages like wholesome village air; and though a circulating library is a favorable school for the study of such topics, it has very scant allusion to fine clothes, fine marriages, fine houses, or fine life. some persons might object to the papers being signed occasionally with rather fine names, but this is an american fashion. one of the provinces of the state legislature of massachusetts is to alter ugly names into pretty ones, as the children improve upon the tastes of their parents." if the separate articles in "the lowell offering" bear signatures which represent distinct writers, we have, in our selection of thirty-seven articles, given the productions of twenty-nine individual contributors. it is this circumstance which leads us to believe that many of the papers are faithful representations of individual feelings. tabitha, from whose pen we have given four papers, is a simple, unpretending narrator of old american scenes and customs. ella, from whom we select three papers, is one of the imaginative spirits who dwell on high thoughts of the past, and reveries of the future--one who has been an earnest thinker as well as a reader. jemima prettily describes two little home-scenes. susanna, who to our minds exhibits natural powers and feelings, that by cultivation might enable her to become as interesting an historian of the old times of america in the days before the revolution as an irving or a cooper, furnishes us with two papers. the rest are lisettas, and almiras, and ethelindas, and annettes, and theresas; with others who are contented with simple initials. they have all afforded us much pleasure. we have read what they have written with a deep interest. may the love of letters which they enjoy, and the power of composition which they have attained, shed their charms over their domestic life, when their days of mill service are ended. may their epistles to their friends be as full of truthfulness and good feeling as their contributions to "the lowell offering." may the success of this their remarkable attempt at literary composition not lead them to dream too much of the proud distinctions of authorship--uncertain prizes, won, if won at all, by many a weary struggle and many a bitter disappointment. the efforts which they have made to acquire the practice of writing have had their own reward. they have united themselves as familiar friends with high and gentle minds, who have spoken to them in books with love and encouragement. in dwelling upon the thoughts of others, in fixing their own thoughts upon some definite object, they have lifted themselves up into a higher region than is attained by those, whatever be their rank, whose minds are not filled with images of what is natural and beautiful and true. they have raised themselves out of the sphere of the partial and the temporary into the broad expanse of the universal and the eternal. during their twelve hours of daily labor, when there were easy but automatic services to perform, waiting upon a machine--with that slight degree of skill which no machine can ever attain--for the repair of the accidents of its unvarying progress, they may, without a neglect of their duty, have been elevating their minds in the scale of being by cheerful lookings-out upon nature, by pleasant recollections of books, by imaginary converse with the just and wise who have lived before them, by consoling reflections upon the infinite goodness and wisdom which regulates this world, so unintelligible without such a dependence. these habits have given them cheerfulness and freedom amidst their uninterrupted toils. we see no repinings against their twelve hours' labor, for it has had its solace. even during the low wages of , which they mention with sorrow but without complaint, the same cultivation goes on; "the lowell offering" is still produced. to us of england these things ought to be encouraging. to the immense body of our factory operatives the example of what the girls of lowell have done should be especially valuable. it should teach them that their strength, as well as their happiness, lies in the cultivation of their minds. to the employers of operatives, and to all of wealth and influence amongst us, this example ought to manifest that a strict and diligent performance of daily duties, in work prolonged as much as in our own factories, is no impediment to the exercise of those faculties, and the gratification of those tastes, which, whatever the world may have thought, can no longer be held to be limited by station. there is a contest going on amongst us, as it is going on all over the world, between the hard imperious laws which regulate the production of wealth and the aspirations of benevolence for the increase of human happiness. we do not deplore the contest; for out of it must come a gradual subjection of the iron necessity to the holy influences of love and charity. such a period cannot, indeed, be rashly anticipated by legislation against principles which are secondary laws of nature; but one thing, nevertheless, is certain--that such an improvement of the operative classes, as all good men,--and we sincerely believe amongst them the great body of manufacturing capitalists,--ardently pray for and desire to labor in their several spheres to attain, will be brought about in a parallel progression with the elevation of the operatives themselves in mental cultivation, and consequently in moral excellence. we believe that this great good may be somewhat advanced by a knowledge diffused in every building throughout the land where there is a mule or a loom, of what the factory girls of lowell have done to exhibit the cheering influences of "mind amongst the spindles." * * * * * we had written thus far when we received the following most interesting and valuable letter from miss martineau. we have the greatest pleasure in printing this admirable account of the factory girls at lowell, from the pen of one who has labored more diligently and successfully than any writer of our day, to elevate the condition of the operative classes. to miss martineau we are deeply indebted for the ardent zeal with which she has recommended the compilation, and for the sound judgment with which she has assisted us in arranging the details of a plan which mainly owes its origin to her unwearied solicitude for the good of her fellow-creatures. _letter from miss martineau to the editor._ _tynemouth, may , ._ my dear friend,--your interest in this lowell book can scarcely equal mine; for i have seen the factory girls in their lyceum, and have gone over the cotton-mills at waltham, and made myself familiar on the spot with factory life in new england; so that in reading the "offering," i saw again in my memory the street of houses built by the earnings of the girls, the church which is their property, and the girls themselves trooping to the mill, with their healthy countenances, and their neat dress and quiet manners, resembling those of the tradesman class of our country. my visit to lowell was merely for one day, in company with mr. emerson's party,--he (the pride and boast of new england as an author and philosopher) being engaged by the lowell factory people to lecture to them, in a winter course of historical biography. of course the lectures were delivered in the evening, after the mills were closed. the girls were then working seventy hours a week, yet, as i looked at the large audience (and i attended more to them than to the lecture) i saw no sign of weariness among any of them. there they sat, row behind row, in their own lyceum--a large hall, wainscoted with mahogany, the platform carpeted, well lighted, provided with a handsome table, desk, and seat, and adorned with portraits of a few worthies, and as they thus sat listening to their lecturer, all wakeful and interested, all well-dressed and lady-like, i could not but feel my heart swell at the thought, of what such a sight would be with us. the difference is not in rank, for these young people were all daughters of parents who earn their bread with their own hands. it is not in the amount of wages, however usual that supposition is, for they were then earning from one to three dollars a-week, besides their food; the children one dollar ( _s._ _d._), the second rate workers two dollars, and the best three: the cost of their dress and necessary comforts being much above what the same class expend in this country. it is not in the amount of toil; for, as i have said, they worked seventy clear hours per week. the difference was in their superior culture. their minds are kept fresh, and strong, and free by knowledge and power of thought; and this is the reason why they are not worn and depressed under their labors. they begin with a poorer chance for health than our people; for the health of the new england women generally is not good, owing to circumstances of climate and other influences; but among the women and girls in the lowell mills when i was there, the average of health was not lower than elsewhere; and the disease which was most mischievous was the same that proves most fatal over the whole country--consumption; while there were no complaints peculiar to mill life. at waltham, where i saw the mills, and conversed with the people, i had an opportunity of observing the invigorating effects of mind in a life of labor. twice the wages and half the toil would not have made the girls i saw happy and healthy, without that cultivation of mind which afforded them perpetual support, entertainment, and motive for activity. they were not highly educated, but they had pleasure in books and lectures, in correspondence with home; and had their minds so open to fresh ideas, as to be drawn off from thoughts of themselves and their own concerns. when at work they were amused with thinking over the last book they had read, or with planning the account they should write home of the last sunday's sermon, or with singing over to themselves the song they meant to practise in the evening; and when evening came, nothing was heard of tired limbs and eagerness for bed, but, if it was summer, they sallied out, the moment tea was over, for a walk, and if it was winter, to the lecture-room or to the ball-room for a dance, or they got an hour's practice at the piano, or wrote home, or shut themselves up with a new book. it was during the hours of work in the mill that the papers in the "offering" were meditated, and it was after work in the evenings that they were penned. there is, however, in the case of these girls, a stronger support, a more elastic spring of vigor and cheerfulness than even an active and cultivated understanding. the institution of factory labor has brought ease of heart to many; and to many occasion for noble and generous deeds. the ease of heart is given to those who were before suffering in silent poverty, from the deficiency of profitable employment for women, which is even greater in america than with us. it used to be understood there that all women were maintained by the men of their families; but the young men of new england are apt to troop off into the west, to settle in new lands, leaving sisters at home. some few return to fetch a wife, but the greater number do not, and thus a vast over proportion of young women remains; and to a multitude of these the opening of factories was a most welcome event, affording means of honorable maintenance, in exchange for pining poverty at home. as for the noble deeds, it makes one's heart glow to stand in these mills, and hear of the domestic history of some who are working before one's eyes, unconscious of being observed or of being the object of any admiration. if one of the sons of a new england farmer shows a love for books and thought, the ambition of an affectionate sister is roused, and she thinks of the glory and honor to the whole family, and the blessing to him, if he could have a college education. she ponders this till she tells her parents, some day, of her wish to go to lowell, and earn the means of sending her brother to college. the desire is yet more urgent if the brother has a pious mind, and a wish to enter the ministry. many a clergyman in america has been prepared for his function by the devoted industry of sisters; and many a scholar and professional man dates his elevation in social rank and usefulness from his sister's, or even some affectionate aunt's entrance upon mill life, for his sake. many girls, perceiving anxiety in their fathers' faces, on account of the farm being incumbered, and age coming on without release from the debt, have gone to lowell, and worked till the mortgage was paid off, and the little family property free. such motives may well lighten and sweeten labor; and to such girls labor is light and sweet. some, who have no such calls, unite the surplus of their earnings to build dwellings for their own residence, six, eight, or twelve living together with the widowed mother or elderly aunt of one of them to keep house for, and give countenance to the party. i saw a whole street of houses so built and owned, at waltham; pretty frame houses, with the broad piazza, and the green venitian blinds, that give such an air of coolness and pleasantness to american village and country abodes. there is the large airy eating-room, with a few prints hung up, the piano at one end, and the united libraries of the girls, forming a good-looking array of books, the rocking chairs universal in america, the stove adorned in summer with flowers, and the long dining-table in the middle. the chambers do not answer to our english ideas of comfort. there is a strange absence of the wish for privacy; and more girls are accommodated in one room than we should see any reason for in such comfortable and pretty houses. in the mills the girls have quite the appearance of ladies. they sally forth in the morning with their umbrellas in threatening weather, their calashes to keep their hair neat, gowns of print or gingham, with a perfect fit, worked collars or pelerines, and waistbands of ribbon. for sundays and social evenings they have their silk gowns, and neat gloves and shoes. yet through proper economy,--the economy of educated and thoughtful people,--they are able to lay by for such purposes as i have mentioned above. the deposits in the lowell savings' bank were, in , upwards of , dollars, the number of operatives being , of whom were women and girls. i thank you for calling my attention back to this subject. it is one i have pleasure in recurring to. there is nothing in america which necessitates the prosperity of manufactures as of agriculture, and there is nothing of good in their factory system that may not be emulated elsewhere--equalled elsewhere, when the people employed are so educated as to have the command of themselves and of their lot in life, which is always and everywhere controlled by mind, far more than by outward circumstances. i am very truly yours, h. martineau. [illustration: decoration] mind amongst the spindles. abby's year in lowell. chapter i. "mr. atkins, i say! husband, why can't you speak? do you hear what abby says?" "any thing worth hearing?" was the responsive question of mr. atkins; and he laid down the new hampshire patriot, and peered over his spectacles, with a look which seemed to say, that an event so uncommon deserved particular attention. "why, she says that she means to go to lowell, and work in the factory." "well, wife, let her go;" and mr. atkins took up the patriot again. "but i do not see how i can spare her; the spring cleaning is not done, nor the soap made, nor the boys' summer clothes; and you say that you intend to board your own 'men-folks' and keep two more cows than you did last year; and charley can scarcely go alone. i do not see how i can get along without her." "but you say she does not assist you any about the house." "well, husband, she _might_." "yes, she might do a great many things which she does not think of doing; and as i do not see that she means to be useful here; we will let her go to the factory." "father, are you in earnest? may i go to lowell?" said abby; and she raised her bright black eyes to her father's, with a look of exquisite delight. "yes, abby, if you will promise me one thing, and that is, that you will stay a whole year without visiting us, excepting in case of sickness, and that you will stay but one year." "i will promise anything, father, if you will only let me go; for i thought you would say that i had better stay at home, and pick rocks, and weed the garden, and drop corn, and rake hay; and i do not want to do such work any longer. may i go with the slater girls next tuesday? for that is the day they have set for their return." "yes, abby, if you will remember that you are to stay a year, and only a year." abby retired to rest that night with a heart fluttering with pleasure; for ever since the visit of the slater girls, with new silk dresses, and navarino bonnets trimmed with flowers and lace veils, and gauze handkerchiefs, her head had been filled with visions of fine clothes; and she thought if she could only go where she could dress like them, she would be completely happy. she was naturally very fond of dress, and often, while a little girl, had she sat on the grass bank by the road-side, watching the stage which went daily by her father's retired dwelling; and when she saw the gay ribbons and smart shawls, which passed like a bright phantom before her wondering eyes, she had thought that when older she too would have such things; and she looked forward to womanhood as to a state in which the chief pleasure must consist in wearing fine clothes. but as years passed over her, she became aware that this was a source from which she could never derive any enjoyment, while she remained at home, for her father was neither able nor willing to gratify her in this respect, and she had begun to fear that she must always wear the same brown cambric bonnet, and that the same calico gown would always be her "go-to-meeting dress." and now what a bright picture had been formed by her ardent and uncultivated imagination.--yes, she would go to lowell, and earn all that she possibly could, and spend those earnings in beautiful attire; she would have silk dresses,--one of grass green, and another of cherry red, and another upon the color of which she would decide when she purchased it; and she would have a new navarino bonnet; far more beautiful than judith slater's; and when at last she fell asleep, it was to dream of satin and lace, and her glowing fancy revelled all night in a vast and beautiful collection of milliners' finery. but very different were the dreams of abby's mother; and when she awoke the next morning, her first words to her husband were, "mr. atkins, were you serious last night when you told abby that she might go to lowell? i thought at first that you were vexed because i interrupted you, and said it to stop the conversation." "yes, wife, i was serious, and you did not interrupt me, for i had been listening to all that you and abby were saying. she is a wild, thoughtless girl, and i hardly know what it is best to do with her; but perhaps it will be as well to try an experiment, and let her think and act a little while for herself. i expect that she will spend all her earnings in fine clothes, but after she has done so she may see the folly of it; at all events, she will be more likely to understand the value of money when she has been obliged to work for it. after she has had her own way for one year, she may possibly be willing to return home, and become a little more steady, and be willing to devote her active energies (for she is a very capable girl) to household duties, for hitherto her services have been principally out of doors, where she is now too old to work. i am also willing that she should see a little of the world, and what is going on in it; and i hope that, if she receives no benefit, she will at least return to us uninjured." "o, husband, i have many fears for her," was the reply of mrs. atkins, "she is so very giddy and thoughtless, and the slater girls are as hair-brained as herself, and will lead her on in all sorts of folly. i wish you would tell her that she must stay at home." "i made a promise," said mr. atkins, "and i will keep it; and abby, i trust, will keep _hers_." abby flew round in high spirits to make the necessary preparations for her departure, and her mother assisted her with a heavy heart. chapter ii. the evening before she left home her father called her to him, and fixing upon her a calm, earnest, and almost mournful look, he said, "abby, do you ever think?"--abby was subdued, and almost awed, by her father's look and manner. there was something unusual in it--something in his expression which was unexpected in him, which reminded her of her teacher's look at the sabbath school, when he was endeavoring to impress upon her mind some serious truth. "yes, father," she at length replied, "i have thought a great deal lately about going to lowell." "but i do not believe, my child, that you have had one serious reflection upon the subject, and i fear that i have done wrong in consenting to let you go from home. if i was too poor to maintain you here, and had no employment about which you could make yourself useful, i should feel no self-reproach, and would let you go, trusting that all might yet be well; but now i have done what i may at some future time severely repent of; and, abby, if you do not wish to make me wretched, you will return to us a better, milder, and more thoughtful girl." that night abby reflected more seriously than she had ever done in her life before. her father's words, rendered more impressive by the look and tone with which they were delivered, had sunk into her heart as words of his had never done before. she had been surprised at his ready acquiescence in her wishes, but it had now a new meaning. she felt that she was about to be abandoned to herself, because her parents despaired of being able to do anything for her; they thought her too wild, reckless, and untameable, to be softened by aught but the stern lessons of experience. i will surprise them, said she to herself; i will show them that i have some reflection; and after i come home, my father shall never ask me if i _think_. yes, i know what their fears are, and i will let them see that i can take care of myself, and as good care as they have ever taken of me. i know that i have not done as well as i might have done; but i will begin _now_, and when i return, they shall see that _i am_ a better, milder, and more thoughtful girl. and the money which i intended to spend in fine dress shall be put into the bank; i will save it all, and my father shall see that i can earn money, and take care of it too. o, how different i will be from what they think i am; and how very glad it will make my father and mother to see that i am not so very bad, after all. new feelings and new ideas had begotten new resolutions, and abby's dreams that night were of smiles from her mother, and words from her father, such as she had never received nor deserved. when she bade them farewell the next morning, she said nothing of the change which had taken place in her views and feelings, for she felt a slight degree of self-distrust in her own firmness of purpose. abby's self-distrust was commendable and auspicious; but she had a very prominent development in that part of the head where phrenologists locate the organ of firmness; and when she had once determined upon a thing, she usually went through with it. she had now resolved to pursue a course entirely different from that which was expected of her, and as different from the one she had first marked out for herself. this was more difficult, on account of her strong propensity for dress, a love of which was freely gratified by her companions. but when judith slater pressed her to purchase this beautiful piece of silk, or that splendid piece of muslin, her constant reply was, "no, i have determined not to buy any such things, and i will keep my resolution." before she came to lowell, she wondered, in her simplicity, how people could live where there were so many stores, and not spend all their money; and it now required all her firmness to resist being overcome by the tempting display of beauties which met her eye whenever she promenaded the illuminated streets. it was hard to walk by the milliners' shops with an unwavering step; and when she came to the confectionaries, she could not help stopping. but she did not yield to the temptation; she did not spend her money in them. when she saw fine strawberries, she said to herself, "i can gather them in our own pasture next year;" when she looked upon the nice peaches, cherries, and plums which stood in tempting array behind their crystal barriers, she said again, "i will do without them _this_ summer;" and when apples, pears, and nuts were offered to her for sale, she thought that she would eat none of them till she went home. but she felt that the only safe place for her earnings was the savings' bank, and there they were regularly deposited, that it might be out of her power to indulge in momentary whims. she gratified no feeling but a newly-awakened desire for mental improvement, and spent her leisure hours in reading useful books. abby's year was one of perpetual self-contest and self-denial; but it was by no means one of unmitigated misery. the ruling desire of years was not to be conquered by the resolution of a moment; but when the contest was over, there was for her the triumph of victory. if the battle was sometimes desperate, there was so much more merit in being conqueror. one sabbath was spent in tears, because judith slater did not wish her to attend their meeting with such a dowdy bonnet; and another fellow-boarder thought her gown must have been made in "the year one." the color mounted to her cheeks, and the lightning flashed from her eyes, when asked if she had "_just come down_;" and she felt as though she should be glad to be away from them all, when she heard their sly innuendoes about "bush-wackers." still she remained unshaken. it is but a year, said she to herself, and the time and money that my father thought i should spend in folly, shall be devoted to a better purpose. chapter iii. at the close of a pleasant april day, mr. atkins sat at his kitchen fire-side, with charley upon his knees. "wife," said he to mrs. atkins, who was busily preparing the evening meal, "is it not a year since abby left home?" "why, husband, let me think: i always clean up the house thoroughly just before _fast-day_, and i had not done it when abby went away. i remember speaking to her about it, and telling her that it was wrong to leave me at such a busy time, and she said, 'mother, i will be at home to do it all next year.' yes, it is a year, and i should not be surprised if she should come this week." "perhaps she will not come at all," said mr. atkins, with a gloomy look; "she has written us but few letters, and they have been very short and unsatisfactory. i suppose she has sense enough to know that no news is better than bad news, and having nothing pleasant to tell about herself, she thinks she will tell us nothing at all. but if i ever get her home again, i will keep her here. i assure you, her first year in lowell shall also be her last." "husband, i told you my fears, and if you had set up your authority, abby would have been obliged to stay at home; but perhaps she is doing pretty well. you know she is not accustomed to writing, and that may account for the few and short letters we have received; but they have all, even the shortest, contained the assurance that she would be at home at the close of the year." "pa, the stage has stopped here," said little charley, and he bounded from his father's knee. the next moment the room rang with the shout of "abby has come! abby has come!" in a few moments more, she was in the midst of the joyful throng. her father pressed her hand in silence, and tears gushed from her mother's eyes. her brothers and sisters were clamorous with delight, all but little charley, to whom abby was a stranger, and who repelled with terror all her overtures for a better acquaintance. her parents gazed upon her with speechless pleasure, for they felt that a change for the better had taken place in their once wayward girl. yes, there she stood before them, a little taller and a little thinner, and, when the flush of emotion had faded away, perhaps a little paler; but the eyes were bright in their joyous radiance, and the smile of health and innocence was playing around the rosy lips. she carefully laid aside her new straw bonnet, with its plain trimming of light blue ribbon, and her dark merino dress showed to the best advantage her neat symmetrical form. there was more delicacy of personal appearance than when she left them, and also more softness of manner; for constant collision with so many young females had worn off the little asperities which had marked her conduct while at home. "well, abby, how many silk gowns have you got?" said her father, as he opened a large new trunk. "_not one_, father," said she; and she fixed her dark eyes upon him with an expression which told all. "but here are some little books for the children, and a new calico dress for mother; and here is a nice black silk handkerchief for you to wear around your neck on sundays; accept it, dear father, for it is your daughter's first gift." "you had better have bought me a pair of spectacles, for i am sure i cannot see anything." there were tears in the rough farmer's eyes, but he tried to laugh and joke, that they might not be perceived. "but what did you do with all your money?" "i thought i had better leave it there," said abby, and she placed her bank-book in her father's hand. mr. atkins looked a moment, and the forced smile faded away. the surprise had been too great, and tears fell thick and fast from the father's eyes. "it is but a little," said abby. "but it was all you could save," replied her father, "and i am proud of you, abby; yes, proud that i am the father of such a girl. it is not this paltry sum which pleases me so much, but the prudence, self-command, and real affection for us which you have displayed. but was it not sometimes hard to resist temptation?" "yes, father, _you_ can never know how hard; but it was the thought of _this_ night which sustained me through it all. i knew how you would smile, and what my mother would say and feel; and though there have been moments, yes, hours, that have seen me wretched enough, yet this one evening will repay for all. there is but one thing now to mar my happiness, and that is the thought that this little fellow has quite forgotten me;" and she drew charley to her side. but the new picture-book had already effected wonders, and in a few moments he was in her lap, with his arms around her neck, and his mother could not persuade him to retire that night until he had given "sister abby" a hundred kisses. "father," said abby, as she arose to retire, when the tall clock struck eleven, "may i not sometime go back to lowell? i should like to add a little to the sum in the bank, and i should be glad of _one_ silk gown!" "yes, abby, you may do anything you wish. i shall never again be afraid to let you spend a year in lowell." lucinda. the first wedding in salmagundi. i have often heard this remark, "if their friends can give them nothing else, they will surely give them a wedding." as i have nothing else to present at this time, i hope my friends will not complain if i give them an account of the first wedding in our town. the ceremony of marriage being performed by his excellency the governor, it would not be amiss to introduce him first of all. let me then introduce john wentworth (the last governor of new hampshire while the colonies were subject to the crown of great britain), whose country seat was in salmagundi. the wedding which i am about to describe was celebrated on a romantic spot, by the side of lake winnipiseogee. all the neighbors within ten miles were invited, and it was understood that all who came were expected to bring with them some implements of husbandry, such as ploughs, harrows, yokes, bows, wheelbarrows, hods, scythe-snaths, rakes, goads, hay-hooks, bar-pins, &c. these articles were for a fair, the product of which was to defray the expenses of the wedding, and also to fit out the bride with some household furniture. all these implements, and a thousand and one besides, being wanted on the farm of wentworth, he was to employ persons to buy them for his own especial use. johnny o'lara, an old man, who used to chop wood at my father's door, related the particulars of the wedding one evening, while i sat on a block in the chimney-corner (the usual place for the greatest rogue in the family), plying my knitting-needles, and every now and then, when the eyes of my step-mother were turned another way, playing slyly with the cat. and once, when we yonkers went upon a whortleberry excursion, with o'lara for our pilot, he showed us the spot where the wedding took place, and described it as it was at the time. on the right was a grove of birches; on the left a grove of bushy pines, with recesses for the cows and sheep to retire from the noon-day sun. the background was a forest of tall pines and hemlocks, and in front were the limpid waters of the "smile of the great spirit." these encircled about three acres of level grass-land, with here and there a scattering oak. "under yonder oak," said o'lara, "the ceremony was performed; and here, on this flat rock, was the rude oven constructed, where the good wives baked the lamb; and there is the place where crotched stakes were driven to support a pole, upon which hung two huge iron kettles, in which they boiled their peas. and on this very ground," said o'lara, "in days of yore, the elfs and fairies used to meet, and, far from mortal ken, have their midnight gambols." the wedding was on a fine evening in the latter part of the month of july, at a time when the moon was above the horizon for the whole night. the company were all assembled, with the exception of the governor and his retinue. to while away the time, just as the sun was sinking behind the opposite mountains, they commenced singing an ode to sunset. they had sung, "the sunset is calm on the face of the deep, and bright is the last look of sol in the west; and broad do the beams of his parting glance sweep, like the path that conducts to the land of the blest," when the blowing of a horn announced the approach of the governor, whose barge was soon seen turning a point of land. the company gave a salute of nineteen guns, which was returned from the barge, gun for gun. the governor and retinue soon landed, and the fair was quickly over. the company being seated on rude benches prepared for the occasion, the blowing of a horn announced that it was time for the ceremony to commence; and, being answered by a whistle, all eyes were turned toward the right, and issuing from the birchen grove were seen three musicians, with a bagpipe, fife, and a scotch fiddle, upon which they were playing with more good nature than skill. they were followed by the bridegroom and grooms-man, and in the rear were a number of young men in their holiday clothes. these having taken their places, soft music was heard from the left; and from a recess in the pines, three maidens in white, with baskets of wild flowers on the left arm, came forth, strewing the flowers on the ground, and singing a song, of which i remember only the chorus: "lead the bride to hymen's bowers, strew her path with choicest flowers." the bride and bridesmaid followed, and after them came several lasses in gala dresses. these having taken their places, the father of the bride arose, and taking his daughter's hand and placing it in that of clifford, gave them his blessing. the governor soon united them in the bonds of holy matrimony, and as he ended the ceremony with saying, "what god hath joined let no man put asunder," he heartily saluted the bride. clifford followed his example, and after him she was saluted by every gentleman in the company. as a compensation for this "rifling of sweets," clifford had the privilege of kissing every lady present, and beginning with madame wentworth, he saluted them all, from the gray-headed matron, to the infant in its mother's arms. the cake and wine were then passed round. being a present from madame wentworth, they were no doubt excellent. after this refreshment, and while the good matrons were cooking their peas, and making other preparations, the young folks spent the time in playing "blind-man's-buff," and "hide and go seek," and in singing "jemmy and nancy," "barbara allen," "the friar with orders grey," "the lass of richmond hill," "gilderoy," and other songs which they thought were appropriate to the occasion. at length the ringing of a bell announced that dinner was ready. "what, dinner at that time of night?" perhaps some will say. but let me tell you, good friends (in johnny o'lara's words), that "the best time for a wedding dinner, is when it is well cooked, and the guests are ready to eat it." the company were soon arranged around the rude tables, which were rough boards, laid across poles that were supported by crotched stakes driven into the ground. but it matters not what the tables were, as they were covered with cloth white as the driven snow, and well loaded with plum puddings, baked lamb, and green peas, with all necessary accompaniments for a well ordered dinner, which the guests complimented in the best possible manner, that is, by making a hearty meal. dinner being ended, while the matrons were putting all things to rights, the young people made preparation for dancing; and a joyous time they had. the music and amusement continued until the "blushing morn" reminded the good people that it was time to separate. the rising sun had gilded the sides of the opposite mountains, which were sending up their exhalations, before the company were all on their way to their respective homes. long did they remember the first wedding in our town. even after the frost of seventy winters had whitened the heads of those who were then boys, they delighted to dwell on the merry scenes of that joyful night; and from that time to the present, weddings have been fashionable in salmagundi, although they are not always celebrated in quite so romantic a manner. tabitha. "bless, and curse not." the athenians were proud of their glory. their boasted city claimed pre-eminence in the arts and sciences; even the savage bowed before the eloquence of their soul-stirring orators; and the bards of every nation sang of the glory of athens. but pre-eminent as they were, they had not learned to be merciful. the pure precepts of kindness and love were not taught by their sages; and their noble orators forgot to inculcate the humble precepts of forgiveness, and the "charity which hopeth all things." they told of patriotism, of freedom, and of that courage which chastises wrong or injury with physical suffering; but they told not of that nobler spirit which "renders good for evil," and "blesses, but curses not." alcibiades, one of their own countrymen, offended against their laws, and was condemned to expiate the offence with his life. the civil authorities ordered his goods to be confiscated, that their value might swell the riches of the public treasury; and everything that pertained to him, in the way of citizenship, was obliterated from the public records. to render his doom more dreary and miserable,--to add weight to the fearful fulness of his sentence,--the priests and priestesses were commanded to pronounce upon him their curse. one of them, however, a being gentle and good as the principles of mercy which dwelt within her heart--timid as the sweet songsters of her own myrrh and orange groves, and as fair as the acacia-blossom of her own bower--rendered courageous by the all-stimulating and powerful influence of kindness, dared alone to assert the divinity of her office, by refusing to curse her unfortunate fellow-being--asserting that she was "priestess to bless, and not to curse." lisetta. [illustration: decoration] ancient poetry. i love old poetry, with its obscure expressions, its obsolete words, its quaint measure, and rough rhyme. i love it with all these, perhaps _for_ these. it is because it is different from modern poetry, and not that i think it better, that it at times affords me pleasure. but when one has been indulging in the perusal of the smooth and elegant productions of later poets, there is at least the charm of variety in turning to those of ancient bards. this is pleasant to those who love to exercise the imagination--for if we would understand our author, we must go back into olden times; we must look upon the countenances and enter into the feelings of a long-buried generation; we must remember that much of what we know was then unknown, and that thoughts and sentiments which may have become common to us, glowed upon these pages in all their primal beauty. much of which our writer may speak has now been wholly lost; and difficult, if not impossible, to be understood are many of his expressions and allusions. but these difficulties present a "delightful task" to those who would rather push on through a tangled labyrinth, than to walk with ease in a smooth-rolled path. their self-esteem is gratified by being able to discover beauty where other eyes behold but deformity: and a brilliant thought or glowing image is rendered to them still more beautiful, because it shines through a veil impenetrable to other eyes. they are proud of their ability to perceive this beauty, or understand that oddity, and they care not for the mental labor which they have been obliged to perform. when i turn from modern poetry to that of other days, it is like leaving bright flowery fields to enter a dark tangled forest. the air is cooler, but damp and heavy. a sombre gloom reigns throughout, occasionally broken by flitting sunbeams, which force their way through the thick branches which meet above me, and dance and glitter upon the dark underwood below. they are strongly contrasted with the deep shade around, and my eye rests upon them with more pleasure than it did upon the broad flood of sunshine which bathes the fields without. my searching eye at times discovers some lonely flower, half hidden by decayed leaves and withered moss, yet blooming there in undecaying beauty. there are briers and thistles and creeping vines around, but i heedlessly press on, for i must enjoy the fragrance and examine the structure of these unobtrusive plants. i enjoy all this for a while, but at length i grow chilled and weary, and am glad to leave the forest for a less fatiguing resort. but there is one kind of old poetry to which these remarks may not apply--i mean the poetry of the bible.--and how much is there of this! there are songs of joy and praise, and those of woe and lamentation; there are odes and elegies; there are prophecies and histories; there are descriptions of nature and narratives of persons, and all written with a fervency of feeling which embodies itself in lofty and glowing imagery. and what is this but poetry? yet not that which can be compared to some dark, mazy forest, but rather like a sacred grove, such as "were god's first temples." there is no gloom around, neither is there bright sunshine; but a calm and holy light pervades the place. the tall trees meet not above me, but through their lofty boughs i can look up and see the blue heavens bending their perfect dome above the hallowed spot, while now and then some fleecy cloud sails slowly on, as though it loved to shadow the still loneliness beneath. there are soft winds murmuring through the high tree-tops, and their gentle sound is like a voice from the spirit-land. there are delicate white flowers waving upon their slight stems, and their sweet fragrance is like the breath of heaven. i feel that i am in god's temple. the spirit above waits for the sacrifice. i can now erect an altar, and every selfish worldly thought should be laid thereon, a free-will offering. but when the rite is over, and i leave this consecrated spot for the busy path of life, i should strive to bear into the world a heart baptized in the love of beauty, holiness, and truth. i have spoken figuratively--perhaps too much so to please the pure and simple tastes of some--but he who made my soul and placed it in the body which it animates, implanted within it a love of the beautiful in literature, and this love was first awakened and then cherished by the words of holy writ. i have, when a child, read my bible, from its earliest book to its latest. i have gone in imagination to the plains of uz, and have there beheld the pastoral prince in all his pride and glory. i have marked him; too, when in the depth of his sorrow he sat speechless upon the ground for seven days and seven nights; but when he opened his mouth and spake, i listened with eagerness to the heart-stirring words and startling imagery which poured forth from his burning lips! but my heart has thrilled with a delightful awe when "the lord answered job out of the whirlwind," and i listened to words of more simplicity than uninspired man may ever conceive. i have gone, too, with the beloved disciple into that lonely isle where he beheld those things of which he was commanded to write. my imagination dared not conceive of the glorious throne, and of him who sat upon it; but i have looked with a throbbing delight upon the new jerusalem coming down from heaven in her clear crystal light, "as a bride adorned for her husband." i have gazed upon the golden city, flashing like "transparent glass," and have marked its pearly gates and walls of every precious stone. in imagination have i looked upon all this, till my young spirit longed to leave its earthly tenement and soar upward to that brighter world, where there is no need of sun or moon, for "the lamb is the light thereof." i have since read my bible for better purposes than the indulgence of taste. there must i go to learn my duty to god and my neighbor. there should i look for precepts to direct the life that now is, and for the promise of that which is to come; yet seldom do i close that sacred volume without a feeling of thankfulness, that the truths of our holy religion have been so often presented in forms which not only reason and conscience will approve, but also which the fancy can admire and the heart must love. ella. [illustration: decoration] the spirit of discontent. "i will not stay in lowell any longer; i am determined to give my notice this very day," said ellen collins, as the earliest bell was tolling to remind us of the hour for labor. "why, what is the matter, ellen? it seems to me you have dreamed out a new idea! where do you think of going? and what for?" "i am going home, where i shall not be obliged to rise so early in the morning, nor be dragged about by the ringing of a bell, nor confined in a close noisy room from morning till night. i will not stay here; i am determined to go home in a fortnight." such was our brief morning's conversation. in the evening, as i sat alone, reading, my companions having gone out to public lectures or social meetings, ellen entered. i saw that she still wore the same gloomy expression of countenance, which had been manifested in the morning; and i was disposed to remove from her mind the evil influence, by a plain common-sense conversation. "and so, ellen," said i, "you think it unpleasant to rise so early in the morning, and be confined in the noisy mill so many hours during the day. and i think so, too. all this, and much more, is very annoying, no doubt. but we must not forget that there are advantages, as well as disadvantages, in this employment, as in every other. if we expect to find all sunshine and flowers in any station in life, we shall most surely be disappointed. we are very busily engaged during the day; but then we have the evening to ourselves, with no one to dictate to or control us. i have frequently heard you say, that you would not be confined to household duties, and that you dislike the millinery business altogether, because you could not have your evenings for leisure. you know that in lowell we have schools, lectures, and meetings of every description, for moral and intellectual improvement." "all that is very true," replied ellen, "but if we were to attend every public institution, and every evening school which offers itself for our improvement, we might spend every farthing of our earnings, and even more. then if sickness should overtake us, what are the probable consequences? here we are, far from kindred and home; and if we have an empty purse, we shall be destitute of _friends_ also." "i do not think so, ellen. i believe there is no place where there are so many advantages within the reach of the laboring class of people, as exist here; where there is so much equality, so few aristocratic distinctions, and such good fellowship, as may be found in this community. a person has only to be honest, industrious, and moral, to secure the respect of the virtuous and good, though he may not be worth a dollar; while on the other hand, an immoral person, though he should possess wealth, is not respected." "as to the morality of the place," returned ellen, "i have no fault to find. i object to the constant hurry of everything. we cannot have time to eat, drink, or sleep; we have only thirty minutes, or at most three-quarters of an hour, allowed us, to go from our work, partake of our food, and return to the noisy chatter of machinery. up before day, at the clang of the bell--and out of the mill by the clang of the bell--into the mill, and at work, in obedience to that ding-dong of a bell--just as though we were so many living machines. i will give my notice to-morrow: go, i will--i won't stay here and be a white slave." "ellen," said i, "do you remember what is said of the bee, that it gathers honey even in a poisonous flower? may we not, in like manner, if our hearts are rightly attuned, find many pleasures connected with our employment? why is it, then, that you so obstinately look altogether on the dark side of a factory life? i think you thought differently while you were at home, on a visit, last summer--for you were glad to come back to the mill in less than four weeks. tell me, now--why were you so glad to return to the ringing of the bell, the clatter of the machinery, the early rising, the half-hour dinner, and so on?" i saw that my discontented friend was not in a humor to give me an answer--and i therefore went on with my talk. "you are fully aware, ellen, that a country life does not exclude people from labor--to say nothing of the inferior privileges of attending public worship--that people have often to go a distance to meeting of any kind--that books cannot be so easily obtained as they can here--that you cannot always have just such society as you wish--that you"-- she interrupted me, by saying, "we have no bell, with its everlasting ding-dong." "what difference does it make?" said i, "whether you shall be awakened by a bell, or the noisy bustle of a farm-house? for, you know, farmers are generally up as early in the morning as we are obliged to rise." "but then," said ellen, "country people have none of the clattering of machinery constantly dinning in their ears." "true," i replied, "but they have what is worse--and that is, a dull, lifeless silence all around them. the hens may cackle sometimes, and the geese gabble, and the pigs squeal"---- ellen's hearty laugh interrupted my description--and presently we proceeded, very pleasantly, to compare a country life with a factory life in lowell. her scowl of discontent had departed, and she was prepared to consider the subject candidly. we agreed, that since we must work for a living, the mill, all things considered, is the most pleasant, and best calculated to promote our welfare; that we will work diligently during the hours of labor; improve our leisure to the best advantage, in the cultivation of the mind,--hoping thereby not only to increase our own pleasure, but also to add to the happiness of those around us. almira. the whortleberry excursion. about a dozen of us, lads and lasses, had promised friend h. that on the first lowery day we would meet him and his family on the top of moose mountain, for the purpose of picking whortleberries, and of taking a view of the country around. we had provided the customary complement of baskets, pails, dippers, &c.; and one morning, which promised a suitable day for our excursion, we piled ourselves into a couple of waggons, and rode to the foot of the mountain and commenced climbing it on foot. a beaten path and spotted trees were our guides. a toilsome way we found it--some places being so steep that we were obliged to hold by the twigs, to prevent us from falling. three-quarters of an hour after we left our horses, we found ourselves on the whortleberry ground--some of us singing, some chatting, and all trying to see who could pick the most berries. friend h. went from place to place among the young people, and with his social conversation gave new life to the party--while his chubby boys and rosy girls by their nimbleness plainly told that they did not intend that any one should beat them in picking berries. towards noon, friend h. conducted us to a spring, where we made some lemonade, having taken care to bring plenty of lemons and sugar with us, and also bread and cheese for a lunch. seated beneath a wide-spreading oak, we partook of our homely repast; and never in princely hall were the choicest viands eaten with a keener relish. after resting a while, we recommenced picking berries, and in a brief space our pails and baskets were all full. about this time, the clouds cleared away, the sun shone out in all the splendor imaginable, and bright and beautiful was the prospect. far as the eye could reach, in a north and north-easterly direction, were to be seen fields of corn and grain, with new mown grass-land, and potato flats, farm-houses, barns, and orchards--together with a suitable proportion of wood-land, all beautifully interspersed; and a number of ponds of water, in different places, and of different forms and sizes--some of them containing small islands, which added to the beauty of the scenery. the little village at wakefield corner, which was about three miles distant, seemed to be almost under our feet; and with friend h.'s spy-glass, we could see the people at work in their gardens, weeding vegetables, picking cherries, gathering flowers, &c. but not one of our number had the faculty that the old lady possessed, who, in the time of the revolution, in looking through a spy-glass at the french fleet, brought the frenchmen so near, that she could hear them chatter; so we had to be content with ignorance of their conversation. south-westerly might be seen cropple-crown mountain; and beyond it, merry-meeting pond, where, i have been told, elder randall, the father of the free-will baptist denomination, first administered the ordinance of baptism. west, might be seen tumble-down-dick mountain; and north, the ossipee mountains; and far north, might be seen the white mountains of new hampshire, whose snow-crowned summits seemed to reach the very skies. the prospect in the other directions was not so grand, although it was beautiful--so i will leave it, and take the shortest route, with my companions, with the baskets and pails of berries, to the house of friend h. on our way, we stopped to view the lot of rock maples, which, with some little labor, afforded a sufficient supply of sugar for the family of friend h., and we promised that in the season of sugar-making the next spring, we would make it convenient to visit the place, and witness the process of making maple-sugar. our descent from the mountain was by a different path--our friends having assured us, that although our route would be farther, we should find it more pleasant; and truly we did--for the pathway was not so rough as the one in which we travelled in the morning. and besides, we had the pleasure of walking over the farm of the good quaker, and of hearing from his own lips many interesting circumstances of his life. the country, he told us, was quite a wilderness when he first took up his abode on the mountain; and bears, he said, were as plenty as woodchucks, and destroyed much of his corn. he was a bachelor, and lived alone for a number of years after he first engaged in clearing his land. his habitation was between two huge rocks, at about seventy rods from the place where he afterwards built his house.--he showed us this ancient abode of his; it was in the midst of an old orchard. it appeared as if the rocks had been originally one; but by some convulsion of nature it had been sundered, midway, from top to bottom. the back part of this dwelling was a rock wall, in which there was a fire-place and an oven. the front was built of logs, with an aperture for a door-way; and the roof was made of saplings and bark. in this rude dwelling, friend h. dressed his food, and ate it; and here, on a bed of straw, he spent his lonely nights. a small window in the rock wall admitted the light by day; and by night, his solitary dwelling was illuminated with a pitch-pine torch. on being interrogated respecting the cause of his living alone so long as he did, he made answer, by giving us to understand, that if he was called "the bear," he was not so much of a brute as to marry until he could give his wife a comfortable maintenance; "and moreover, i was resolved," said he, "that hannah should never have the least cause to repent of the ready decision which she made in my favor." "then," said one of our company, "your wife was not afraid to trust herself with the bear?" "she did not hesitate in the least," said friend h.; "for when i 'popped the question,' by saying, 'hannah, will thee have me?' she readily answered, 'yes, to----;' she would have said, 'tobias, i will;' but the words died on her lips, and her face, which blushed like the rose, became deadly pale; and she would have fallen on the floor, had i not caught her in my arms. after hannah got over her faintness, i told her that we had better not marry, until i was in a better way of living; to which she also agreed. and," said he, "before i brought home my bird, i had built yonder cage"--pointing to his house; "and now, neighbors, let us hasten to it; for hannah will have her tea ready by the time we get there." when we arrived at the house we found that tea was ready; and the amiable mrs. h., the wife of the good quaker, was waiting for us, with all imaginable patience. the room in which we took tea was remarkably neat. the white floor was nicely sanded, and the fire-place filled with pine-tops and rose-bushes; and vases of roses were standing on the mantel-piece. the table was covered with a cloth of snowy whiteness, and loaded with delicacies; and here and there stood a little china vase, filled with white and damask roses. "so-ho!" said the saucy henry l., upon entering the room; "i thought that you quakers were averse to every species of decoration; but see! here is a whole flower-garden!" friend h. smiled and said, "the rose is a favorite with hannah; and then it is like her, with one exception." "and what is that exception?" said henry.--"oh," said our friend, "hannah has no thorns to wound." mrs. h.'s heightened color and smile plainly told us, that praise from her husband was "music to her ear." after tea, we had the pleasure of promenading through the house; and mrs. h. showed us many articles of domestic manufacture, being the work of her own and her daughters' hands. the articles consisted of sheets, pillow-cases, bed-quilts, coverlets of various colors, and woven in different patterns,--such as chariot wheels, rose-of-sharon, ladies' delight, federal constitution--and other patterns, the names of which i have forgotten. the white bed-spreads and the table-covers, which were inspected by us, were equal, if not superior, to those of english manufacture; in short, all that we saw proclaimed that order and industry had an abiding place in the house of friend h. mrs. h. and myself seated ourselves by a window which overlooked a young and thrifty orchard. a flock of sheep were grazing among the trees, and their lambs were gambolling from place to place. "this orchard is more beautiful than your other," said i; "but i do not suppose it contains anything so dear to the memory of friend h. as his old habitation." she pointed to a knoll, where was a small enclosure, and which i had not before observed. "there," said she, "is a spot more dear to tobias; for there sleep our children." "your cup has then been mingled with sorrow?" said i. "but," replied she, "we do not sorrow without hope; for their departure was calm as the setting of yonder sun, which is just sinking from sight; and we trust that we shall meet them in a fairer world, never to part." a tear trickled down the cheek of mrs. h., but she instantly wiped it away, and changed the conversation. friend h. came and took a seat beside us, and joined in the conversation, which, with his assistance, became animated and amusing. here, thought i, dwell a couple, happily united. friend h., though rough in his exterior, nevertheless possesses a kindly affectionate heart; and he has a wife whose price is above rubies. the saucy henry soon came to the door, and bawled out, "the stage is ready." we obeyed the summons, and found that henry and friend h.'s son had been for our vehicles. we were again piled into the waggons--pails, baskets, whortleberries, and all; and with many hearty shakes of the hand, and many kind farewells, we bade adieu to the family of friend h., but not without renewing the promise, that, in the next sugar-making season, we would revisit moose mountain. jemima. the western antiquities. in the valley of the mississippi, and the more southern parts of north america, are found antique curiosities and works of art, bearing the impress of cultivated intelligence. but of the race, or people, who executed them, time has left no vestige of their existence, save these monuments of their skill and knowledge. not even a tradition whispers its _guess-work_, who they might be. we only know _they were_. what proof and evidence do we gather from their remains, which have withstood the test of time, of their origin and probable era of their existence? that they existed centuries ago, is evident from the size which forest trees have attained, which grow upon the mounds and fortifications discovered. that they were civilized and understood the arts, is apparent from the manner of laying out and erecting their fortifications, and from various utensils of gold, copper, and iron which have occasionally been found in digging below the earth's surface. if i mistake not, i believe even glass has been found, which, if so, shows them acquainted with chemical discoveries, which are supposed to have been unknown until a period much later than the probable time of their existence. that they were not the ancestors of the race which inhabited this country at the time of its discovery by columbus, appears conclusive from the total ignorance of the indian tribes of all knowledge of arts and civilization, and the non-existence of any tradition of their once proud sway. that they were a mighty people is evident from the extent of territory where these antiquities are scattered. the banks of the ohio and mississippi tell they once lived; and even to the shore where the vast pacific heaves its waves, there are traces of their existence. who were they? in what period of time did they exist? in a cave in one of the western states, there is carved upon the walls a group of people, apparently in the act of devotion; and a rising sun is sculptured above them. from this we should infer that they were pagans, worshipping the sun and the fabulous gods. but what most strikingly arrests the antiquarian's observation, and causes him to repeat the inquiry, "who were they?" is the habiliments of the group. one part of their habit is of the grecian costume, and the remainder is of the phoenicians. were they a colony from greece? did they come from that land in the days of its proud glory, bringing with them a knowledge of arts, science, and philosophy? did they, too, seek a home across the western waters, because they loved liberty in a strange land better than they loved slavery at home? or what may be as probable, were they the descendants of some band who managed to escape the destruction of ill-fated troy?--the descendants of a people who had called greece a mother-country, but were sacrificed to her vindictive ire, because they were prouder to be trojans than the descendants of grecians? ay, who were they? might not america have had its hector, its paris, and helen? its maidens who prayed, and its sons who fought? all this might have been. but their historians and their poets alike have perished. they _have been_; but the history of their existence, their origin, and their destruction, all, all are hidden by the dark chaos of oblivion. imagination alone, from inanimate landmarks, voiceless walls, and soulless bodies, must weave the record which shall tell of their lives, their aims, origin, and final extinction. recently, report says, in mexico there have been discovered several mummies, embalmed after the manner of the ancient egyptians. if true, it carries the origin of this fated people still farther back; and we might claim them to be contemporaries with moses and joshua. still, if i form my conclusions correctly from what descriptions i have perused of these western relics of the past, i should decide that they corresponded better with the ancient grecians, phoenicians, or trojans, than with the egyptians. i repeat, i may be incorrect in my premises and deductions, but as imagination is their historian, it pleases me better to fill a world with heroes and beauties of homer's delineations, than with those of "pharaoh and his host." lisette. [illustration: decoration] the fig-tree. it was a cold winter's evening. the snow had fallen lightly, and each tree and shrub was bending beneath its glittering burden. here and there was one, with the moonbeams gleaming brightly upon it, until it seemed, with its many branches, touched by the ice-spirit, or some fairy-like creation, in its loveliness and beauty. every thing was hushed in dridonville. situated at a little distance, was a large white house, surrounded with elm-trees, in the rear of which, upon an eminence, stood a summer-house; and in the warm season might have been seen many a gay lady reclining beneath its vine-covered roof. no pains had been spared to make the situation desirable. it was the summer residence of captain wilson. but it was now mid-winter, and yet he lingered in the country. many were the questions addressed by the villagers to the old gardener, who had grown grey in the captain's service, as to the cause of the long delay; but he could not, or would not, answer their inquiries. the shutters were closed, the fire burning cheerfully, and the astral lamp throwing its soft mellow light upon the crimson drapery and rich furniture of one of the parlors. in a large easy chair was seated a gentleman, who was between fifty and sixty years of age. he was in deep and anxious thought; and ever and anon his lip curled, as if some bitter feeling was in his heart. standing near him was a young man. his brow was open and serene; his forehead high and expansive; and his eyes beamed with an expression of benevolence and mildness. his lips were firmly compressed, denoting energy and decision of character. "you may be seated," said capt. wilson, for it was he who occupied the large chair, the young man being his only son. "you may be seated, augustus," and he cast upon him a look of mingled pride and scorn. the young man bowed profoundly, and took a seat opposite his father. there was a long pause, and the father was first to break silence. "so you intend to marry a beggar, and suffer the consequences. but do you think your love will stand the test of poverty, and the sneer of the world? for i repeat, that not one farthing of my money shall you receive, unless you comply with the promise which i long since made to my old friend, that our families should be united. she will inherit his vast possessions, as there is no other heir. true, she is a few years your senior; but that is of no importance. your mother is older than i am. but i have told you all this before. consider well ere you choose between wealth and poverty." "would that i could conscientiously comply with your request," replied augustus, "but i have promised to be protector and friend to emily summerville. she is not rich in this world's goods; but she has what is far preferable--a contented mind; and you will allow that, in point of education, she will compare even with miss clarkson." in a firm voice he continued, "i have made my choice, i shall marry emily;" and he was about to proceed, but his father stamped his foot, and commanded him to quit his presence. he left the house, and as he walked rapidly towards mr. grant's, the uncle of miss summerville, he thought how unstable were all earthly possessions, "and why," he exclaimed, "why should i make myself miserable for a little paltry gold? it may wound my pride at first to meet my gay associates; but that will soon pass away, and my father will see that i can provide for my own wants." emily summerville was the daughter of a british officer, who for many years resided in the pleasant village of dridonville. he was much beloved by the good people for his activity and benevolence. he built the cottage occupied by mr. grant. on account of its singular construction, it bore the name of the "english cottage." after his death it was sold, and mr. grant became the purchaser. there emily had spent her childhood. on the evening before alluded to, she was in their little parlor, one corner of which was occupied by a large fig-tree. on a stand were geraniums, rose-bushes, the african lily, and many other plants. at a small table sat emily, busily engaged with her needle, when the old servant announced mr. wilson. "oh, augustus, how glad i am you are come!" she exclaimed, as she sprung from her seat to meet him; "but you look sad and weary," she added, as she seated herself by his side, and gazed inquiringly into his face, the mirror of his heart. "what has happened? you look perplexed." "nothing more than i have expected for a long time," was the reply; and it was with heartfelt satisfaction that he gazed on the fair creature by his side, and thought she would be a star to guide him in the way of virtue. he told her all. and then he explained to her the path he had marked out for himself. "i must leave you for a time, and engage in the noise and excitement of my profession. it will not be long, if i am successful. i must claim one promise from you, that is, that you will write often, for that will be the only pleasure i shall have to cheer me in my absence." she did promise; and when they separated at a late hour, they dreamed not that it was their last meeting on earth. * * * * * "oh, uncle," said emily, as they entered the parlor together one morning, "do look at my fig-tree; how beautiful it is. if it continues to grow as fast as it has done, i can soon sit under its branches." "it is really pretty," replied her uncle; and he continued, laughing and patting her cheek, "you must cherish it with great care, as it was a present from ---- now don't blush; i do not intend to speak his name, but was merely about to observe, that it might be now as in olden times, that as _he_ prospers, the tree will flourish; if he is sick, or in trouble, it will decay." "if such are your sentiments," said emily, "you will acknowledge that thus far his path has been strewed with flowers." many months passed away, and there was indeed a change. the tree that had before looked so green, had gradually decayed, until nothing was left but the dry branches. but she was not superstitious: "it might be," she said, "that she had killed it with kindness." her uncle never alluded to the remark he had formerly made; but emily often thought there might be some truth in it. she had received but one letter from augustus, though she had written many. summer had passed, and autumn was losing itself in winter. augustus wilson was alone in the solitude of his chamber.--there was a hectic flush upon his cheek, and the low hollow cough told that consumption was busy. was that the talented augustus wilson? he whose thrilling eloquence had sounded far and wide? his eyes were riveted upon a withered rose. it was given him by emily, on the eve of his departure, with these words, "such as i am, receive me. would i were of more worth, for your sake." "no," he musingly said; "it is not possible she has forgotten me. i will not, cannot believe it." he arose, and walked the room with hurried steps, and a smile passed over his face, as he held communion with the bright images of the past. he threw himself upon his couch, but sleep was a stranger to his weary frame. three weeks quickly passed, and augustus wilson lay upon his death-bed. calm and sweet was his slumber, as the spirit took its flight to the better land. and o, it was a sad thing to see that father, with the frost of many winters upon his head, bending low over his son, entreating him to speak once more; but all was silent. he was not there; nought remained but the beautiful casket; the jewel which had adorned it was gone. and deep was the grief of the mother; but, unlike her husband, she felt she had done all she could to brighten her son's pathway in life. she knew not to what extent capt. w. had been guilty. augustus was buried in all the pomp and splendor that wealth could command. the wretched father thought in this way to blind the eyes of the world. but he could not deceive himself. it was but a short time before he was laid beside his son at mount auburn. several letters were found among his papers, but they had not been opened. probably he thought that by detaining them, he should induce his son to marry the rich miss clarkson, instead of the poor emily summerville. * * * * * emily summerville firmly stood amidst the desolation that had withered all her bright hopes in life. she had followed her almost idolized uncle to the grave; she had seen the cottage, and all the familiar objects connected with her earliest recollections, pass into the hands of strangers; but there was not a sigh, nor a quiver of the lip, to tell of the anguish within. she knew not that augustus wilson had entered the spirit-land, until she saw the record of his death in a boston paper. "o, if he had only sent me one word," she said; "even if it had been to tell me that i was remembered no more, it would have been preferable to this." the light which had shone so brightly on her pathway was withdrawn, and the darkness of night closed around her. long and fearful was the struggle between life and death; but when she arose from that sick bed, it was with a chastened spirit. "i am young," she thought, "and i may yet do much good." and when she again mingled in society, it was with a peace that the world could neither give nor take away. she bade adieu to her native village, and has taken up her abode in lowell. she is one of the class called "factory girls." she recently received the letters intercepted by capt. wilson, and the melancholy pleasure of perusing them is hallowed by the remembrance of him who is "gone, but not lost." ione. village pastors. the old village pastor of new england was "a man having authority." his deacons were _under_ him, and not, as is now often the case, his tyrannical rulers; and whenever his parishioners met him, they doffed their hats, and said "your reverence." whatever passed his lips was both law and gospel; and when too old and infirm to minister to his charge, he was not turned away, like an old worn-out beast, to die of hunger, or gather up, with failing strength, the coarse bit which might eke out a little longer his remaining days; but he was still treated with all the deference, and supported with all the munificence which was believed due to him whom they regarded as "god's vicegerent upon earth." he deemed himself, and was considered by his parishioners, if not infallible, yet something approaching it. those were indeed the days of glory for new england clergymen. perhaps i am wrong. the present pastor of new england, with his more humble mien and conciliatory tone, his closer application and untiring activity, may be, in a wider sphere, as truly glorious an object of contemplation. many are the toils, plans and enterprises entrusted to him, which in former days were not permitted to interfere with the duties exclusively appertaining to the holy vocation; yet with added labors, the modern pastor receives neither added honors, nor added remuneration. perhaps it is well--nay, perhaps it is _better_; but i am confident that if the old pastor could return, and take a bird's-eye view of the situations of his successors, he would exclaim, "how has the glory departed from israel, and how have they cast down the sons of levi!" i have been led to these reflections by a contemplation of the characters of the first three occupants of the pulpit in my native village. our old pastor was settled, as all then were, for life. i can remember him but in his declining years, yet even then was he a hale and vigorous old man. honored and beloved by all his flock, his days passed undisturbed by the storms and tempests which have since then so often darkened and disturbed the theological world. the opinions and creeds, handed down by his pilgrim fathers, he carefully cherished, neither adding thereto, nor taking therefrom; and he indoctrinated the young in all the mysteries of the true faith, with an undoubting belief in its infallibility. there was much of the patriarch in his look and manner; and this was heightened by the nature of his avocations, in which pastoral labors were mingled with clerical duties. no farm was in better order than that of the parsonage; no fields looked more thriving, and no flocks were more profitable than were those of the good clergyman. indeed he sometimes almost forgot his spiritual field, in the culture of that which was more earthly. one saturday afternoon the minister was very busily engaged in hay-making. his good wife had observed that during the week he had been unusually engrossed in temporal affairs, and feared for the well-being of his flock, as she saw that he could not break the earthly spell, even upon this last day of the week. she looked, and looked in vain for his return; until, finding him wholly lost to a sense of his higher duties, she deemed it her duty to remind him of them. so away she went to the haying field, and when she was in sight of the reverend haymaker, she screamed out, "mr. w., mr. w." "what, my dear?" shouted mr. w. in return. "do you intend to feed your people with hay to-morrow?" this was a poser--and mr. w. dropped his rake; and, repairing to his study, spent the rest of the day in the preparation of food more meat for those who looked so trustfully to him for the bread of life. his faithful companion was taken from him, and those who knew of his strong and refined attachment to her, said truly, when they prophesied, that he would never marry again. she left one son--their only child--a boy of noble feelings and superior intellect; and his father carefully educated him with a fond wish that he would one day succeed him in the sacred office of a minister of god. he hoped indeed that he might even fill the very pulpit which he must at some time vacate; and he prayed that his own life might be spared until this hope had been realized. endicott w. was also looked upon as their future pastor by many of the good parishioners; and never did a more pure and gentle spirit take upon himself the task of preparing to minister to a people in holy things. he was the beloved of his father, the only child who had ever blessed him--for he had not married till late in life, and the warm affections which had been so tardily bestowed upon one of the gentler sex, were now with an unusual fervor lavished upon this image of her who was gone. when endicott w. returned home, having completed his studies at the university, he was requested by our parish to settle as associate pastor with his father, whose failing strength was unequal to the regular discharge of his parochial duties. it was indeed a beautiful sight to see that old man, with bending form and silvery locks, joining in the public ministrations with his young and gifted son--the one with a calm expression of trusting faith; the countenance of the other beaming with that of enthusiasm and hope. endicott was ambitious. he longed to see his own name placed in the bright constellation of famed theologians; and though he knew that years must be spent in toil for the attainment of that object, he was willing that they should be thus devoted. the midnight lamp constantly witnessed the devotions of endicott w. at the shrine of science; and the wasting form and fading cheek told what would be the fate of the infatuated worshipper. it was long before our young pastor, his aged father, and the idolizing people, who were so proud of his talents, and such admirers of his virtues,--it was long ere these could be made to believe he was dying; but endicott w. departed from life, as a bright cloud fades away in a noon-day sky--for his calm exit was surrounded by all which makes a death-bed glorious. his aged father said, "the lord gave, and the lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the lord." and then he went again before his flock, and endeavored to reconcile them to their loss, and dispense again the comforts and blessings of the gospel, trusting that his strength would still be spared, until one, who was even then preparing, should be ready to take his place. * * * * * shall i tell you now of my own home? it was a rude farm-house, almost embowered by ancient trees, which covered the sloping hill-side on which it was situated; and it looked like an old pilgrim, who had crawled into the thicket to rest his limbs, and hide his poverty. my parents were poor, toiling, care-worn beings, and in a hard struggle for the comforts of this life had almost forgotten to prepare for that which is to come. it is true, the outward ordinances of religion were never neglected; but the spirit, the feeling, the interest, in short all that is truly deserving the name of piety, was wanting. my father toiled through the burning heat of summer, and the biting frost of winter, for his loved ones; and my mother also labored, from the first dawn of day till a late hour at night in behalf of her family. she was true to her duties as wife and mother, but it was from no higher motive than the instincts which prompt the fowls of the air to cherish their brood; and though she perhaps did not believe that "labor was the end of life," still her conduct would have given birth to that supposition. i had been for some time the youngest of the family, when a little brother was born. he was warmly welcomed by us, though we had long believed the family circle complete.--we were not then aware at how dear a price the little stranger was to be purchased. from the moment of his birth, my mother never knew an hour of perfect health. she had previously injured her constitution by unmitigated toil, and now were the effects to be more sensibly felt. she lived very many years; but it was the life of an invalid. reader, did you ever hear of the "thirty years' consumption?" a disease at present unknown in new england--for that scourge of our climate will now complete in a few months the destruction which it took years of desperate struggle to perform upon the constitutions of our more hardy ancestors. my mother was in such a consumption--that disorder which comes upon its victim like the aurorean flashes in an arctic sky, now vivid in its pure loveliness, and then shrouded in a sombre gloom. now we hoped, nay, almost believed, she was to be again quite well, and anon we watched around a bed from which we feared she would never arise. it was strange to us, who had always seen her so unremitting in her toilsome labors, and so careless in her exposure to the elements, to watch around her now--to shield her from the lightest breeze, or the slightest dampness of the air--to guard her from all intrusion, and relieve her from all care--to be always reserving for her the warmest place by the fire-side, and preparing the choicest bit of food--to be ever ready to pillow her head and bathe her brow--in short, to be never unconscious of the presence of disease.--our steps grew softer, and our voices lower, and the stillness of our manners had its influence upon our minds. the hush was upon our spirits; and there can surely be nothing so effectual in carrying the soul before its maker, as disease; and it may truly be said to every one who enters the chamber of sickness, "the place whereon thou standest is holy ground." my little brother was to us an angel sent from heaven.--he possessed a far more delicate frame and lofty intellect than any other member of the family; and his high, pale brow, and brilliant eyes, were deemed sure tokens of uncommon genius. my mother herself watched with pleasure these indications of talent, although the time had been when a predilection for literary pursuits would have been thought inconsistent with the common duties which we were all born to fulfil. we had always respected the learned and talented, but it was with a feeling akin to the veneration we felt for the inhabitants of the spiritual world. they were far above us, and we were content to bow in reverence. our thoughts had been restricted to the narrow circle of every-day duties, and our highest aspirations were to be admitted at length, as spectators, to the glory of a material heaven, where streets of gold and thrones of ivory form the magnificence of the place. it was different now.--with a nearer view of that better world, to which my mother had received her summons, came also more elevated spiritual and blissful views of its glory and perfection. it was another heaven, for she was another being; and she would have been willing at any moment to have resigned the existence which she held by so frail a tenure, had it not been for the sweet child which seemed to have been sent from that brighter world to hasten and prepare her for departure. our pastor was now a constant visitant. hitherto he had found but little to invite him to our humble habitation. he had been received with awe and constraint, and the topics upon which he loved to dwell touched no chord in the hearts of those whom he addressed. but now my mother was anxious to pour into his ears all the new-felt sentiments and emotions with which her heart was filled. she wished to share his sympathy, and receive his instructions; for she felt painfully conscious of her extreme ignorance. it was our pastor who first noticed in my little brother the indications of mental superiority; and we felt then as though the magical powers of some favored order of beings had been transferred to one in our own home-circle; and we loved the little winthrop (for father had named him after the old governor) with a stronger and holier love than we had previously felt for each other. and in these new feelings how much was there of happiness! though there was now less health, and of course less wealth, in our home, yet there was also more pure joy. i have sometimes been out upon the barren hill-side, and thought that there was no pleasure in standing on a spot so desolate. i have been again in the same bare place, and there was a balmy odor in the delicious air, which made it bliss but to inhale the fragrance. some spicy herb had carpeted the ground, and though too lowly and simple to attract the eye, yet the charm it threw around the scene was not less entrancing because so viewless and unobtrusive. such was the spell shed around our lowly home by the presence of religion. it was with us the exhalation from lowly plants, and the pure fragrance went up the more freely because they had been bruised. in our sickness and poverty we had joy in the present, and bright hopes for the future. it was early decided that winthrop should be a scholar.--our pastor said it must be so, and endicott, who was but a few years older, assisted him in his studies. they were very much together, and excepting in their own families, had no other companion. but when my brother returned from the pastor's study with a face radiant with the glow of newly-acquired knowledge, and a heart overflowing in its desire to impart to others, he usually went to his pale, emaciated mother to give vent to his sensations of joy, and came to me to bestow the boon of knowledge. i was the nearest in age. i had assisted to rear his infancy, and been his constant companion in childhood; and now our intercourse was to be continued and strengthened, amidst higher purposes and loftier feelings. i was the depository of all his hopes and fears, the sharer of all his plans for the future; and his aim was then to follow in the footsteps of endicott w. if he could only be as good, as kind and learned, he should think himself one of the best of mankind. when endicott became our pastor, my brother was ready to enter college, with the determination to consecrate himself to the same high calling. it seemed hardly like reality to us, that one of our own poor household was to be an educated man. we felt lifted up--not with pride--for the feeling which elevated us was too pure for that; but we esteemed ourselves better than we had ever been before, and strove to be more worthy of the high gift which had been bestowed upon us. when my brother left home, it was with the knowledge that self-denial was to be practised, for his sake, by those who remained; but he also knew that it was to be willingly, nay, joyously performed. still he did not know _all_. even things which heretofore, in our poverty, we had deemed essential to comfort, were now resigned.--we did not even permit my mother to know how differently the table was spread for her than for our own frugal repast. neither was she aware how late and painfully i toiled to prevent the hire of additional service upon our little farm. the joy in the secret depths of my heart was its own reward; and never yet have i regretted an effort or a sacrifice made then. it was a discipline like the refiner's fire, and but for my brother, i should never have been even as, with all my imperfections, i trust i am now. my brother returned from college as the bright sun of endicott w.'s brief career was low in a western sky. he had intended to study with him for the same vocation--and with him he _did_ prepare. o, there could have been no more fitting place to imbue the mind with that wisdom which cometh from above, than the sick room at our pastor's. "the chamber where the good man meets his fate, is privileged beyond the common walks of life,"-- and endicott's was like the shelter of some bright spirit from the other world, who, for the sake of those about him, was delaying for a while his return to the home above.--my brother was with him in his latest hours, and received as a dying bequest the charge of his people. the parish also were anxious that he should be endicott's successor; and in the space requested for farther preparation, our old pastor returned to his pulpit. but he had overrated his own powers; and besides, he was growing blind. there were indeed those who said that, notwithstanding his calmness in the presence of others, he had in secret wept his sight away; and that while a glimmer of it remained, the curtain of his window, which overlooked the grave-yard, had never been drawn. he ceased his labors, but a temporary substitute was easily found--for, as old deacon s. remarked, "there are many ministers _now_, who are glad to go out to day's labor." my mother had prayed that strength might be imparted to her feeble frame, to retain its rejoicing inhabitant until she could see her son a more active laborer in the lord's vineyard; "and then," said she, "i can depart in peace." for years she had hoped the time would come, but dared not hope to see it. but life was graciously spared; and the day which was to see him set apart as peculiarly a servant of his god, dawned upon her in better health than she had known for years. perhaps it was the glad spirit which imparted its renewing glow to the worn body, but she went with us that day to the service of ordination. the old church was thronged; and as the expression of thankfulness went up from the preacher's lips, that one so worthy was then to be dedicated to his service, my own heart was subdued by the solemn joy that he was one of us. my own soul was poured out in all the exercises; but when the charge was given, there was also an awe upon all the rest. our aged pastor had been led into his pulpit, that he might perform this ceremony; and when he arose with his silvery locks, thinned even since he stood there last, and raised his sightless eyes to heaven, i freely wept. he was in that pulpit where he had stood so many years, to warn, to guide, and to console; and probably each familiar face was then presented to his imagination. he was where his dear departed son had exercised the ministerial functions, and the same part of the service which he had performed at his ordination, he was to enact again for his successor. the blind old man raised his trembling hand, and laid it upon the head of the young candidate; and as the memories of the past came rushing over him, he burst forth in a strain of heart-stirring eloquence. there was not a tearless eye in the vast congregation; and the remembrance of that hour had doubtless a hallowing influence upon the young pastor's life. my brother was settled for five years, and as we departed from the church, i heard deacon s. exclaim, in his bitterness against modern degeneracy in spiritual things, that "the old pastor was settled _for life_." "so is the new one," said a low voice in reply; and for the first time the idea was presented to my mind that winthrop was to be, like endicott w., one of the early called. but the impression departed in my constant intercourse with him in his home--for our lowly dwelling was still the abode of the new pastor. he would never remove from it while his mother lived, and an apartment was prepared for him adjoining hers. they were pleasant rooms, for during the few past years he had done much to beautify the place, and the shrubs which he had planted were already at their growth. the thick vines also which had struggled over the building, were now gracefully twined around the windows, and some of the old trees cut down, that we might be allowed a prospect. still all that could conduce to beauty was retained; and i have often thought how easily and cheaply the votary of true taste can enjoy its pleasures. winthrop was now so constantly active and cheerful, that i could not think of death as connected with him. but i knew that he was feeble, and watched and cherished him, as i had done when he was but a little child. though in these respects his guardian, in others i was his pupil. i sat before him, as mary did at the messiah's feet, and gladly received his instructions. my heart went out with him in all the various functions of his calling. i often went with him to the bed-side of the sick, and to the habitations of the wretched. none knew better than he did, how to still the throbbings of the wrung heart, and administer consolation. i was present also, when, for the first time, he sprinkled an infant's brow with the waters of consecration; and when he had blessed the babe, he also prayed that we might all become even as that little child. i was with him, too, when for the first time he joined in holy bands, those whom none but god should ever put asunder; and if the remembrance of the fervent petition which went up for them, has dwelt as vividly in their hearts as it has in mine, that prayer must have had a holy influence upon their lives. i have said that i remember his first baptism and wedding; but none who were present will forget his first funeral. it was our mother's. she had lived so much beyond our expectations, and been so graciously permitted to witness the fulfilment of her dearest hope, that when at length the spirit winged its flight, we all joined in the thanksgiving which went up from the lips of her latest-born, that she had been spared so long. it was a beautiful sabbath--that day appointed for her funeral--but in the morning a messenger came to tell us that the clergyman whom we expected was taken suddenly ill. what could be done? our old pastor was then confined to his bed, and on this day all else were engaged. "i will perform the services myself," said winthrop. "i shall even be happy to do it." "nay," said i, "you are feeble, and already spent with study and watching. it must not be so." "do not attempt to dissuade me, sister," he replied. "there will be many to witness the interment of her who has hovered upon the brink of the grave so long; and has not almost every incident of her life, from my very birth, been a text from which important lessons may be drawn?" and then, fixing his large mild eyes full upon me, as though he would utter a truth which duty forbade him longer to suppress, he added, "i dare not misimprove this opportunity. this first death in _my_ parish may also be the last. nay, weep not, my sister, because i may go next. the time at best is short, and i must work while the day lasts." i did not answer. my heart was full, and i turned away. that day my brother ascended his pulpit to conduct the funeral services, and in them he _did_ make of her life a lesson to all present. but when he addressed himself particularly to the young, the middle-aged and the old, his eyes kindled, and his cheeks glowed, as he varied the subject to present the "king of terrors" in a different light to each. then he turned to the mourners. and who were _they?_ his own aged father, the companion for many years of her who was before them in her shroud. his own brothers and sisters, and the little ones of the third generation, whose childish memories had not even yet forgotten her dying blessing. he essayed to speak, but in vain. the flush faded from his cheek till he was deadly pale. again he attempted to address us, and again in vain. he raised his hand, and buried his face in the folds of his white handkerchief. i also covered my eyes, and there was a deep stillness throughout the assembly. at that moment i thought more of the living than of the dead; and then there was a rush among the great congregation, like the sudden bursting forth of a mighty torrent. i raised my eyes, but could see no one in the pulpit. the next instant it was filled. i also pressed forward, and unimpeded ascended the steps, for all stood back that i might pass. i reached him as he lay upon the seat where he had fallen, and the handkerchief, which was still pressed to his lips, was wet with blood. they bore him down, and through the aisle; and when he passed the coffin, he raised his head, and gazed a moment upon that calm, pale face. then casting upon all around a farewell glance, he sunk gently back, and closed his eyes. * * * * * a few evenings after, i was sitting by his bed-side. the bright glow of a setting sun penetrated the white curtains of his windows, and fell with softened lustre upon his face. the shadows of the contiguous foliage were dancing upon the curtains, the floor, and the snowy drapery of his bed; and as he looked faintly up, he murmured, "it is a beautiful world; but the other is glorious! and my mother is there, and endicott. see! they are beckoning to me, and smiling joyfully!--mother, dear mother, and endicott, i am coming!" his voice and looks expressed such conviction of the reality of what he saw, that i also looked up to see these beautiful spirits. my glance of disappointment recalled him; and he smiled as he said, "i think it was a dream; but it will be reality soon.--do not go," said he, as i arose to call for others. "do not fear, sister. the bands are very loose, and the spirit will go gently, and perhaps even before you could return." i reseated myself, and pressing his wasted hand in mine, i watched,-- "as through his breast, the wave of life heaved gently to and fro." a few moments more, and i was alone with the dead. we buried winthrop by the side of endicott w., and the old pastor was soon laid beside them. * * * * years have passed since then, and i still love to visit those three graves. but other feelings mingle with those which once possessed my soul. i hear those whose high vocation was once deemed a sure guarantee for their purity, either basely calumniated, or terribly condemned. their morality is questioned, their sincerity doubted, their usefulness denied, and their pretensions scoffed at. it may be that unholy hands are sometimes laid upon the ark, and that change of times forbids such extensive usefulness as was in the power of the clergymen of new england in former days. but when there comes a muttering cry of "down with the priesthood!" and a denial of the good which they have effected, my soul repels the insinuation, as though it were blasphemy. i think of the first three pastors of our village, and i reverence the ministerial office and its labors, "if i but remember only, that such as these have lived, and died." susanna. [illustration: decoration] the sugar-making excursion. it was on a beautiful morning in the month of march, (one of those mornings so exhilarating that they make even age and decrepitude long for a ramble), that friend h. called to invite me to visit his sugar-lot--as he called it--in company with the party which, in the preceding summer, visited moose mountain upon the whortleberry excursion. it was with the pleasure generally experienced in revisiting former scenes, in quest of novelty and to revive impressions and friendships, that our party set out for this second visit to moose mountain. a pleasant sleigh-ride of four or five miles, brought us safely to the domicile of friend h., who had reached home an hour previously, and was prepared to pilot us to his sugar-camp. "before we go," said he, "you must one and all step within doors, and warm your stomachs with some gingered cider." we complied with his request, and after a little social chat with mrs. h., who welcomed us with a cordiality not to be surpassed, and expressed many a kind wish that we might spend the day agreeably, we made for the sugar-camp, preceded by friend h., who walked by the side of his sleigh, which appeared to be well loaded, and which he steadied with the greatest care at every uneven place in the path. arrived at the camp, we found two huge iron kettles suspended on a pole, which was supported by crotched stakes, driven in the ground, and each half full of boiling syrup. this was made by boiling down the sap, which was gathered from troughs that were placed under spouts which were driven into rock-maple trees, an incision being first made in the tree with an auger. friend h. told us that it had taken more than two barrels of sap to make what syrup each kettle contained. a steady fire of oak bark was burning underneath the kettles, and the boys and girls, friend h.'s sons and daughters, were busily engaged in stirring the syrup, replenishing the fire, &c. abigail, the eldest daughter, went to her father's sleigh, and taking out a large rundlet, which might contain two or three gallons, poured the contents into a couple of pails. this we perceived was milk, and as she raised one of the pails to empty the contents into the kettles, her father called out, "ho, abigail! hast thee strained the milk?" "yes, father," said abigail. "well," said friend h., with a chuckle, "abigail understands what she is about, as well as her mother would; and i'll warrant hannah to make better maple-sugar than any other woman in new england, or in the whole united states--and you will agree with me in that, after that sugar is turned off and cooled." abigail turned to her work, emptied her milk into the kettles, and then stirred their contents well together, and put some bark on the fire. "come, jemima," said henry l., "let us try to assist abigail a little, and perhaps we shall learn to make sugar ourselves; and who knows but what she will give us a 'gob' to carry home as a specimen to show our friends; and besides, it is possible that we may have to make sugar ourselves at some time or other; and even if we do not, it will never do us any harm to know how the thing is done." abigail furnished us each with a large brass scummer, and instructed us to take off the scum as it arose, and put it into the pails; and henry called two others of our party to come and hold the pails. "but tell me, abigail," said henry, with a roguish leer, "was that milk really intended for whitening the sugar?" "yes," said abigail with all the simplicity of a quakeress, "for thee must know that the milk will all rise in a scum, and with it every particle of dirt or dust which may have found its way into the kettles." abigail made a second visit to her father's sleigh, accompanied by her little brother, and brought from thence a large tin baker, and placed it before the fire. her brother brought a peck measure two-thirds full of potatoes, which abigail put into the baker, and leaving them to their fate, returned to the sleigh, and with her brother's assistance carried several parcels, neatly done up in white napkins, into a little log hut of some fifteen feet square, with a shed roof made of slabs. we began to fancy that we were to have an irish lunch. henry took a sly peep into the hut when we first arrived, and he declared that there was nothing inside, save some squared logs, which were placed back against the walls, and which he supposed were intended for seats. but he was mistaken in thinking that seats were every convenience which the building contained,--as will presently be shown. abigail and her brother had been absent something like half an hour, and friend h. had in the mean time busied himself in gathering sap, and putting it in some barrels hard by. the kettles were clear from scum, and their contents were bubbling like soap. the fire was burning cheerfully, the company all chatting merrily, and a peep into the baker told that the potatoes were cooked. abigail and her brother came, and taking up the baker, carried it inside the building, but soon returned, and placed it again before the fire. then she called to her father, who came and invited us to go and take dinner. we obeyed the summons; but how were we surprised, when we saw how neatly arranged was every thing. the walls of the building were ceiled around with boards, and side tables fastened to them, which could be raised or let down at pleasure, being but pieces of boards fastened with leather hinges and a prop underneath. the tables were covered with napkins, white as the driven snow, and loaded with cold ham, neat's tongue, pickles, bread, apple-sauce, preserves, dough-nuts, butter, cheese, and _potatoes_--without which a yankee dinner is never complete. for beverage, there was chocolate, which was made over a fire in the building--there being a rock chimney in one corner. "now, neighbors," said friend h., "if you will but seat yourselves on these squared logs, and put up with these rude accommodations, you will do me a favor. we might have had our dinner at the house, but i thought that it would be a novelty, and afford more amusement to have it in this little hut, which i built to shelter us from what stormy weather we might have in the season of making sugar." we arranged ourselves around the room, and right merry were we, for friend h.'s lively chat did not suffer us to be otherwise. he recapitulated to us the manner of his life while a bachelor; the many bear-fights which he had had; told us how many bears he had killed; how a she-bear denned in his rock dwelling the first winter after he commenced clearing his land--he having returned home to his father's to attend school; how, when he returned in the spring, he killed her two cubs, and afterwards the old bear, and made his hannah a present of their skins to make a muff and tippet; also his courtship, marriage, &c. in the midst of dinner, abigail came in with some hot mince-pies, which had been heating in the baker before the fire out of doors, and which said much in praise of mrs. h.'s cookery. we had finished eating, and were chatting as merrily as might be, when one of the little boys called from without, "father, the sugar has grained." we immediately went out, and found one of the boys stirring some sugar in a bowl to cool it. the fire was raked from beneath the kettles, and abigail and her eldest brother were stirring their contents with all haste. friend h. put a pole within the bail of one of the kettles, and raised it up, which enabled two of the company to take the other down, and having placed it in the snow, they assisted friend h. to take down the other; and while we lent a helping hand to stir and cool the sugar, friend h.'s children ate their dinners, cleared away the tables, put what fragments were left into their father's sleigh, together with the dinner-dishes, tin baker, rundlet, and the pails of scum, which were to be carried home for the swine. a firkin was also put into the sleigh; and after the sugar was sufficiently cool, it was put into the firkin, and covered up with great care. after this we spent a short time promenading around the rock-maple grove, if leafless trees can be called a grove. a large sap-trough, which was very neatly made, struck my fancy, and friend h. said he would make me a present of it for a cradle. this afforded a subject for mirth. friend h. said that we must not ridicule the idea of having sap-troughs for cradles; for that was touching quality, as his eldest child had been rocked many an hour in a sap-trough, beneath the shade of a tree, while his wife sat beside it knitting, and he was hard by, hoeing corn. soon we were on our way to friend h.'s house, which we all reached in safety; and where we spent an agreeable evening, eating maple sugar, apples, beech-nuts, &c. we also had tea about eight o'clock, which was accompanied by every desirable luxury--after which we started for home. as we were about taking leave, abigail made each of us a present of a cake of sugar, which was cooled in a tin heart.--"heigh ho!" said henry l., "how lucky! we have had an agreeable visit, a bountiful feast--have learned how to make sugar, and have all got sweethearts!" we went home, blessing our stars and the hospitality of our quaker friends. i cannot close without telling the reader, that the sugar which was that day made, was nearly as white as loaf sugar, and tasted much better. jemima. prejudice against labor. chapter i. mrs. k. and her daughter emily were discussing the propriety of permitting martha to be one of the party which was to be given at mr. k.'s the succeeding tuesday evening, to celebrate the birth-day of george, who had lately returned from college. martha was the niece of mr. k. she was an interesting girl of about nineteen years of age, who, having had the misfortune to lose her parents, rather preferred working in a factory for her support, than to be dependent on the charity of her friends. martha was a favorite in the family of her uncle; and mrs. k., notwithstanding her aristocratic prejudices, would gladly have her niece present at the party, were it not for fear of what people might say, if mr. and mrs. k. suffered their children to appear on a level with factory operatives. "mother," said emily, "i do wish there was not such a prejudice against those who labor for a living; and especially against those who work in a factory; for then martha might with propriety appear at george's party; but i know it would be thought disgraceful to be seen at a party with a factory girl, even if she is one's own cousin, and without a single fault. and besides, the miss lindsays are invited, and if martha should be present, they will be highly offended, and make her the subject of ridicule. i would not for my life have martha's feelings wounded, as i know they would be, if either of the miss lindsays should ask her when she left lowell, or how long she had worked in a factory." "well, emily," said mrs. k., "i do not know how we shall manage to keep up appearances, and also spare martha's feelings, unless we can persuade your father to take her with him to acton, on the morrow, and leave her at your uncle theodore's. i do not see any impropriety in this step, as she proposes to visit acton before she returns to lowell." "you will persuade me to no such thing," said mr. k., stepping to the door of his study, which opened from the parlor, and which stood ajar, so that the conversation between his wife and daughter had been overheard by mr. k., and also by the hon. mr. s., a gentleman of large benevolence, whose firmness of character placed him far above popular prejudice. these gentlemen had been in the study unknown to mrs. k. and emily. "you will persuade me to no such thing," mr. k. repeated, as he entered the parlor accompanied by mr. s.; "i am determined that my niece shall be at the party. however loudly the public opinion may cry out against such a measure, i shall henceforth exert my influence to eradicate the wrong opinions entertained by what is called good society, respecting the degradation of labor; and i will commence by placing my children and niece on a level. the occupations of people have made too much distinction in society. the laboring classes, who are in fact the wealth of a nation, are trampled upon; while those whom dame fortune has placed above, or if you please, _below_ labor, with some few honorable exceptions, arrogate to themselves all of the claims to good society. but in my humble opinion, the rich and the poor ought to be equally respected, if virtuous; and equally detested, if vicious." "but what will our acquaintances say?" said mrs. k. "it is immaterial to me what 'they say' or think," said mr. k., "so long as i know that i am actuated by right motives." "but you know, my dear husband," replied his wife, "that the world is censorious, and that much of the good or ill fortune of our children will depend on the company which they shall keep. for myself, i care but little for the opinion of the world, so long as i have the approbation of my husband, but i cannot bear to have my children treated with coldness; and besides, as george is intended for the law, his success will in a great measure depend on public opinion; and i do not think that even esq. s. would think it altogether judicious, under existing circumstances, for us to place our children on a level with the laboring people." "if i may be permitted to express my opinion," said mr. s. "i must say, in all sincerity, that i concur in sentiment with my friend k.; and, like him, i would that the line of separation between good and bad society was drawn between the virtuous and the vicious; and to bring about this much-to-be-desired state of things, the affluent, those who are allowed by all to have an undisputed right to rank with good society, must begin the reformation, by exerting their influence to raise up those who are bowed down. your fears, mrs. k., respecting your son's success, are, or should be, groundless; for, to associate with the laboring people, and strive to raise them to their proper place in the scale of being, should do more for his prosperity in the profession which he has chosen, than he ought to realize by a contrary course of conduct; and, i doubt not, your fears will prove groundless. so, my dear lady, rise above them; and also above the opinions of a gainsaying multitude--opinions which are erroneous, and which every philanthropist, and every christian, should labor to correct." the remarks of esq. s. had so good an effect on mrs. k., that she relinquished the idea of sending martha to acton. chapter ii. the following evening emily and martha spent at esq. s.'s, agreeably to an earnest invitation from mrs. s. and her daughter susan, who were anxious to cultivate an acquaintance with the orphan. these ladies were desirous to ascertain the real situation of a factory girl, and if it was as truly deplorable as public fame had represented, they intended to devise some plan to place martha in a more desirable situation. mrs. s. had a sister, who had long been in a declining state of health; and she had but recently written to mrs. s. to allow susan to spend a few months with her, while opportunity should offer to engage a young lady to live with her as a companion. this lady's husband was a clerk in one of the departments at washington; and, not thinking it prudent to remove his family to the capital, they remained in p.; but the time passed so heavily in her husband's absence, as to have a visible effect on her health. her physician advised her not to live so retired as she did, but to go into lively company to cheer up her spirits; but she thought it would be more judicious to have an agreeable female companion to live with her; and mrs. s. concluded, from the character given her by her uncle, that martha would be just such a companion as her sister wanted; and she intended in the course of the evening to invite martha to accompany susan on a visit to her aunt. the evening passed rapidly away, for the lively and interesting conversation, in the neat and splendid parlor of esq. s., did not suffer any one present to note the flight of time. martha's manners well accorded with the flattering description which her uncle had given of her. she had a good flow of language, and found no difficulty in expressing her sentiments on any subject which was introduced. her description of "life in lowell" convinced those who listened to the clear, musical tones of her voice, that the many reports which they had heard, respecting the ignorance and vice of the factory operatives, were the breathings of ignorance, wafted on the wings of slander, and not worthy of credence. "but with all your privileges, martha," said mrs. s., "was it not wearisome to labor so many hours in a day?" "truly it was at times," said martha, "and fewer hours of labor would be desirable, if they could command a proper amount of wages; for in that case there would be more time for improvement." mrs. s. then gave martha an invitation to accompany her daughter to p., hoping that she would accept the invitation, and find the company of her sister so agreeable that she would consent to remain with her, at least for one year; assuring her that if she did, her privileges for improvement should be equal, if not superior to those she had enjoyed in lowell; and also that she should not be a loser in pecuniary matters. martha politely thanked mrs. s. for the interest she took in her behalf, but wished a little time to consider the propriety of accepting the proposal. but when mrs. s. explained how necessary it was that her sister should have a female companion with her, during her husband's absence, martha consented to accompany susan, provided that her uncle and aunt k. gave their consent. "what an interesting girl!" said esq. s. to his lady, after the young people had retired. "amiable and refined as emily k. appears, martha's manners show that her privileges have been greater, or that her abilities are superior to those of emily. how cold and calculating, and also unjust, was her aunt k., to think that it would detract aught from the respectability of her children for martha to appear in company with them! i really hope that mr. k. will allow her to visit your sister. i will speak to him on the subject." "she _must_ go with susan," said mrs. s.; "i am determined to take no denial. her sprightly manners and delightful conversation will cheer my sister's spirits, and be of more avail in restoring her health than ten physicians." mr. k. gave the desired consent, and it was agreed by all parties concerned that some time in the following week the ladies should visit p.; and all necessary preparations were immediately made for the journey. chapter iii. it was tuesday evening, and a whole bevy of young people had assembled at mr. k.'s. beauty and wit were there, and seemed to vie with each other for superiority. the beaux and belles were in high glee. all was life and animation. the door opened, and mr. k. entered the room. a young lady, rather above the middle height, and of a form of the most perfect symmetry, was leaning on his arm. she was dressed in a plain white muslin gown; a lace 'kerchief was thrown gracefully over her shoulders, and a profusion of auburn hair hung in ringlets down her neck, which had no decoration save a single string of pearl; her head was destitute of ornament, with the exception of one solitary rosebud on the left temple; her complexion was a mixture of the rose and the lily; a pair of large hazel eyes, half concealed by their long silken lashes, beamed with intelligence and expression, as they cast a furtive glance at the company. "ladies and gentlemen," said mr. k., "this is my niece, miss croly;" and as with a modest dignity she courtesied, a beholder could scarce refrain from applying to her milton's description of eve when she first came from the hand of her creator. mr. k. crossed the room with his niece, seated her by the side of his daughter, and, wishing the young people a pleasant evening, retired. the eyes of all were turned towards the stranger, eager to ascertain whether indeed she was the little girl who once attended the same school with them, but who had, for a number of years past, been employed in a "lowell factory." "oh, it is the same," said the miss lindsays. "how presumptuous," said caroline lindsay to a gentleman who sat near her, "thus to intrude a factory girl into our company! unless i am very much mistaken, i shall make her sorry for her impudence, and wish herself somewhere else before the party breaks up." "indeed, miss caroline, you will not try to distress the poor girl; you cannot be so cruel," said the gentleman, who was no other than the eldest son of esq. s., who had on the preceding day returned home, after an absence of two years on a tour through europe. "cruel!" said caroline, interrupting him, "surely, mr. s., you cannot think it cruel to keep people where they belong; or if they get out of the way, to set them right; and you will soon see that i shall direct miss presumption to her proper place, which is in the kitchen,"--and giving her head a toss, she left mr. s., and seating herself by emily and martha, inquired when the latter left lowell, and if the factory girls were as ignorant as ever. martha replied by informing her when she left the "city of spindles;" and also by telling her that she believed the factory girls, considering the little time they had for the cultivation of their minds, were not, in the useful branches of education, behind any class of females in the union. "what chance can they have for improvement?" said caroline: "they are driven like slaves to and from their work, for fourteen hours in each day, and dare not disobey the calls of the factory bell. if they had the means for improvement, they have not the time; and it must be that they are quite as ignorant as the southern slaves, and as little fitted for society." martha colored to the eyes at this unjust aspersion; and emily, in pity to her cousin, undertook to refute the charge. mr. s. drew near, and seating himself by the cousins, entered into conversation respecting the state of society in lowell. martha soon recovered her self-possession, and joined in the conversation with more than her usual animation, yet with a modest dignity which attracted the attention of all present. she mentioned the evening schools for teaching penmanship, grammar, geography, and other branches of education, and how highly they were prized, and how well they were attended by the factory girls. she also spoke of the lyceum and institute, and other lectures; and her remarks were so appropriate and sensible, that even those who were at first for assisting caroline lindsay in directing her to her "proper place," and who even laughed at what they thought to be miss lindsay's wit,--became attentive listeners, and found that even one who "had to work for a living" could by her conversation add much to the enjoyment of "good society." all were now disposed to treat martha with courtesy, with the exception of the miss lindsays, who sat biting their lips for vexation; mortified to think that in trying to make martha an object of ridicule, they had exposed themselves to contempt. mr. s. took upon himself the task (if task it could be called, for one whose feelings were warmly enlisted in the work) of explaining in a clear and concise manner the impropriety of treating people with contempt for none other cause than that they earned an honest living by laboring with their hands. he spoke of the duty of the rich, with regard to meliorating the condition of the poor, not only in affairs of a pecuniary nature, but also by encouraging them in the way of well-doing, by bestowing upon them that which would cost a good man or woman nothing,--namely, kind looks, kind words, and all the sweet courtesies of life. his words were not lost; for those who heard him have overcome their prejudices against labor and laboring people, and respect the virtuous whatever may be their occupation. chapter iv. bright and unclouded was the morning which witnessed the departure of the family coach from the door of the hon. mr. s. henry accompanied by his sister and the beautiful martha, whose champion he had been at the birth-night party of george k. arrived at p., they found that they were not only welcome, but expected visitors; for esq. s. had previously written to his sister-in-law, apprising her of henry's return, and his intention of visiting her in company with his sister susan, and a young lady whom he could recommend as being just the companion of which she was in need. in a postscript to his letter he added, "i do not hesitate to commend this lovely orphan to your kindness, for i know you will appreciate her worth." when henry s. took leave of his aunt and her family, and was about to start upon his homeward journey, he found that a two days' ride, and a week spent in the society of martha, had been at work with his heart. he requested a private interview, and what was said, or what was concluded on, i shall leave the reader to imagine, as best suits his fancy. i shall also leave him to imagine what the many billets-doux contained which henry sent to p., and what were the answers he received, and read with so much pleasure.--as it is no part of my business to enter into any explanation of that subject, i will leave it and call the reader's attention to the sequel of my story, hoping to be pardoned if i make it as short as possible. * * * * it was a lovely moonlight evening. the hon. mr. s. and lady, mr. and mrs. k., and caroline lindsay, were seated in the parlor of mr. k.--caroline had called to inquire for martha, supposing her to be in lowell. caroline's father had been deeply engaged in the eastern land speculation, the result of which was a total loss of property. this made it absolutely necessary that his family should labor for their bread; and caroline had come to the noble resolution of going to lowell to work in a factory, not only to support herself, but to assist her parents in supporting her little brother and sisters. it was a hard struggle for caroline to bring her mind to this; but she had done it, and was now ready to leave home. dreading to go where all were strangers, she requested mr. k. to give her directions where to find martha, and to honor her as the bearer of a letter to his niece. "i know," said she, "that martha's goodness of heart will induce her to secure me a place of work, notwithstanding my former rudeness to her--a rudeness which has caused me to suffer severely, and of which i heartily repent." mr. k. informed caroline that he expected to see his niece that evening; and he doubted not she would recommend miss lindsay to the overseer with whom she had worked while in lowell; and also introduce her to good society, which she would find could be enjoyed, even in the "city of spindles," popular prejudice to the contrary notwithstanding. esquire and mrs. s. approved of caroline's resolution of going to lowell, and spoke many words of encouragement, and also prevailed on her to accept of something to assist in defraying the expenses of her journey, and to provide for any exigency which might happen. they were yet engaged in conversation, when a coach stopped at the door, and presently george and emily entered the parlor! they were followed by a gentleman and lady in bridal habiliments. george stepped back, and introduced mr. henry s. and lady. "yes," said henry laughingly, "i have brought safely back the factory pearl, which a twelvemonth since i found in this room, and which i have taken for my own." the lady threw back her veil, and miss lindsay beheld the countenance of martha croly. i shall omit the apologies and congratulations of caroline and the assurance of forgiveness and proffers of friendship of martha. the reader must also excuse me from delineating the joy with which martha was received by her uncle and aunt k.; and the heartfelt satisfaction which esquire and mrs. s. expressed in their son's choice of a wife. it is enough to state that all parties concerned were satisfied and happy, and continue so to the present time. to sum up the whole they are happy themselves, and diffuse happiness all around them. caroline lindsay was the bearer of several letters from martha, now mrs. s., to her friends in lowell. she spent two years in a factory, and enjoyed the friendship of all who knew her; and when she left lowell her friends could not avoid grieving for the loss of her company, although they knew that a bright day was soon to dawn upon her. she is now the wife of george k., and is beloved and respected by all who know her. well may she say, "sweet are the uses of adversity," for adversity awoke to energy virtues which were dormant, until a reverse of fortune. her father's affairs are in a measure retrieved; and he says that he is doubly compensated for his loss of property in the happiness he now enjoys. i will take leave of the reader, hoping that if he has hitherto had any undue prejudice against labor, or laboring people, he will overcome it, and excuse my freedom and plainness of speech. ethelinda. joan of arc. when, in the perusal of history, i meet with the names of females whom circumstances, or their own inclinations, have brought thus openly before the public eye, i can seldom repress the desire to know more of them. was it choice, or necessity, which led them to the battle-field, or council-hall? had the woman's heart been crushed within their breasts? or did it struggle with the sterner feelings which had then found entrance there? were they recreant to their own sex? or were the deed which claim the historian's notice but the necessary results of the situations in which they had been placed? these are questions which i often ask, and yet i love not in old and musty records to meet with names which long ere this should have perished with the hearts upon which love had written them; for happier, surely, is woman, when in _one_ manly heart she has been "shrined a queen," than when upon some powerful throne she sits with an untrembling form, and an unquailing eye, to receive the homage, and command the services of loyal thousands. i love not to read of women transformed in all, save outward form, into one of the sterner sex; and when i see, in the memorials of the past, that this has apparently been done, i would fain overleap the barriers of bygone time, and know how it has been effected. imagination goes back to the scenes which must have been witnessed then, and perhaps unaided portrays the minute features of the sketch, of which history has preserved merely the outlines. but i sometimes read of woman, when i would not know more of the places where she has rendered herself conspicuous; when there is something so noble and so bright in the character i have given her, that i fear a better knowledge of trivial incidents might break the spell which leads me to love and admire her; where, perhaps, the picture which my fancy has painted, glows in colors so brilliant, that a sketch by truth would seem beside it but a sombre shadow. joan of arc is one of those heroines of history, who cannot fail to excite an interest in all who love to contemplate the female character. from the gloom of that dark age, when woman was but a plaything and a slave, she stands in bold relief, its most conspicuous personage. not, indeed, as a queen, but as more than a queen, even the preserver of her nation's king; not as a conqueror, but as the savior of her country; not as a man, urged in his proud career by mad ambition's stirring energies, but as a woman, guided in her brilliant course by woman's noblest impulses--so does she appear in that lofty station which for herself she won. though high and dazzling was the eminence to which she rose, yet "'twas not thus, oh 'twas not thus, her dwelling-place was found." low in the vale of humble life was the maiden born and bred; and thick as is the veil which time and distance have thrown over every passage of her life yet that which rests upon her early days is most impenetrable. and much room is there here for the interested inquirer, and imagination may rest almost unchecked amid the slight revelations of history. joan is a heroine--a woman of mighty power--wearing herself the habiliments of man, and guiding armies to battle and to victory; yet never to my eye is "the warrior-maid" aught but _woman_. the ruling passion, the spirit which nerved her arm, illumed her eye, and buoyed her heart, was woman's faith. ay, it was _power_--and call it what ye may--say it was enthusiasm, fanaticism, madness--or call it, if ye will, what those _did_ name it who burned joan at the stake,--still it was power, the power of woman's firm, undoubting faith. i should love to go back into joan's humble home--that home which the historian has thought so little worthy of his notice; and in imagination i _must_ go there, even to the very cradle of her infancy, and know of all those influences which wrought the mind of joan to that fearful pitch of wild enthusiasm, when she declared herself the inspired agent of the almighty. slowly and gradually was the spirit trained to an act like this; for though, like the volcano's fire, its instantaneous bursting forth was preceded by no prophet-herald of its coming--yet joan of arc was the same joan ere she was maid of orleans; the same high-souled, pure and imaginative being, the creature of holy impulses, and conscious of superior energies. it must have been so; _a superior mind may burst upon the world, but never upon itself_: there must be a feeling of sympathy with the noble and the gifted, a knowledge of innate though slumbering powers. the neglected eaglet may lie in its mountain nest, long after the pinion is fledged; but it will fix its unquailing eye upon the dazzling sun, and feel a consciousness of strength in the untried wing; but let the mother-bird once call it forth, and far away it will soar into the deep blue heavens, or bathe and revel amidst the tempest-clouds--and henceforth the eyrie is but a resting place. as the diamond is formed, brilliant and priceless, in the dark bowels of the earth, even so, in the gloom of poverty, obscurity, and toil, was formed the mind of joan of arc.--circumstances were but the jeweller's cutting, which placed it where it might more readily receive the rays of light, and flash them forth with greater brilliancy. i have said, that i must in imagination go back to the infancy of joan, and note the incidents which shed their silent, hallowed influence upon her soul, until she stands forth an inspired being, albeit inspired by naught but her own imagination. the basis of joan's character is religious enthusiasm: this is the substratum, the foundation of all that wild and mighty power which made _her_, the peasant girl, the savior of her country. but the flame must have been early fed; it was not merely an elementary portion of her nature, but it was one which was cherished in infancy, in childhood and in youth, until it became the master-passion of her being. joan, the child of the humble and the lowly, was also the daughter of the fervently religious. the light of faith and hope illumes their little cot; and reverence for all that is good and true, and a trust which admits no shade of fear or doubt, is early taught the gentle child. though "faith in god's own promises" was mingled with superstitious awe of those to whom all were then indebted for a knowledge of the truth; though priestly craft had united the wild and false with the pure light of the gospel: and though joan's religion was mingled with delusion and error,--still it comprised all that is fervent, and pure, and truthful, in the female heart. the first words her infant lips are taught to utter, are those of prayer--prayer, mayhap, to saints or virgin; but still to her _then_ and in all after-time, the aspirations of a spirit which delights in communion with the invisible. she grows older, and still, amid ignorance, and poverty, and toil, the spirit gains new light and fervor. with a mind alive to everything that is high and holy, she goes forth into a dark and sinful world, dependent upon her daily toil for daily bread; she lives among the thoughtless and the vile; but like that plant which opens to nought but light and air, and shrinks from all other contact--so her mind, amid the corruptions of the world, is shut to all that is base and sinful, though open and sensitive to that which is pure and noble. "joan," says the historian, "was a tender of stables in a village inn." such was her outward life; but there was for her _another_ life, a life within that life. while the hands perform low, menial service, the soul untrammelled is away, and revelling amidst its own creations of beauty and of bliss. she is silent and abstracted; always alone among her fellows--for among them all she sees no kindred spirit; she finds none who can touch the chords within her heart, or respond to their melody, when she would herself sweep its harp-strings. joan has no friends; far less does she ever think of earthly lovers; and who would love _her_, the wild and strange joan! though perhaps, the gloomy, dull, and silent one; but that soul, whose very essence is fervent zeal and glowing passion, sends forth in secrecy and silence its burning love upon the unconscious things of earth. she talks to the flowers, and the stars, and the changing clouds; and their voiceless answers come back to her soul at morn, and noon, and stilly night. yes, joan loves to go forth in the darkness of eve, and sit, "beneath the radiant stars, still burning as they roll, and sending down their prophecies into her fervent soul;" but, better even than this, does she love to go into some high cathedral, where the "dim religious light" comes faintly through the painted windows; and when the priests chant vesper hymns, and burning incense goes upward from the sacred altar--and when the solemn strains and the fragrant vapor dissolve and die away in the distant aisles and lofty dome, she kneels upon the marble floor, and in ecstatic worship sends forth the tribute of a glowing heart. and when at night she lies down upon her rude pallet, she dreams that she is with those bright and happy beings with whom her fancy has peopled heaven. she is there, among saints and angels, and even permitted high converse with the mother of jesus. yes, joan is a dreamer; and she dreams not only in the night, but in the day; whether at work or at rest, alone or among her fellow-men, there are angel voices near, and spirit-wings are hovering around her, and visions of all that is pure, and bright, and beautiful, come to the mind of the lowly girl. she finds that she is a favored one; she feels that those about her are not gifted as she has been; she knows that their thoughts are not as her thoughts; and then the spirit questions, why is it thus that she should be permitted communings with unearthly ones? why was this ardent, aspiring mind bestowed upon _her_, one of earth's meanest ones, shackled by bonds of penury, toil, and ignorance of all that the world calls high and gifted? day after day goes by, night after night wears on, and still these queries will arise, and still they are unanswered. at length the affairs of busy life, those which to joan have heretofore been of but little moment, begin to awaken even _her_ interest. hitherto, absorbed in her own bright fancies, she has mingled in the scenes around her, like one who walketh in his sleep. they have been too tame and insipid to arouse her energies, or excite her interest; but now there is a thrilling power in the tidings which daily meet her ears. all hearts are stirred, but none now throb like hers: her country is invaded, her king an exile from his throne; and at length the conquerors, unopposed, are quietly boasting of their triumphs on the very soil they have polluted. and shall it be thus? shall the victor revel and triumph in her own loved france? shall her country thus tamely submit to wear the foreign yoke? and joan says, no! she feels the power to arouse, to quicken, and to guide. none now may tell whether it was first in fancies of the day or visions of the night, that the thought came, like some lightning flash, upon her mind, that it was for this that powers unknown to others had been vouchsafed to _her_; and that for this, even new energies should now be given.--but the idea once received is not abandoned; she cherishes it, and broods upon it, till it has mingled with every thought of day and night. if doubts at first arise, they are not harbored, and at length they vanish away. "her spirit shadowed forth a dream, till it became a creed." all that she sees and all that she hears--the words to which she eagerly listens by day, and the spirit-whispers which come to her at night,--they all assure her of this, that she is the appointed one. all other thoughts and feelings now crystallize in this grand scheme; and as the cloud grows darker upon her country's sky, her faith grows surer and more bright. her countrymen have ceased to resist, have almost ceased to hope; but she alone, in her fervent joy, has "looked beyond the present clouds and seen the light beyond." the spoiler shall yet be vanquished, and _she_ will do it; her country shall be saved, and _she_ will save it; her unanointed king shall yet sit on the throne, and "charles shall be crowned at rheims." such is her mission, and she goes forth in her own ardent faith to its accomplishment. and did those who first admitted the claims of joan as an inspired leader, themselves believe that she was an agent of the almighty? none can now tell how much the superstition of their faith, mingled with the commanding influence of a mind firm in its own conviction of supernatural guidance, influenced those haughty ones, as they listened to the counsels, and obeyed the mandates, of the peasant girl.--perhaps they saw that she was their last hope, a frail reed upon which they might lean, yet one that might not break. her zeal and faith might be an instrument to effect the end which she had declared herself destined to accomplish. worldly policy and religious credulity might mingle in their admission of her claims; but however this might be, the peasant girl of arc soon rides at her monarch's side, with helmet on her head, and armor on her frame, the time-hallowed sword girt to her side, and the consecrated banner in her hand; and with the lightning of inspiration in her eye, and words of dauntless courage on her lips, she guides them on to battle and to victory. ay, there she is, the low-born maid of arc! there, with the noble and the brave, amid the clangor of trumpets, the waving of banners, the tramp of the war horse, and the shouts of warriors; and there she is more at home than in those humble scenes in which she has been wont to bear a part. now for once she is herself; now may she put forth all her hidden energy, and with a mind which rises at each new demand upon its powers, she is gaining for herself a name even greater than that of queen. and now does the light beam brightly from her eye, and the blood course quickly through her veins--for her task is ended, her mission accomplished, and "charles is crowned at rheims." this is the moment of joan's glory,--and what is before her now? to stand in courts, a favored and flattered one? to revel in the soft luxuries and enervating pleasures of a princely life? oh this was not for one like her. to return to obscurity and loneliness, and there to let the over-wrought mind sink back with nought to occupy and support it, till it feeds and drivels on the remembrance of the past--this is what she would do; but there is for her what is better far, even the glorious death of a martyr. little does joan deem, in her moment of triumph, that this is before her; but when she has seen her mission ended, and her king the anointed ruler of a liberated people, the sacred sword and standard are cast aside; and throwing herself at her monarch's feet, and watering them with tears of joy, she begs permission to return to her humble home.--she has now done all for which that power was bestowed; her work has been accomplished, and she claims no longer the special commission of an inspired leader. but dunois says, no! the english are not yet entirely expelled the kingdom, and the french general would avail himself of that name, and that presence, which have infused new courage into his armies, and struck terror to their enemies. he knows that joan will no longer be sustained by the belief that she is an agent of heaven; but she will be with them, and that alone must benefit their cause. he would have her again assume the standard, sword, and armor; he would have her still retain the title of "messenger of god," though she believe that her mission goes no farther. it probably was not the first time, and it certainly was not the last, when woman's holiest feelings have been made the instruments of man's ambition, or agents for the completion of his designs. joan is now but a woman, poor, weak, and yielding woman; and overpowered by their entreaties, she consents to try again her influence. but the power of that faith is gone, the light of inspiration is no more given, and she is attacked, conquered, and delivered to her enemies. they place her in low dungeons, then bring her before tribunals; they wring and torture that noble spirit, and endeavor to obtain from it a confession of imposture, or connivance with the "evil one;" but she still persists in the declaration that her claims to a heavenly guidance were true. once only was she false to herself. weary and dispirited; deserted by her friends, and tormented by her foes,--she yields to their assertions, and admits that she did deceive her countrymen. perhaps in that hour of trial and darkness, when all hope of deliverance from without, or from above, had died away,--when she saw herself powerless in the merciless hands of her enemies, the conviction might steal upon her own mind, that she had been self-deceived; that phantasies of the brain had been received as visions from on high,--but though her confession was true in the abstract, yet joan was surely untrue to herself. still it avails her little; she is again remanded to the dungeon, and there awaits her doom. at length they bring her the panoply of war, the armored suit in which she went forth at the king's right hand to fight their battle hosts. her heart thrills, and her eye flashes, as she looks upon it--for it tells of glorious days. once more she dons those fatal garments, and they find her arrayed in the habiliments of war. it is enough for those who wished but an excuse to take her life, and the maid of orleans is condemned to die. they led joan to the martyr-stake. proudly and nobly went she forth, for it was a fitting death for one like _her_. once more the spirit may rouse its noblest energies; and with brightened eye, and firm, undaunted step, she goes where banners wave and trumpets sound, and martial hosts appear in proud array. and the sons of england weep as they see her, the calm and tearless one, come forth to meet her fate. they bind her to the stake; they light the fire; and upward borne on wreaths of soaring flame, the soul of the martyred joan ascends to heaven. ella. susan miller. chapter i. "mother, it is all over now," said susan miller, as she descended from the chamber where her father had just died of _delirium tremens_. mrs. miller had for several hours walked the house, with that ceaseless step which tells of fearful mental agony: and when she had heard from her husband's room some louder shriek or groan, she had knelt by the chair or bed which was nearest, and prayed that the troubled spirit might pass away. but a faintness came over her, when a long interval of stillness told that her prayer was answered; and she leaned upon the railing of the stairway for support, as she looked up to see the first one who should come to her from the bed of death. susan was the first to think of her mother: and when she saw her sink, pale, breathless, and stupified upon a stair, she sat down in silence, and supported her head upon her own bosom. then for the first time was she aroused to the consciousness that she was to be looked upon as a stay and support; and she resolved to bring from the hidden recesses of her heart, a strength, courage, and firmness, which should make her to her heart-broken mother, and younger brothers and sisters, what _he_ had not been for many years, who was now a stiffening corpse. at length she ventured to whisper words of solace and sympathy, and succeeded in infusing into her mother's mind a feeling of resignation to the stroke they had received.--she persuaded her to retire to her bed, and seek the slumber which had been for several days denied them; and then she endeavored to calm the terror-stricken little ones, who were screaming because their father was no more. the neighbors came in and proffered every assistance; but when susan retired that night to her own chamber, she felt that she must look to him for aid, who alone could sustain through the tasks that awaited her. preparations were made for the funeral; and though every one knew that mr. miller had left his farm deeply mortgaged, yet the store-keeper cheerfully trusted them for articles of mourning, and the dress-maker worked day and night, while she expected never to receive a remuneration. the minister came to comfort the widow and her children. he spoke of the former virtues of him who had been wont to seek the house of god on each returning sabbath, and who had brought his eldest children to the font of baptism, and been then regarded as an example of honesty and sterling worth; and when he adverted to the one failing which had brought him to his grave in the very prime of manhood, he also remarked, that he was now in the hands of a merciful god. the remains of the husband and father were at length removed from the home which he had once rendered happy, but upon which he had afterwards brought poverty and distress, and laid in that narrow house which he never more might leave, till the last trumpet should call him forth; and when the family were left to that deep silence and gloom which always succeed a death and burial, they began to think of the trials which were yet to come. mrs. miller had been for several years aware that ruin was coming upon them. she had at first warned, reasoned, and expostulated; but she was naturally of a gentle and almost timid disposition; and when she found that she awakened passions which were daily growing more violent and ungovernable, she resolved to await in silence a crisis which sooner or later would change their destiny. whether she was to follow her degenerate husband to his grave, or accompany him to some low hovel, she knew not; she shrunk from the future, but faithfully discharged all present duties, and endeavored, by a strict economy, to retain at least an appearance of comfort in her household. to susan, her eldest child, she had confided all her fears and sorrows; and they had watched, toiled, and sympathized together. but when the blow came at last, when he who had caused all their sorrow and anxiety was taken away by a dreadful and disgraceful death, the long-enduring wife and mother was almost paralyzed by the shock. but susan was young; she had health, strength, and spirits to bear her up, and upon her devolved the care of the family, and the plan for its future support. her resolution was soon formed; and without saying a word to any individual, she went to deacon rand, who was her father's principal creditor. it was a beautiful afternoon in the month of may, when susan left the house in which her life had hitherto been spent, determined to know, before she returned to it, whether she might ever again look upon it as her home. it was nearly a mile to the deacon's house, and not a single house upon the way. the two lines of turf in the road, upon which the bright green grass was springing, showed that it was but seldom travelled; and the birds warbled in the trees, as though they feared no disturbance. the fragrance of the lowly flowers, the budding shrubs, and the blooming fruit-trees, filled the air; and she stood for a moment to listen to the streamlet which she crossed upon a rude bridge of stones. she remembered how she had loved to look at it in summer, as it murmured along among the low willows and alder bushes; and how she had watched it in the early spring, when its swollen waters forced their way through the drifts of snow which had frozen over it, and wrought for itself an arched roof, from which the little icicles depended in diamond points and rows of beaded pearls. she looked also at the meadow, where the grass was already so long and green; and she sighed to think that she must leave all that was so dear to her, and go where a ramble among fields, meadows, and orchards, would be henceforth a pleasure denied to her. chapter ii. when she arrived at the spacious farm-house, which was the residence of the deacon, she was rejoiced to find him at home and alone. he laid aside his newspaper as she entered, and, kindly taking her hand, inquired after her own health and that of her friends. "and now, deacon," said she, when she had answered all his questions, "i wish to know whether you intend to turn us all out of doors, as you have a perfect right to do--or suffer us still to remain, with a slight hope that we may sometime pay you the debt for which our farm is mortgaged." "you have asked me a very plain question," was the deacon's reply, "and one which i can easily answer. you see that i have here a house, large enough and good enough for the president himself, and plenty of every thing in it and around it; and how in the name of common sense and charity, and religion, could i turn a widow and fatherless children out of their house and home! folks have called me mean, and stingy, and close-fisted; and though in my dealings with a rich man i take good care that he shall not overreach me, yet i never stood for a cent with a poor man in my life. but you spake about some time paying me; pray, how do you hope to do it?" "i am going to lowell," said susan quietly, "to work in the factory, the girls have high wages there now, and in a year or two lydia and eliza can come too; and if we all have our health, and mother and james get along well with the farm and the little ones, i hope, i do think, that we can pay it all up in the course of seven or eight years." "that is a long time for you to go and work so hard, and shut yourself up so close at your time of life," said the deacon, "and on many other accounts i do not approve of it." "i know how prejudiced the people here are against factory girls," said susan, "but i should like to know what real good _reason_ you have for disapproving of my resolution. you cannot think there is anything really wrong in my determination to labor, as steadily and as profitably as i can, for myself and the family." "why, the way that i look at things is this," replied the deacon: "whatever is not right, is certainly wrong; and i do not think it right for a young girl like you, to put herself in the way of all sorts of temptation. you have no idea of the wickedness and corruption which exist in that town of lowell. why, they say that more than half of the girls have been in the house of correction, or the county gaol, or some other vile place; and that the other half are not much better; and i should not think you would wish to go and work, and eat, and sleep, with such a low, mean, ignorant, wicked set of creatures." "i know such things are said of them, deacon, but i do not think they are true. i have never seen but one factory girl, and that was my cousin esther, who visited us last summer. i do not believe there is a better girl in the world than she is; and i cannot think she would be so contented and cheerful among such a set of wretches as some folks think factory girls must be. there may be wicked girls there; but among so many, there must be some who are good; and when i go there, i shall try to keep out of the way of bad company, and i do not doubt that cousin esther can introduce me to girls who are as good as any with whom i have associated. if she cannot i will have no companion but her, and spend the little leisure i shall have in solitude, for i am determined to go." "but supposing, susan, that all the girls there were as good, and sensible, and pleasant as yourself--yet there are many other things to be considered. you have not thought how hard it will seem to be boxed up fourteen hours in a day, among a parcel of clattering looms, or whirling spindles, whose constant din is of itself enough to drive a girl out of her wits; and then you will have no fresh air to breathe, and as likely as not come home in a year or two with a consumption, and wishing you had staid where you would have had less money and better health. i have also heard that the boarding women do not give the girls food which is fit to eat, nor half enough of the mean stuff they do allow them, and it is contrary to all reason to suppose that folks can work, and have their health, without victuals to eat." "i have thought of all these things, deacon, but they do not move me. i know the noise of the mills must be unpleasant at first, but i shall get used to that; and as to my health, i know that i have as good a constitution to begin with as any girl could wish, and no predisposition to consumption, nor any of those diseases which a factory life might otherwise bring upon me. i do not expect all the comforts which are common to country farmers; but i am not afraid of starving, for cousin esther said, that she had an excellent boarding place, and plenty to eat, and drink, and that which was good enough for anybody. but if they do not give us good meat, i will eat vegetables alone, and when we have bad butter, i will eat my bread without it." "well," said the deacon, "if your health is preserved, you may lose some of your limbs. i have heard a great many stories about girls who had their hands torn off by the machinery, or mangled so that they could never use them again; and a hand is not a thing to be despised, nor easily dispensed with. and then, how should you like to be ordered about, and scolded at, by a cross overseer?" "i know there is danger," replied susan, "among so much machinery, but those who meet with accidents are but a small number, in proportion to the whole, and if i am careful i need not fear any injury. i do not believe the stories we hear about bad overseers, for such men would not be placed over so many girls; and if i have a cross one, i will give no reason to find fault; and if he finds fault without reason, i will leave him, and work for some one else.--you know that i must do something, and i have made up my mind what it shall be." "you are a good child, susan," and the deacon looked very kind when he told her so, "and you are a courageous, noble-minded girl. i am not afraid that _you_ will learn to steal, and lie, and swear, and neglect your bible and the meeting-house; but lest anything unpleasant should happen, i will make you this offer: i will let your mother live upon the farm, and pay me what little she can, till your brother james is old enough to take it at the halves; and if you will come here, and help my wife about the house and dairy, i will give you _s._ _d._ a-week, and you shall be treated as a daughter--perhaps you may one day be one." the deacon looked rather sly at her, and susan blushed; for henry rand, the deacon's youngest son, had been her playmate in childhood, her friend at school, and her constant attendant at all the parties and evening meetings. her young friends all spoke of him as her lover, and even the old people had talked of it as a very fitting match, as susan, besides good sense, good humor, and some beauty, had the health, strength and activity which are always reckoned among the qualifications for a farmer's wife. susan knew of this; but of late, domestic trouble had kept her at home, and she knew not what his present feelings were. still she felt that they must not influence her plans and resolutions. delicacy forbade that she should come and be an inmate of his father's house, and her very affection for him had prompted the desire that she should be as independent as possible of all favors from him, or his father; and also the earnest desire that they might one day clear themselves of debt. so she thanked the deacon for his offer, but declined accepting it, and arose to take leave. "i shall think a great deal about you, when you are gone," said the deacon, "and will pray for you, too. i never used to think about the sailors, till my wife's brother visited us, who had led for many years a sea-faring life; and now i always pray for those who are exposed to the dangers of the great deep. and i will also pray for the poor factory girls who work so hard and suffer so much." "pray for me, deacon," replied susan in a faltering voice, "that i may have strength to keep a good resolution." she left the house with a sad heart; for the very success of her hopes and wishes had brought more vividly to mind the feeling that she was really to go and leave for many years her friends and home. she was almost glad that she had not seen henry; and while she was wondering what he would say and think, when told that she was going to lowell, she heard approaching footsteps, and looking up, saw him coming towards her. the thought--no, the idea, for it had not time to form into a definite thought--flashed across her mind, that she must now arouse all her firmness, and not let henry's persuasion shake her resolution to leave them all, and go to the factory. but the very indifference with which he heard of her intention was of itself sufficient to arouse her energy. he appeared surprised, but otherwise wholly unconcerned, though he expressed a hope that she would be happy and prosperous, and that her health would not suffer from the change of occupation. if he had told her that he loved her--if he had entreated her not to leave them, or to go with the promise of returning to be his future companion through life--she could have resisted it; for this she had resolved to do; and the happiness attending an act of self-sacrifice would have been her reward. she had before known sorrow, and she had borne it patiently and cheerfully; and she knew that the life which was before her would have been rendered happier by the thought, that there was one who was deeply interested for her happiness, and who sympathized in all her trials. when she parted from henry it was with a sense of loneliness, of utter desolation, such as she had never before experienced. she had never before thought that he was dear to her, and that she had wished to carry in her far-off place of abode the reflection that she was dear to him. she felt disappointed and mortified, but she blamed not him, neither did she blame herself; she did not know that any one had been to blame. her young affections had gone forth as naturally and as involuntarily as the vapors rise to meet the sun. but the sun which had called them forth, had now gone down, and they were returning in cold drops to the heart-springs from which they had arisen; and susan resolved that they should henceforth form a secret fount, whence every other feeling should derive new strength and vigor. she was now more firmly resolved that her future life should be wholly devoted to her kindred, and thought not of herself but as connected with them. chapter iii. it was with pain that mrs. miller heard of susan's plan; but she did not oppose her. she felt that it must be so, that she must part with her for her own good and the benefit of the family; and susan hastily made preparations for her departure. she arranged everything in and about the house for her mother's convenience; and the evening before she left she spent in instructing lydia how to take her place, as far as possible, and told her to be always cheerful with mother, and patient with the younger ones, and to write a long letter every two months (for she could not afford to hear oftener), and to be sure and not forget her for a single day. then she went to her own room; and when she had re-examined her trunk, bandbox, and basket, to see that all was right, and laid her riding-dress over the great armchair, she sat down by the window to meditate upon her change of life. she thought, as she looked upon the spacious, convenient chamber in which she was sitting, how hard it would be to have no place to which she could retire and be alone, and how difficult it would be to keep her things in order in the fourth part of a small apartment, and how possible it was that she might have unpleasant room-mates, and how probable that every day would call into exercise all her kindness and forbearance. and then she wondered if it would be possible for her to work so long, and save so much, as to render it possible that she might one day return to that chamber and call it her own. sometimes she wished she had not undertaken it, that she had not let the deacon know that she hoped to be able to pay him; she feared that she had taken a burden upon herself which she could not bear, and sighed to think that her lot should be so different from that of most young girls. she thought of the days when she was a little child; when she played with henry at the brook, or picked berries with him on the hill; when her mother was always happy, and her father always kind; and she wished that the time could roll back, and she could again be a careless little girl. she felt, as we sometimes do, when we shut our eyes and try to sleep, and get back into some pleasant dream, from which we have been too suddenly awakened. but the dream of youth was over, and before her was the sad waking reality of a life of toil, separation, and sorrow. when she left home the next morning, it was the first time she had ever parted from her friends. the day was delightful, and the scenery beautiful; a stage-ride was of itself a novelty to her, and her companions pleasant and sociable; but she felt very sad, and when she retired at night to sleep in a hotel, she burst into tears. those who see the factory girls in lowell, little think of the sighs and heart-aches which must attend a young girl's entrance upon a life of toil and privation, among strangers. to susan, the first entrance into a factory boarding-house seemed something dreadful. the rooms looked strange and comfortless, and the women cold and heartless; and when she sat down to the supper-table, where, among more than twenty girls, all but one were strangers, she could not eat a mouthful. she went with esther to their sleeping apartment, and, after arranging her clothes and baggage, she went to bed, but not to sleep. the next morning she went into the mill; and at first, the sight of so many bands, and wheels, and springs, in constant motion was very frightful. she felt afraid to touch the loom, and she was almost sure that she could never learn to weave; the harness puzzled and the reed perplexed her; the shuttle flew out, and made a new bump upon her head; and the first time she tried to spring the lathe, she broke out a quarter of the treads. it seemed as if the girls all stared at her, and the overseers watched every motion, and the day appeared as long as a month had been at home. but at last it was night; and o, how glad was susan to be released! she felt weary and wretched, and retired to rest without taking a mouthful of refreshment. there was a dull pain in her head, and a sharp pain in her ankles; every bone was aching, and there was in her ears a strange noise, as of crickets, frogs, and jews-harps, all mingling together, and she felt gloomy and sick at heart. "but it won't seem so always," said she to herself; and with this truly philosophical reflection, she turned her head upon a hard pillow, and went to sleep. susan was right, it did not seem so always. every succeeding day seemed shorter and pleasanter than the last; and when she was accustomed to the work, and had become interested in it, the hours seemed shorter, and the days, weeks, and months flew more swiftly by than they had ever done before. she was healthy, active, and ambitious, and was soon able to earn even as much as her cousin, who had been a weaver several years. wages were then much higher than they are now; and susan had the pleasure of devoting the avails of her labor to a noble and cherished purpose. there was a definite aim before her, and she never lost sight of the object for which she left her home, and was happy in the prospect of fulfilling that design. and it needed all this hope of success, and all her strength of resolution, to enable her to bear up against the wearing influences of a life of unvarying toil. though the days seemed shorter than at first, yet there was a tiresome monotony about them. every morning the bells pealed forth the same clangor, and every night brought the same feeling of fatigue. but susan felt, as all factory girls feel, that she could bear it for a while. there are few who look upon factory labor as a pursuit for life. it is but a temporary vocation; and most of the girls resolve to quit the mill when some favorite design is accomplished. money is their object--not for itself, but for what it can perform; and pay-days are the landmarks which cheer all hearts, by assuring them of their progress to the wished-for goal. susan was always very happy when she enclosed the quarterly sum to deacon rand, although it was hardly won, and earned by the deprivation of many little comforts, and pretty articles of dress, which her companions could procure. but the thought of home, and the future happy days which she might enjoy in it, was the talisman which ever cheered and strengthened her. she also formed strong friendships among her factory companions, and became attached to her pastor, and their place of worship. after the first two years she had also the pleasure of her sister's society, and in a year or two more, another came. she did not wish them to come while very young. she thought it better that their bodies should be strengthened, and their minds educated in their country home; and she also wished, that in their early girlhood they should enjoy the same pleasures which had once made her own life a very happy one. and she was happy now; happy in the success of her noble exertions, the affection and gratitude of her relatives, the esteem of her acquaintances, and the approbation of conscience. only once was she really disquieted. it was when her sister wrote that henry rand was married to one of their old school-mates. for a moment the color fled from her cheek, and a quick pang went through her heart. it was but for a moment; and then she sat down and wrote to the newly-married couple a letter, which touched their hearts by its simple fervent wishes for their happiness, and assurances of sincere friendship. susan had occasionally visited home, and she longed to go, never to leave it; but she conquered the desire, and remained in lowell more than a year after the last dollar had been forwarded to deacon rand. and then, o, how happy was she when she entered her chamber the first evening after her arrival, and viewed its newly-painted wainscoting, and brightly-colored paper-hangings, and the new furniture with which she had decorated it; and she smiled as she thought of the sadness which had filled her heart the evening before she first went to lowell. she now always thinks of lowell with pleasure, for lydia is married here, and she intends to visit her occasionally, and even sometimes thinks of returning for a little while to the mills. her brother james has married, and resides in one half of the house, which he has recently repaired; and eliza, though still in the factory, is engaged to a wealthy young farmer. susan is with her mother, and younger brothers and sisters. people begin to think she will be an old maid, and she thinks herself that it will be so. the old deacon still calls her a good child, and prays every night and morning for the factory girls. f. g. a. scenes on the merrimac. i have been but a slight traveller, and the beautiful rivers of our country have, with but one or two exceptions, rolled their bright waves before "the orbs of fancy" alone, and not to my visual senses. but the few specimens which have been favored me of river scenery, have been very happy in the influence they have exerted upon my mind, in favor of this feature of natural loveliness. i do not wonder that the "stream of _his_ fathers" should be ever so favorite a theme with the poet, and that wherever he has sung its praise, the spot should henceforth be as classic ground. wherever some "gently rolling river" has whispered its soft murmurs to the recording muse, its name has been linked with his; and far as that name may extend, is the beauty of that inspiring streamlet appreciated. helicon and castalia are more frequently referred to than parnassus,--and even the small streams of hilly scotland, are renowned wherever the songs of her poet "are said or sung." "the banks and braes o' bonny doon," are duly applauded in the drawing-rooms of america; and the tweed, the "clear winding devon," the "braes of ayr," the "braes o' ballochmyle," and the "sweet afton," so often the theme of his lays, for his "mary's asleep by its murmuring stream," are names even here quite as familiar, perhaps more so, than our own broad and beauteous rivers. such is the hallowing power of genius; and upon whatever spot she may cast her bright unfading mantle, there is forever stamped the impress of beauty. "the bard of avon" is an honorary title wherever our language is read; and though we may have few streams which have as yet been sacred to the muse, yet time will doubtless bring forth those whose genius shall make the indian cognomens of our noble rivers' names associated with all that is lofty in intellect and beautiful in poetry. the merrimac has already received the grateful tribute of praise from the muse of the new england poet; and well does it merit the encomiums which he has bestowed upon it. it is a beautiful river, from the time when its blue waters start on their joyous course, leaving "the smile of the great spirit," to wind through many a vale, and round many a hill, till they mingle "with ocean's dark eternal tide." i have said that i have seen but few rivers. no! never have i stood "where hudson rolls his lordly flood; seen sunrise rest, and sunset fade along his frowning palisade; looked down the appalachian peak on juniata's silver streak; or seen along his valley gleam the mohawk's softly winding stream; the setting sun, his axle red quench darkly in potomac's bed; and autumn's rainbow-tinted banner hang lightly o'er the susquehanna;"-- but i still imagine that all their beauties are concentrated in the blue waters of the merrimac--not as it appears here, where, almost beneath my factory window, its broad tide moves peacefully along; but where by "salisbury's beach of shining sand," it rolls amidst far lovelier scenes, and with more rapid flow. perhaps it is because it is _my_ river that i think it so beautiful--no matter if it is; there is a great source of gratification in the feeling of whatever is in any way connected with our _humble_ selves is on that account invested with some distinctive charm, and in some mysterious way rendered peculiarly lovely. but even to the stranger's eye, if he have any taste for the beautiful in nature, the charms of the banks of the merrimac would not be disregarded. can there be a more beautiful bend in a river, than that which it makes at salisbury point? it is one of the most picturesque scenes, at all events, which i have ever witnessed. stand for a moment upon the drawbridge which spans with its single arch the spot where "the winding powow" joins his sparkling waters with the broad tide of the receiving river. we will suppose it is a summer morning. the thin white mist from the atlantic, which the night-spirit has thrown, like a bridal veil, over the vale and river, is gently lifted by aurora, and the unshrouded waters blush "celestial rosy red" at the exposure of their own loveliness. but the bright flush is soon gone, and as the sun rides higher in the heavens, the millions of little wavelets don their diamond crowns, and rise, and sink, and leap, and dance rejoicingly together; and while their sparkling brilliancy arrests the eye, their murmurs of delight are no less grateful to the ear. the grove upon the newbury side is already vocal with the morning anthems of the feathered choir, and from the maple, oak, and pine is rising one glad peal of melody. the slight fragrance of the kalmia, or american laurel, which flourishes here in much profusion, is borne upon the morning breeze; and when their roseate umbels are opened to the sun, they "sing to the eye," as their less stationary companions have done to the ear. the road which accompanies the river in its beauteous curve, is soon alive with the active laborers of "salisbury shore;" and soon the loud "heave-ho!" of the ship-builders is mingled with the more mellifluous tones which have preceded them. the other busy inhabitants are soon threading the winding street, and as they glance upon their bright and beauteous river, their breasts swell with emotions of pleasure, though in their constant and active bustle, they may seldom pause to analyze the cause. the single sail of the sloop which has lain so listless at the little wharf, and the double one of the schooner which is about to traverse its way to the ocean, are unfurled to the morning wind, and the loud orders of the bustling skipper, and the noisy echoes of his bustling men, are borne upon the dewy breeze, and echoed from the newbury slopes. soon they are riding upon the bright waters, and the little skiff or wherry is also seen darting about, amidst the rolling diamonds, while here and there a heavy laden "gundelow" moves slowly along, "with sure and steady aim," as though it disdained the pastime of its livelier neighbors. such is many a morning scene on the banks of the merrimac; and not less delightful are those of the evening. perhaps the sunset has passed. the last golden tint has faded from the river, and its waveless surface reflects the deep blue of heaven, and sends back undimmed the first faint ray of the evening star. the rising tide creeps rippling up the narrow beach, sending along its foremost swell, which, in a sort of drowsy play, leaps forward, and then sinks gently back upon its successors. now the tide is up--the trees upon the wooded banks of newbury, and the sandy hills upon the amesbury side, are pencilled with minutest accuracy in the clear waters. farther down, the dwellings at the ferry, and those of the point, which stand upon the banks, are also mirrored in the deep stream. you might also fancy that beneath its lucid tide there was a duplicate village, so distinct is every shadow. as, one by one, the lights appear in the cottage windows, their reflected fires shoot up from the depths of the merrimac. but the waters shine with brighter radiance as evening lengthens; for luna grows more lavish of her silvery beams as the crimson tints of her brighter rival die in the western sky. the shore is still and motionless, save where a pair of happy lovers steal slowly along the shadowed walk which leads to pleasant valley. the old weather-worn ship at the point, which has all day long resounded with the clatter of mischievous boys, is now wrapped in silence. the new one in the ship-yard, which has also been dinning with the maul and hammer, is equally quiet. but from the broad surface of the stream there comes the song, the shout, and the ringing laugh of the light-hearted. they come from the boats which dot the water, and are filled with the young and gay. some have just shot from the little wharf, and others have been for hours upon the river. what they have been doing, and where they have been, i do not precisely know; but, from the boughs which have been broken from _somebody's_ trees, and the large clusters of laurel which the ladies bear, i think i can "guess-o." but it grows late. the lights which have glowed in the reflected buildings have one by one been quenched, and still those light barks remain upon the river. and that large "gundelow," which came down the powow, from the mills, with its freight of "factory girls," sends forth "the sound of music and dancing." we will leave them--for it is possible that they will linger till after midnight, and we have staid quite long enough to obtain an evening's glimpse at the merrimac. such are some of the scenes on the river, and many are also the pleasant spots upon its banks. beautiful walks and snug little nooks are not unfrequent; and there are bright green sheltered coves, like pleasant valley, where "all save the spirit of man is divine." i remember the first steamboat which ever came hissing and puffing and groaning and sputtering up the calm surface of the merrimac. i remember also the lovely moonlight evening when i watched her return from haverhill, and when every wave and rock and tree were lying bathed in a flood of silver radiance. i shall not soon forget her noisy approach, so strongly contrasted with the stillness around, nor the long loud ringing cheers which hailed her arrival and accompanied her departure. i noted every movement, as she hissed and splashed among the bright waters, until she reached the curve in the river, and then was lost to view, excepting the thick sparks which rose above the glistening foilage of the wooded banks. i remember also the first time i ever saw the aborigines of our country. they were penobscots, and then, i believe, upon their way to this city. they encamped among the woods of the newbury shore, and crossed the river (there about a mile in width) in their little canoes, whenever they wished to beg or trade.--they sadly refuted the romantic ideas which i had formed from the descriptions of cooper and others; nevertheless, they were to me an interesting people. they appeared so strange, with their birch-bark canoes and wooden paddles, their women with men's hats and such _outré_ dresses, their little boys with their unfailing bows and arrows, and the little feet which they all had. their curious, bright-stained baskets, too, which they sold or gave away. i have one of them now, but it has lost its bright tints. it was given me in return for a slight favor.--i remember also one dreadful stormy night while they were amongst us. the rain poured in torrents. the thick darkness was unrelieved by a single lightning-flash, and the hoarse murmur of the seething river was the only noise which could be distinguished from the pitiless storm. i thought of my new acquaintance, and looked out in the direction of their camp. i could see at one time the lights flickering among the thick trees, and darting rapidly to and fro behind them, and then all would be unbroken gloom. sometimes i fancied i could distinguish a whoop or yell, and then i heard nought but the pelting of the rain. as i gazed on the wild scene, i was strongly reminded of scenes which are described in old border tales, of wild banditti, and night revels of lawless hordes of barbarians. these are summer scenes; and in winter there is nothing particularly beautiful in the icy robe with which the merrimac often enrobes its chilled waters. but the breaking up of the ice is an event of much interest. as spring approaches, and the weather becomes milder, the river, which has been a thoroughfare for loaded teams and lighter sleighs, is gradually shunned, even by the daring skater. little pools of bluish water, which the sun has melted, stand in slight hollows, distinctly contrasted with the clear dark ice in the middle of the stream, or the flaky snow-crust near the shore. at length a loud crack is heard, like the report of a cannon--then another, and another--and finally the loosened mass begins to move towards the ocean. the motion at first is almost imperceptible, but it gradually increases in velocity, as the impetus of the descending ice above propels it along; and soon the dark blue waters are seen between the huge chasms of the parting ice. by and bye, the avalanches come drifting down, tumbling, crashing, and whirling along, with the foaming waves boiling up wherever they can find a crevice; and trunks of trees, fragments of buildings, and ruins of bridges, are driven along with the tumultuous mass.--a single night will sometimes clear the river of the main portion of the ice, and then the darkly-tinted waters will roll rapidly on, as though wildly rejoicing at their deliverance from bondage. but for some time the white cakes, or rather ice-islands, will be seen floating along, though hourly diminishing in size, and becoming more "like angel's visits." but there is another glad scene occasionally upon the merrimac--and that is, when there is a launching. i have already alluded to the ship-builders, and they form quite a proportion of the inhabitants of the shore. and now, by the way, i cannot omit a passing compliment to the inhabitants of this same shore. it is seldom that so correct, intelligent, contented, and truly comfortable a class of people is to be found, as in this pretty hamlet. pretty it most certainly is--for nearly all the houses are neatly painted, and some of them indicate much taste in the owners. and then the people are so kind, good, and industrious. a newburyport editor once said of them, "they are nice folks there on salisbury shore; they always pay for their newspapers"--a trait of excellence which printers can usually appreciate. but now to the ships, whose building i have often watched with interest, from the day when the long keel was laid till it was launched into the river. this is a scene which is likewise calculated to inspire salutary reflections, from the comparison which is often instituted between ourselves and a wave-tossed bark. how often is the commencement of active life compared to the launching of a ship; and even the unimaginative puritans could sing, "life's like a ship in constant motion, sometimes high and sometimes low, where every man must plough the ocean, whatsoever winds may blow." the striking analogy has been more beautifully expressed by better poets, though hardly with more force. and if we are like wind-tossed vessels on a stormy sea, then the gradual formation of our minds may be compared to the building of a ship. and it was this thought which often attracted my notice to the labors of the shipwright. first, the long keel is laid--then the huge ribs go up the sides; then the rail-way runs around the top. then commences the boarding or timbering of the sides; and for weeks, or months, the builder's maul is heard, as he pounds in the huge _trunnels_ which fasten all together. then there is the finishing inside, and the painting outside, and, after all, the launching. the first that i ever saw was a large and noble ship. it had been long in building, and i had watched its progress with much interest. the morning it was to be launched i played truant to witness the scene. it was a fine sunshiny day, sept. , ; and i almost wished i was a boy, that i might join the throng upon the deck, who were determined upon a ride. the blocks which supported the ship were severally knocked out, until it rested upon but one. when that was gone, the ship would rest upon greased planks, which descended to the water. it must have been a thrilling moment to the man who lay upon his back, beneath the huge vessel, when he knocked away the last prop. but it was done, and swiftly it glided along the planks, then plunged into the river, with an impetus which sunk her almost to her deck, and carried her nearly to the middle of the river. then she slowly rose, rocked back and forth, and finally righted herself, and stood motionless. but while the dashing foaming waters were still clamorously welcoming her to a new element, and the loud cheers from the deck were ringing up into the blue sky, the bottle was thrown, and she was named the walter scott. it will be remembered that this was the very day on which the great magician died--a fact noticed in the saturday courier about that time. several years after this, i was attending school in a neighboring town. i happened one evening to take up a newspaper. i think it was a portsmouth paper; and i saw the statement that a fine new ship had been burnt at sea, called the walter scott. the particulars were so minutely given, as to leave no room for doubt that it was the beautiful vessel which i had seen launched, upon the banks of the merrimac. annette. the first bells. chapter i. there are times when i am melancholy, when the sun seems to shine with a shadowy light, and the woods are filled with notes of sadness; when the up-springing flowers seem blossoms strewed upon a bier, and every streamlet chants a requiem. have we not all our trials? and though we may bury the sad thoughts to which they give birth in the dark recesses of our own hearts, yet memory and sensibility must both be dead, if we can always be light and mirthful. once it was not so. there was a time when i gaily viewed the dull clouds of a rainy day, and could hear the voice of rejoicing in the roarings of the wintry storm, when sorrow was an unmeaning word, and in things which now appear sacred my thoughtless mind could see the ludicrous. these thoughts have been suggested by the recollection of a poor old couple, to whom in my careless girlhood i gave the name of "the first bells." and now, i doubt not, you are wondering what strange association of ideas could have led me to fasten this appellation upon a poor old man and woman. my answer must be the narration of a few facts. when i was young, we all worshipped in the great meeting-house, which now stands so vacant and forlorn upon the brow of church hill. it is never used but upon town-meeting days--for those who once went up to the house of god in company, now worship in three separate buildings. there is discord between them--that worst of all hatred, the animosity which arises from difference of religious opinions. i am sorry for it; not that i regret that they cannot all think alike, but that they cannot "agree to differ." because the heads are not in unison, it needeth not that the hearts should be estranged; and a difference of faith may be expressed in kindly words. i have my friends among them all, and they are not the less dear to me, because upon some doctrinal points our opinions cannot be the same. a creed which i do not now believe is hallowed by recollections of the sabbath worship, the evening meetings, the religious feelings--in short, of the faith, hope, and trust of my earlier days. i remember now how still and beautiful our sunday mornings used to seem, after the toil and play of the busy week. i would take my catechism in my hand, and go and sit upon a large flat stone, under the shade of the chestnut tree; and, looking abroad, would wonder if there was a thing which did not feel that it was the sabbath. the sun was as bright and warm as upon other days, but its light seemed to fall more softly upon the fields, woods and hills; and though the birds sung as loudly and joyfully as ever, i thought their sweet voices united in a more sacred strain. i heard a sabbath tone in the waving of the boughs above me, and the hum of the bees around me, and even the bleating of the lambs and the lowing of the kine seemed pitched upon some softer key. thus it is that the heart fashions the mantle with which it is wont to enrobe all nature, and gives to its never silent voices a tone of joy, or sorrow, or holy peace. we had then no bell; and when the hour approached for the commencement of religious services, each nook and dale sent forth its worshippers in silence. but precisely half an hour before the rest of our neighbors started, the old man and woman, who lived upon pine hill, could be seen wending their way to the meeting-house. they walked side by side, with a slow even step, such as was befitting the errand which had brought them forth. their appearance was always the signal for me to lay aside my book, and prepare to follow them to the house of god. and it was because they were so unvarying in their early attendance, because i was never disappointed in the forms which first emerged from the pine trees upon the hill, that i gave them the name of "the first bells." why they went thus regularly early i know not, but think it probable they wished for time to rest after their long walk, and then to prepare their hearts to join in exercises which were evidently more valued by them than by most of those around them. yet it must have been a deep interest which brought so large a congregation from the scattered houses, and many far-off dwellings of our thinly peopled country town. and every face was then familiar to me. i knew each white-headed patriarch who took his seat by the door of his pew, and every aged woman who seated herself in the low chair in the middle of it; and the countenances of the middle-aged and the young were rendered familiar by the exchange of sabbath glances, as we met year after year in that humble temple. but upon none did i look with more interest than upon "the first bells." there they always were when i took my accustomed seat at the right hand of the pulpit. their heads were always bowed in meditation till they arose to join in the morning prayer; and when the choir sent forth their strain of praise they drew nearer to each other, and looked upon the same book, as they silently sent forth the spirit's song to their father in heaven. there was an expression of meekness, of calm and perfect faith, and of subdued sorrow upon the countenances of both, which won my reverence, and excited my curiosity to know more of them. they were poor. i knew it by the coarse and much-worn garments which they always wore; but i could not conjecture why they avoided the society and sympathy of all around them. they always waited for our pastor's greeting when he descended from the pulpit, and meekly bowed to all around, but farther than this, their intercourse with others extended not. it appeared to me that some heavy trial, which had knit their own hearts more closely together, and endeared to them their faith and its religious observances, had also rendered them unusually sensitive to the careless remarks and curious inquiries of a country neighborhood. one sabbath our pastor preached upon parental love. his text was that affecting ejaculation of david, "o absalom, my son, my son!" he spoke of the depth and fervor of that affection which in a parental heart will remain unchanged and unabated, through years of sin, estrangement, and rebellion. he spoke of that reckless insubordination which often sends pang after pang through the parent's breast; and of wicked deeds which sometimes bring their grey hairs in sorrow to the grave. i heard stifled sobs; and looking up, saw that the old man and woman at the right hand of the pulpit had buried their faces in their hands. they were trembling with agitation, and i saw that a fount of deep and painful remembrances had now been opened. they soon regained their usual calmness, but i thought their steps more slow, and their countenances more sorrowful that day, when after our morning service had closed, they went to the grave in the corner of the churchyard. there was no stone to mark it, but their feet had been wearing, for many a sabbath noon, the little path which led to it. i went that night to my mother, and asked her if she could not tell me something about "the first bells." she chid me for the phrase by which i was wont to designate them, but said that her knowledge of their former life was very limited. several years before, she added, a man was murdered in hot blood in a distant town, by a person named john l. the murderer was tried and hung; and not long after, this old man and woman came and hired the little cottage upon pine hill. their names were the same that the murderer had borne, and their looks of sadness and retiring manners had led to the conclusion that they were his parents. no one knew, certainly, that it was so--for they shrunk from all inquiries, and never adverted to the past; but a gentle and sad looking girl, who had accompanied them to their new place of abode, had pined away, and died within the first year of their arrival. she was their daughter, and was supposed to have died of a broken heart for her brother who had been hung. she was buried in the corner of the churchyard, and every pleasant sabbath noon her aged parents had mourned together over her lowly grave. "and now, my daughter," said my mother, in conclusion "respect their years, their sorrows, and, above all, the deep fervent piety which cheers and sustains them, and which has been nurtured by agonies, and watered by tears, such as i hope my child will never know." my mother drew me to her side, and kissed me tenderly; and i resolved that never again would i in a spirit of levity call mr. and mrs. l. "the first bells." chapter ii. years passed on; and through summer's sunshine and its showers, and through winter's cold and frost, and storms, that old couple still went upon their never-failing sabbath pilgrimage. i can see them even now, as they looked in days long gone by. the old man, with his loose, black, quaker-like coat, and low-crowned, much-worn hat, his heavy cowhide boots, and coarse blue mittens; and his partner walking slowly by his side, wearing a scanty brown cloak with four little capes, and a close, black, rusty-looking bonnet. in summer the cloak was exchanged for a cotton shawl, and the woollen gown for one of mourning print. the sabbath expression was as unchangeable as its dress. their features were very different, but they had the same mild, mournful look, the same touching glance, whenever their eyes rested upon each other; and it was one which spoke of sympathy, hallowed by heartfelt piety. at length a coffin was borne upon a bier from the little house upon the hill; and after that the widow went alone each sabbath noon to the two graves in the corner of the churchyard. i felt sad when i thought how lonely and sorrowful she must be now; and one pleasant day i ventured an unbidden guest into her lowly cot. as i approached her door, i heard her singing in a low, tremulous tone, "how are thy servants blessed, o lord." i was touched to the heart; for i could see that her blessings were those of a faith, hope, and joy, which the world could neither give nor take away. she was evidently destitute of what the world calls comforts, and i feared she might also want its necessaries. but her look was almost cheerful as she assured me that her knitting (at which i perceived she was quite expeditious) supplied her with all which she now wanted. i looked upon her sunburnt, wrinkled countenance, and thought it radiant with moral beauty. she wore no cap, and her thin grey hair was combed back from her furrowed brow. her dress was a blue woollen skirt, and a short loose gown; and her hard shrivelled hands bore witness to much unfeminine labor. yet she was contented, and even happy, and singing praise to god for his blessings. the next winter i thought i could perceive a faltering in her gait whenever she ascended church hill; and one sabbath she was not in her accustomed seat. the next, she was also absent; and when i looked upon pine hill, i could perceive no smoke issuing from her chimney. i felt anxious, and requested liberty to make, what was then in our neighborhood an unusual occurrence, a sabbath visit. my mother granted me permission to go, and remain as long as my services might be necessary; and at the close of the afternoon worship, i went to the little house upon the hill. i listened eagerly for some sound as i entered the cold apartment; but hearing none, i tremblingly approached the low hard bed. she was lying there with the same calm look of resignation, and whispered a few words of welcome as i took her hand. "you are sick and alone," said i to her; "tell me what i can do for you." "i am sick," was her reply, "but not _alone_. he who is every where, and at all times present, has been with me, in the day and in the night. i have prayed to him, and received answers of mercy, love, and peace. he has sent his angel to call me home, and there is nought for you to do but to watch the spirit's departure." i felt that it was so; yet i must do something. i kindled a fire, and prepared some refreshment; and after she drank a bowl of warm tea, i thought she looked better. she asked me for her bible, and i brought her the worn volume which had been lying upon the little stand. she took from it a soiled and much worn letter, and after pressing it to her lips, endeavored to open it--but her hands were too weak, and it dropped upon the bed. "no matter," said she, as i offered to open it for her; "i know all that is in it, and in that book also. but i thought i should like to look once more upon them both. i have read them daily for many years till now; but i do not mind it--i shall go soon." she followed me with her eyes as i laid them aside, and then closing them, her lips moved as if in prayer. she soon after fell into a slumber, and i watched her every breath, fearing it might be the last. what lessons of wisdom, truth and fortitude were taught me by that humble bed-side! i had never before been with the dying, and i had always imagined a death-bed to be fraught with terror. i expected that there were always fearful shrieks and appalling groans, as the soul left its clay tenement; but my fears were now dispelled. a sweet calmness stole into my inmost soul, as i watched by the low couch of the sufferer; and i said, "if this be death, may my last end be like hers." but at length i saw that some dark dream had brought a frown upon the pallid brow, and an expression of woe around the parched lips. she was endeavoring to speak or to weep, and i was about to awaken her, when a sweet smile came like a flash of sunlight over her sunken face, and i saw that the dream of woe was exchanged for one of pleasure. then she slept calmly, and i wondered if the spirit would go home in that peaceful slumber. but at length she awoke, and after looking upon me and her little room with a bewildered air, she heaved a sigh, and said mournfully, "i thought that i was not to come back again, but it is only for a little while. i have had a pleasant dream, but not at first. i thought once that i stood in the midst of a vast multitude, and we were all looking up at one who was struggling on a gallows. o, i have seen that sight in many a dream before, but still i could not bear it, and i said, 'father, have mercy;' and then i thought that the sky rolled away from behind the gallows, and there was a flood of glory in the depth beyond; and i heard a voice saying to him who was hanging there, 'this day shalt thou be with me in paradise!' and then the gallows dropped, and the multitude around me vanished, and the sky rolled together again; but before it had quite closed over that scene of beauty, i looked again, and _they were all there_. yes," added she with a placid smile, "i know that _he_ is there with them; the _three_ are in heaven, and _i_ shall be there soon." she ceased, and a drowsy feeling came over her. after a while she opened her eyes with a strange look of anxiety and terror. i went to her, but she could not speak, and she pressed my hand closely, as though she feared i would leave her. it was a momentary terror, for she knew that the last pangs were coming on. there was a painful struggle, and then came rest and peaceful confidence. "that letter," whispered she convulsively; and i went to the bible, and took from it the soiled paper which claimed her thoughts even in death. i laid it in her trembling hands, which clasped it nervously, and then pressing it to her heart, she fell into that slumber from which there is no awakening. when i saw that she was indeed gone, i took the letter, and laid it in its accustomed place; and then, after straightening the limbs, and throwing the bed-clothes over the stiffening form, i left the house. it was a dazzling scene of winter beauty that met my eye as i went forth from that lowly bed of death. the rising sun threw a rosy light upon the crusted snow, and the earth was dressed in a robe of sparkling jewels. the trees were hung with glittering drops, and the frozen streams were dressed in lobes of brilliant beauty. i thought of her upon whose eyes a brighter morn had beamed, and of a scene of beauty upon which no sun should ever set, and whose never-fading glories shall yield a happiness which may never pass away. i went home, and told my mother what had passed; and she went, with some others, to prepare the body for burial. i went to look upon it once more, the morning of the funeral. the features had assumed a rigid aspect, but the placid smile was still there. the hands were crossed upon the breast; and as the form lay so still and calm in its snowy robes, i almost wished that the last change might come upon me, so that it would bring a peace like this, which should last for evermore. i went to the bible, and took from it that letter. curiosity was strong within me, and i opened it. it was signed "john l.," and dated from his prison the night before his execution. but i did not read it. o no! it was too sacred. it contained those words of penitence and affection over which her stricken heart had brooded for years. it had been the well-spring from which she had drunk joy and consolation, and derived her hopes of a reunion where there should be no more shame, nor sorrow, nor death. i could not destroy that letter: so i laid it beneath the clasped hands, over the heart to which it had been pressed when its beatings were forever stilled; and they buried her, too, in the corner of the churchyard; and that tattered paper soon mouldered to ashes upon her breast. * * * * we have now a bell upon our new meeting-house; and when i hear its sabbath morning peal, my thoughts are subdued to a tone fitting for sacred worship; for my mind goes back to that old couple, whom i was wont to call "the first bells;" and i think of the power of religion to hallow and strengthen the affections, to elevate the mind, and sustain the drooping spirit, even in the saddest and humblest lot of life. susanna. [illustration: decoration] evening before pay-day. chapter i. "to-morrow is pay-day; are you not glad, rosina, and lucy? _dorcas_ is, i know; for she always loves to see the money. don't i speak truth _now_, miss dorcas tilton?" "i wish you would stop your clack, miss noisy impudence; for i never heard you speak anything that was worth an answer. let me alone, for i have not yet been able to obtain a moment's time to read my tract." "'my tract'--how came it 'my tract,' miss stingy oldmaid?--for i can call names as fast as you," was the reply of elizabeth walters. "not because you bought it, or paid for it, or gave a thank'ee to those who did; but because you lay your clutches upon every thing you can get without downright stealing." "well," replied dorcas, "i do not think i have clutched any thing now which was much coveted by anyone else." "you are right, dorcas," said rosina alden, lifting her mild blue eye for the first time towards the speakers; "the tracts left here by the monthly distributors are thrown about, and trampled under foot, even by those who most approve the sentiments which they contain. i have not seen anyone take them up to read but yourself." "she likes them," interrupted the vivacious elizabeth, "because she gets them for nothing. they come to her as cheap as the light of the sun, or the dews of heaven; and thus they are rendered quite as valuable in her eyes." "and that very cheapness, that freedom from exertion and expense by which they are obtained, is, i believe, the reason why they are generally so little valued," added rosina. "people are apt to think things worthless which come to them so easily. they believe them cheap, if they are offered cheap. now i think, without saying one word against those tracts, that they would be more valued, more perused, and exert far more influence, if they were only to be obtained by payment for them. if they do good now, it is to the publishers only; for i do not think the community in general is influenced by them in the slightest degree. if dorcas feels more interested in them because she procures them gratuitously, it is because she is an exception to the general rule." "i like sometimes," said dorcas, "to see the voice of instruction, of warning, of encouragement, and reproof, coming to the thoughtless, ignorant, poor and sinful, as it did from him who said to those whom he sent to inculcate its truths, freely ye have received, _freely give_. the gospel is an expensive luxury now, and those only who can afford to pay their four, or six, or more, dollars a year, can hear its truths from the successors of him who lifted his voice upon the lonely mountain, and opened his lips for council at the table of the despised publican, or under the humble roof of the magdalen." "do not speak harshly, dorcas," was rosina's reply; "times have indeed changed since the savior went about with not a shelter for his head, dispensing the bread of life to all who would but reach forth their hands and take it; but circumstances have also changed since then. it is true, we must lay down our money for almost everything we have; but money is much more easily obtained than it was then. it is true, we cannot procure a year's seat in one of our most expensive churches for less than your present week's wages; and if you really wish for the benefits of regular gospel instruction, you must make for it as much of an exertion as was made by the woman who went on her toilsome errand to the deep well of samaria, little aware that she was there to receive the waters of eternal life. do not say that it was by no effort, no self-denial, that the gospel was received by those who followed the great teacher to the lonely sea-side, or even to the desert, where, weary and famished, they remained day after day, beneath the heat of a burning sun, and were relieved from hunger but by a miracle. and who so poor now, or so utterly helpless, that they cannot easily obtain the record of those words which fell so freely upon the ears of the listening multitudes of judea? if there are such, there are societies which will cheerfully relieve their wants, if application be made. and these tracts, which come to us with scarcely the trouble of stretching forth our hands for their reception, are doubtless meant for good." "well, rosina," exclaimed elizabeth, "if you hold out a little longer, i think dorcas will have no reason to complain but that she gets _her_ preaching cheap enough; but as i, for one, am entirely willing to pay for mine, you may be excused for the present; and those who wish to hear a theological discussion, can go and listen to the very able expounders of the baptist and universalist faiths, who are just now holding forth in the other chamber. as dorcas hears no preaching but that which comes _as cheap as the light of the sun_, she will probably like to go; and do not be offended with me, rosina, if i tell you plainly, that you are not the one to rebuke her. what sacrifice have you made? how much have you spent? when have you ever given anything for the support of the gospel?" a tear started to rosina's eye, and the color deepened upon her cheek. her lip quivered, but she remained silent. "well," said lucy to elizabeth, "all this difficulty is the effect of the very simple question you asked; and i will answer for one, that i am glad to-morrow is pay-day. pray what shall you get that is new, elizabeth?" "oh, i shall get one of those damask silk shawls which are now so fashionable. how splendid it will look! let me see; this is a five weeks' payment, and i have earned about two dollars per week; and so have you, and rosina; and dorcas has earned a great deal more, for she has extra work. pray what new thing shall _you_ get, dorcas?" added she, laughing. "she will get a new bank book, i suppose," replied lucy. "she has already deposited in her own name five hundred dollars, and now she has got a book in the name of her little niece, and i do not know but she will soon procure another. she almost worships them, and sundays she stays here reckoning up her interest while we are at meeting." "i think it is far better," retorted dorcas, "to stay at home, than to go to meeting, as elizabeth does, to show her fine clothes. i do not make a mockery of public worship to god." "there, lizzy, you must take that, for you deserved it," said lucy to her friend. "you know you _do_ spend almost all your money in dress." "well," said elizabeth, "i shall sow all my wild oats now, and when i am an old maid i will be as steady, but _not quite_ so stingy as dorcas. i will get a bank book, and trot down merrimack street as often as she does, and everybody will say, 'what a remarkable change in elizabeth walters! she used to spend all her wages as fast as they were paid her, but now she puts them in the bank. she will be quite a fortune for some one, and i have no doubt she will get married for what she _has_, if not for what she is.' but i cannot begin now, and i don't see how _you_ can, rosina." "i have not begun," replied rosina, in a low sorrowful tone. "why yes, you have; you are as miserly now as dorcas herself; and i cannot bear to think of what you may become. now tell me if you will not get a new gown and bonnet, and go to meeting?" "i cannot," replied rosina, decidedly. "well, do, if you have any mercy on us, buy a new gown to wear in the mill, for your old one is so shabby. when calico is nine-pence a yard, i do think it is mean to wear such an old thing as that; besides, i should not wonder if it should soon drop off your back." "will it not last me one month more?" and rosina began to mend the tattered dress with a very wistful countenance. "why, i somewhat doubt it; but at all events, you must have another pair of shoes." "these are but just beginning to let in the water," said rosina; "i think they must last me till another pay-day." "well, if you have a fever or consumption, dorcas may take care of you, for _i_ will not; but what," continued the chattering elizabeth, "shall you buy that is new, lucy?" "oh, a pretty new, though cheap, bonnet; and i shall also pay my quarter's pew-rent, and a year's subscription to the 'lowell offering;' and that is all that i shall spend. you have laughed much about old maids; but it was an old maid who took care of me when i first came to lowell, and she taught me to lay aside half of every month's wages. it is a rule from which i have never deviated, and thus i have quite a pretty sum at interest, and have never been in want of anything." "well," said elizabeth, "will you go out to-night with me, and we will look at the bonnets, and also the damask silk shawls? i wish to know the prices. how i wish to-day had been pay-day, and then i need not have gone out with an empty purse." "well, lizzy, _you_ know that 'to-morrow is pay-day,' do you not?" "oh yes, and the beautiful pay-master will come in, rattling his coppers so nicely." "beautiful!" exclaimed lucy; "do you call our pay-master _beautiful_?" "why, i do not know that he would look beautiful, if he was coming to cut my head off; but really, that money-box makes him look delightfully." "well, lizzy, it _does_ make a great difference in his appearance, i know; but if we are going out to-night, we must be in a hurry." "if you go by the post-office, do ask if there is a letter for me," said rosina. "oh, i hate to go near the post-office in the evening; the girls act as wild as so many caribbee indians. sometimes i have to stand there an hour on the ends of my toes, stretching my neck, and sticking out my eyes; and when i think i have been pommeled and jostled long enough, i begin to 'set up on my own hook,' and i push away the heads that have been at the list as if they were committing it all to memory, and i send my elbows right and left in the most approved style, till i find myself 'master of the field.'" "oh, lizzy! you know better; how can you do so?" "why, lucy, pray tell me what _you_ do?" "i go away, if there is a crowd; or if i feel very anxious to know whether there is a letter for me, the worst that i do is to try 'sliding and gliding.' i dodge between folks, or slip through them, till i get waited upon. but i know that we all act worse there than anywhere else; and if the post-master speaks a good word for the factory girls, i think it must come against his conscience, unless he has seen them somewhere else than in the office." "well, well, we must hasten along," said elizabeth; "and stingy as rosina is, i suppose she will be willing to pay for a letter; so i will buy her one, if i can get it. good evening, ladies," continued she, tying her bonnet; and she hurried after lucy, who was already down the stairs, leaving dorcas to read her tract at leisure, and rosina to patch her old calico gown, with none to torment her. chapter ii. "two letters!" exclaimed elizabeth, as she burst into the chamber, holding them up, as little goody in the storybook held up her "two shoes;" "two letters! one for _you_, rosina, and the other is for _me_. only look at it! it is from a cousin of mine, who has never lived out of sight of the green mountains. i do believe, notwithstanding all that is said about the ignorance of the factory girls, that the letters which _go out_ of lowell look as well as those which _come into_ it. see here: up in the left hand corner, the direction commences, 'miss;' one step lower is 'elizabeth;' then down another step, 'walters.' another step brings us down to 'lowell;' one more is the 'city;' and down in the right hand corner is 'massachusetts,' at full length. quite a regular stair-case, if the steps had been all of an equal width. miss elizabeth walters, lowell city, massachusetts, anticipates much edification from the perusal thereof," said she, as she broke the seal. "oh, i must tell you an anecdote," said lucy. "while we were waiting there, i saw one girl push her face into the little aperture, and ask if there was a paper for her; and the clerk asked if it was a transient paper. 'a what?' said she. 'a transient paper,' he repeated. 'why, i don't know what paper it is,' was the reply; 'sometimes our folks send me one, and sometimes another.'" dorcas and elizabeth laughed, and the latter exclaimed, "girls, i am not so selfish as to be unwilling that you should share my felicity. should you not like to see my letter?" and she held it up before them. "it is quite a contrast to our rosina's delicate italian penmanship, although she is a factory girl." "dear cousin.--i write this to let you know that i am well, and hope you are enjoying the same great blessing. father and mother are well too. uncle joshua is sick of the information of the brain. we think he will die, but he says that he shall live his days out. we have not had a letter from you since you went to lowell. i send this by mary twining, an old friend of mine. she works upon the appletown corporation. she will put this in the post-office, because we do not know where you work. i hope you will go and see her. we have had a nice time making maple sugar this spring. i wish you had been with us. when you are married, you must come with your husband. write to me soon, and if you don't have a chance to send it by private conveyance, drop it into the post-office. i shall get it, for the mail-stage passes through the village twice a week. 'i want to see you morn, i think, than i can write with pen and ink; but when i shall, i cannot tell-- at present i must wish you well.' "your loving cousin, "judith walters." "well," said elizabeth, drawing a long breath, "i do not think my _loving cousin_ will ever die of the 'information of the brain;' but if it should get there, i do not know what might happen.--but, rosina, from whom is _your_ letter?" "my mother," said rosina; and she seated herself at the little light-stand, with a sheet of paper, pen, and inkstand. "why, you do not intend to answer it to-night?" "i must commence it to-night," replied rosina, "and finish it to-morrow night, and carry it to the post-office. i cannot write a whole letter in one evening." "why, what is the matter?" said dorcas. "my twin-sister is very sick," replied rosina; and the tears she could no longer restrain gushing freely forth. the girls, who had before been in high spirits, over cousin judy's letter, were subdued in an instant. oh, how quick is the influence of sympathy for grief! not another word was spoken. the letter was put away in silence, and the girls glided noiselessly around the room, as they prepared to retire to rest. shall we take a peep at rosina's letter? it may remove some false impressions respecting her character, and many are probably suffering injustice from erroneous opinions, when, if all could be known, the very conduct which has exposed them to censure would excite approbation. her widowed mother's letter was the following:-- "my dear child.--many thanks for your last letter, and many more for the present it contained. it was very acceptable, for it reached me when i had not a cent in the world. i fear you deprive yourself of necessaries to send me so much. but all you can easily spare will be gladly received. i have as much employment at tailoring as i can find time to do, and sometimes i sit up all night, when i cannot accomplish my self-allotted task during the day. "i have delayed my reply to your letter, because i wished to know what the doctors really thought of your sister marcia. they consulted to-day, and tell me _there is no hope_. the suspense is now over, but i thought i was better prepared for the worst than i am. she wished me to tell her what the doctors said. at length i yielded to her importunities. 'oh, mother,' said she, with a sweet smile, 'i am so glad they have told you, for i have known it for a long time. you must write to rosina to come and see me before i die.' do as you think best, my dear, about coming. you know how glad we would be to see you. but if you cannot come, do not grieve too much about it.--marcia must soon die, and you, i hope, will live many years; but the existence which you commenced together here, i feel assured will be continued in a happier world. the interruption which will now take place will be short, in comparison with the life itself which shall have no end. and yet it is hard to think that one so young, so good, and lovely, is so soon to lie in the silent grave. while the blue skies of heaven are daily growing more softly beautiful, and the green things of earth are hourly putting forth a brighter verdure, she, too, like the lovely creatures of nature, is constantly acquiring some new charm, to fit her for that world which she will so soon inhabit. death is coming, with his severest tortures, but she arrays her person in bright loveliness at his approach, and her spirit is robed in graces which well may fit her for that angel-band, which she is so soon to join. "i am now writing by her bed-side. she is sleeping soundly now, but there is a heavy dew upon the cheek, brow, and neck of the tranquil sleeper. a rose--it is one of _your_ roses, rosina--is clasped in her transparent hand: and one rosy pedal has somehow dropped upon her temple. it breaks the line which the blue vein has so distinctly traced on the clear white brow. i will take it away, and enclose it in the letter. when you see it, perhaps it will bring more vividly to memory the days when you and marcia frolicked together among the wild rose bushes.--those which you transplanted to the front of the house have grown astonishingly. marcia took care of them as long as she could go out of doors; for she wished to do something to show her gratitude to you. now that she can go among them no longer, she watches them through the window, and the little boys bring her every morning the most beautiful blossoms. she enjoys their beauty and fragrance, as she does everything which is reserved for her enjoyment. there is but one thought which casts a shade upon that tranquil spirit, and it is that she is such a helpless burden upon us. the last time that she received a compensation for some slight article which she had exerted herself to complete, she took the money and sent willy for some salt. 'now, mother,' said she, with the arch smile which so often illuminated her countenance in the days of health, 'now, mother you cannot say that i do not earn my salt.' "but i must soon close, for in a short time she will awaken, and suffer for hours from her agonizing cough.--no one need tell me now that a consumption makes an easy path to the grave. i watched too long by your father's bed-side, and have witnessed too minutely all of marcia's sufferings to be persuaded of this. "but she breathes less softly now, and i must hasten. i have said little of the other members of the family, for i knew you would like to hear particularly about her. the little boys are well--they are obedient to me, and kind to their sister. answer as soon as you receive this, for marcia's sake, unless you come and visit us. "and now, hoping that this will find you in good health, as, by the blessing of god, it leaves me, (a good though an old-fashioned manner of closing a letter,) i remain as ever, "your affectionate mother." rosina's reply was as follows:-- "dear mother.--i have just received your long-expected letter, and have seated myself to commence an answer, for i cannot go home. "i do wish very much to see you all, especially dear marcia, once more; but it is not best. i know you think so, or you would have urged my return. i think i shall feel more contented here, earning comforts for my sick sister and necessaries for you, than i should be there, and unable to relieve a want. 'to-morrow is pay-day,' and my earnings, amounting to ten dollars, i shall enclose in this letter. do not think i am suffering for anything, for i get a long very well. but i am obliged to be extremely prudent, and the girls here call me miserly. oh, mother! it is hard to be so misunderstood; but i cannot tell _them_ all. "but your kind letters are indeed a solace to me, for they assure me that the mother whom i have always loved and reverenced approves of my conduct. i shall feel happier to-morrow night, when i enclose that bill to you, than my room-mates can be in the far different disposal of theirs. "what a blessing it is that we can send money to our friends; and indeed what a blessing that we can send them a letter. last evening you was penning the lines which i have just perused, in my far-distant home; and not twenty-four hours have elapsed since the rose-leaf before me was resting on the brow of my sister; but it is now ten o'clock, and i must bid you good night, reserving for to-morrow evening the remainder of my epistle, which i shall address to marcia." it was long before rosina slept that night; and when she did, she was troubled at first by fearful dreams. but at length it seemed to her that she was approaching the quiet home of her childhood. she did not remember where she had been, but had a vague impression that it was in some scene of anxiety, sorrow, and fatigue; and she was longing to reach that little cot, where it appeared so still and happy. she thought the sky was very clear above it, and the yellow sunshine lay softly on the hills and fields around it. she saw her rose-bushes blooming around it, like a little wilderness of blossoms; and while she was admiring their increased size and beauty, the door was opened, and a body arrayed in the snowy robes of the grave, was carried beneath the rose-bushes. they bent to a slight breeze which swept above them, and a shower of snowy petals fell upon the marble face and shrouded form. it was as if nature had paid this last tribute of gratitude to one who had been one of her truest and loveliest votaries. rosina started forward that she might remove the fragrant covering, and imprint one last kiss upon the fair cold brow; but a hand was laid upon her, and a well-known voice repeated her name. and then she started, for she heard the bell ring loudly; and she opened her eyes as dorcas again cried out, "rosina, the second bell is ringing."--elizabeth and lucy were already dressed, and they exclaimed at the same moment, "remember, rosina, that _to-day is pay-day_." lucinda. the indian pledge. on the door-steps of a cottage in the land of "steady habits," some ninety or an hundred years since, might, on a soft evening in june, have been seen a sturdy young farmer, preparing his scythes for the coming hay-making season. so intent was he upon his work that he heeded not the approach of a tall indian, accoutred for a hunting expedition, until, "will you give an unfortunate hunter some supper and lodging for the night?" in a tone of supplication, caught his ear. the farmer raised his eyes from his work, and darting fury from beneath a pair of shaggy eyebrows, he exclaimed, "heathen, indian dog, begone! you shall have nothing here." "but i am very hungry," said the indian; "give only a crust of bread and a bone to strengthen me on my journey." "get you gone, you heathen dog," said the farmer; "i have nothing for you." "give me but a cup of cold water," said the indian, "for i am very faint." this appeal was not more successful than the others.--reiterated abuse, and to be told to drink when he came to a river, was all he could obtain from one who bore the name of christian! but the supplicating appeal fell not unheeded on the ear of one of finer mould and more sensibility. the farmer's youthful bride heard the whole, as she sat hushing her infant to rest; and from the open casement she watched the poor indian until she saw his dusky form sink, apparently exhausted, on the ground at no great distance from her dwelling. ascertaining that her husband was too busied with his work to notice her, she was soon at the indian's side, with a pitcher of milk and a napkin filled with bread and cheese. "will my red brother slake his thirst with some milk?" said this angel of mercy; and as he essayed to comply with her invitation, she untied the napkin, and bade him eat and be refreshed. "cantantowwit protect the white dove from the pounces of the eagle," said the indian; "for _her_ sake the unfledged young shall be safe in their nest, and her red brother will not seek to be revenged." he then drew a bunch of feathers from his bosom, and plucking one of the longest, gave it to her, and said, "when the white dove's mate flies over the indians' hunting grounds, bid him wear this on his head." * * * * the summer had passed away. harvest-time had come and gone, and preparations had been made for a hunting excursion by the neighbors. our young farmer was to be one of the party; but on the eve of their departure he had strange misgivings relative to his safety. no doubt his imagination was haunted by the form of the indian, whom, in the preceding summer he had treated so harshly. the morning that witnessed the departure of the hunters was one of surpassing beauty. not a cloud was to be seen, save one that gathered on the brow of ichabod (our young farmer), as he attempted to tear a feather from his hunting-cap, which was sewed fast to it. his wife arrested his hand, while she whispered in his ear, and a slight quiver agitated his lips as he said, "well, mary, if you think this feather will protect me from the arrows of the red-skins, i'll e'en let it remain." ichabod donned his cap, shouldered his rifle, and the hunters were soon on their way in quest of game. the day wore away as was usual with people on a like excursion; and at nightfall they took shelter in the den of a bear, whose flesh served for supper, and whose skin spread on bruin's bed of leaves, pillowed their heads through a long november night. with the first dawn of morning, the hunters left their rude shelter and resumed their chase. ichabod, by some mishap, soon separated from his companions, and in trying to join them got bewildered. he wandered all day in the forest, and just as the sun was receding from sight, and he was about sinking down in despair, he espied an indian hut. with mingled emotions of hope and fear, he bent his steps towards it; and meeting an indian at the door, he asked him to direct him to the nearest white settlement. "if the weary hunter will rest till morning, the eagle will show him the way to the nest of his white dove," said the indian, as he took ichabod by the hand and led him within his hut. the indian gave him a supper of parched corn and venison, and spread the skins of animals, which he had taken in hunting, for his bed. the light had hardly began to streak the east, when the indian awoke ichabod, and after a slight repast, the twain started for the settlement of the whites. late in the afternoon, as they emerged from a thick wood, ichabod with joy espied his home. a heartfelt ejaculation had scarce escaped his lips, when the indian stepped before him, and turning around, stared him full in the face, and inquired if he had any recollection of a previous acquaintance with his red brother. upon being answered in the negative, the indian said, "five moons ago, when i was faint and weary, you called me an indian dog, and drove me from your door. i might now be revenged; but cantantowwit bids me tell you to go home; and hereafter, when you see a red man in need of kindness, do to him as you have been done by. farewell." the indian having said this, turned upon his heel, and was soon out of sight. ichabod was abashed. he went home purified in heart, having learned a lesson of christianity from an untutored savage. tabitha. the first dish of tea. tea holds a conspicuous place in the history of our country; but it is no part of my business to offer comments, or to make any remarks upon the spirit of olden time, which prompted those patriotic defenders of their country's rights to destroy so much tea, to express their indignation at the oppression of their fellow citizens. i only intend to inform the readers of the "lowell offering" that the first dish of tea which was ever made in portsmouth, n. h., was made by abigail van dame, my great-great-grandmother. abigail was early in life left an orphan, and the care of her tender years devolved upon her aunt townsend, to whose store fate had never added any of the smiling blessings of providence; and as a thing in course, abigail became not only the adopted, but also the well-beloved, child of her uncle and aunt townsend. they gave her every advantage for an education which the town of portsmouth afforded; and at the age of seventeen she was acknowledged to be the most accomplished young lady in portsmouth. many were the worshippers who bowed at the shrine of beauty and learning at the domicile of alphonzo townsend; but his lovely niece was unmoved by their petitions, much to the perplexity of her aunt, who often charged abigail with carrying an obdurate heart in her bosom. in vain did mrs. townsend urge her niece to accept the offers of a young student of law; and equally vain were her efforts to gain a clue to the cause of the refusal, until, by the return of an east india merchantman, mr. townsend received a small package for his niece, and a letter from captain lowd, asking his consent to their union, which he wished might take place the following year, when he should return to portsmouth. abigail's package contained a chinese silk hat, the crown of which was full of bohea tea. a letter informed her that the contents of the hat was the ingredient, which, boiled in water, made what was called the "chinese soup." abigail, anxious to ascertain the flavor of a beverage, of which she had heard much, put the brass skillet over the coals, poured in two quarts of water, and added thereto a pint bason full of tea, and a gill of molasses, and let it simmer an hour. she then strained it through a linen cloth, and in some pewter basins set it around the supper table, in lieu of bean-porridge, which was the favorite supper of the epicures of the olden time. uncle, aunt, and abigail, seated themselves around the little table, and after crumbling some brown bread into their basins, commenced eating the chinese soup. the first spoonful set their faces awry, but the second was past endurance; and mrs. townsend screamed with fright, for she imagined that she had tasted poison. the doctor was sent for, who administered a powerful emetic; and the careful aunt persuaded her niece to consign her hat and its contents to the vault of an outbuilding. when capt. lowd returned to portsmouth, he brought with him a chest of tea, a china tea-set, and a copper teakettle, and instructed abigail in the art of tea-making and tea drinking, to the great annoyance of her aunt townsend, who could never believe that chinese soup was half so good as bean-porridge. the _first dish of tea_ afforded a fund of amusement for capt. lowd and lady, and i hope the narrative will be acceptable to modern tea-drinkers. tabitha. leisure hours of the mill girls. the leisure hours of the mill girls--how shall they be spent? as ann, bertha, charlotte, emily, and others, spent theirs? as we spend ours? let us decide. no. was to stop a day for repairs. ann sat at her window until she tired of watching passers-by. she then started up in search of one idle as herself, for a companion in a saunter. she called at the chamber opposite her own. the room was sadly disordered. the bed was not made, although it was past nine o'clock. in making choice of dresses, collars, aprons, _pro tempore_, some half dozen of each had been taken from their places, and there they were, lying about on chairs, trunks, and bed, together with mill clothes just taken off. bertha had not combed her hair; but charlotte gave hers a hasty dressing before "going out shopping;" and there lay brush, combs, and hair on the table. there were a few pictures hanging about the walls, such as "you are the prettiest rose," "the kiss," "man friday," and a miserable, soiled drawing of a "cottage girl." bertha blushed when ann entered. she was evidently ashamed of the state of her room, and vexed at ann's intrusion. ann understood the reason when bertha told her, with a sigh, that she had been "hurrying all the morning to get through the 'children of the abbey,' before charlotte returned." "ann, i wish you would talk to her," said she. "her folks are very poor. i have it on the best authority. elinda told me that it was confidently reported by girls who came from the same town, that her folks had been known to jump for joy at the sight of a crust of bread. she spends every cent of her wages for dress and confectionary. she has gone out now; and she will come back with lemons, sugar, rich cake, and so on. she had better do as i do--spend her money for books, and her leisure time in reading them. i buy three volumes of novels every month; and when that is not enough, i take some from the circulating library. i think it our duty to improve our minds as much as possible, now the mill girls are beginning to be thought so much of." ann was a bit of a wag. idle as a breeze, like a breeze she sported with every _trifling_ thing that came in her way. "pshaw!" said she. "and so we must begin to read silly novels, be very sentimental, talk about tears and flowers, dews and bowers. there is some poetry for you, bertha. don't you think i'd better 'astonish the natives,' by writing a poetical rhapsody, nicknamed 'twilight reverie,' or some other silly, inappropriate thing, and sending it to the 'offering?' oh, how fine this would be! then i could purchase a few novels, borrow a few more, take a few more from a circulating library; and then shed tears and grow soft over them--all because we are taking a higher stand in the world, you know, bertha." bertha again blushed. ann remained some moments silent. "did you ever read pelham?" asked bertha, by way of breaking the silence. "no; i read no novels, good, bad, or indifferent. i have been thinking, bertha, that there may be danger of our running away from the reputation we enjoy, as a class. for my part, i sha'n't ape the follies of other classes of females. as isabel greenwood says--and you know she is always right about such things--i think we shall lose our independence, originality, and individuality of character, if we all take one standard of excellence, and this the customs and opinions of others. this is a jaw-cracking sentence for me. if any body had uttered it but isabel, i should, perhaps, have laughed at it. as it was, i treasured it up for use, as i do the wise sayings of franklin, dudley, leavitt, and robert thomas. i, for one, shall not attempt to become so accomplished. i shall do as near right as i can conveniently, not because i have a heavy burden of gentility to support, but because it is quite as easy to do right, 'and then i sleep so sweet at night.' "good morning, bertha." at the door she met charlotte, on her return, with lemons, nuts, and cake. "i am in search of a companion for a long ramble," said ann. "can you recommend a _subject_?" "i should think bertha would like to shake herself," said charlotte. "she has been buried in a novel ever since she was out of bed this morning. it was her turn to do the chamber work this morning; and this is the way she always does, if she can get a novel. she would not mind sitting all day, with dirt to her head. it is a shame for her to do so. she had better be wide awake, enjoying life, as i am." "nonsense!" exclaimed ann, in her usual _brusque_ manner. "there is not a cent's choice between you this morning; both are doing wrong, and each is condemning the other without mercy. so far you are both just like me, you see. good morning." she walked on to the next chamber. she had enough of the philosopher about her to reason from appearances, and from the occupation of its inmates, that she could succeed no better there. every thing was in the most perfect order. the bed was shaped, and the sheet hemmed down _just so_. their lines that hung by the walls were filled "jist." first came starched aprons, then starched capes, then pocket handkerchiefs, folded with the marked corner out. then hose. this room likewise, had its paintings, and like those of the other, they were in perfect keeping with the general arrangements of the room and the dress of its occupants. there was an apology for a lady. her attitude and form were of precisely that uncouth kind which is produced by youthful artificers, who form head, body and feet from one piece of shingle; and wedge in two sticks at right angles with the body, for arms. her sleeves increased in dimensions from the shoulders, and the skirt from the belt, but without the semblance of a fold. this, with some others of the same school, and two "profiles," were carefully preserved in frames, and the frames in screens of green barage. miss clark was busily engaged in making netting, and miss emily in making a dress. ann made known her wants to them, more from curiosity to hear their reply, than from a hope of success. in measured periods they thanked her--would have been happy to accompany her. "but, really, i must be excused," said miss clark. "i have given myself a stint, and i always feel bad if i fall an inch short of my plans." "yes; don't you think, ann," said emily, "she has stinted herself to make five yards of netting to-day. and mother says there is ten times as much in the house as we shall ever need. father says there is twenty times as much; for he knows we shall both be old maids, ha! ha!" "yes, and i always tell him that if i am an old maid i shall need the more. our folks make twenty or thirty yards of table linen every year. i mean to make fringe for every yard; and have enough laid by for the next ten years, before i leave the mill." "well, emily," said ann, "you have no fringe to make, can't you accompany me?" "i should be glad to, ann; but i am over head and ears in work. i have got my work all done up, every thing that i could find to do. now i am making a dress for bertha." "why, emily, you are making a slave of yourself, body and mind," said ann. "can't you earn enough in the mill to afford yourself a little time for rest and amusement?" "la! i don't make but twelve dollars a month, besides my board. i have made a great many dresses evenings, and have stinted myself to finish this to-day. so i believe i can't go, any way. i should be terrible glad to." "oh, you are very excusable," answered ann. "but let me ask if you take any time to read." "no; not much. we can't afford to. father owns the best farm in burt; but we have always had to work hard, and always expect to. we generally read a chapter every day. we take turns about it. one of us reads while the other works." "yes; but lately we have only taken time to read a short psalm," said emily, again laughing. "well, the bible says, 'let him that is without sin cast the first stone,' or i might be tempted to remind you that there is such a thing as laboring too much 'for the meat that perisheth.' good morning, ladies." ann heard a loud, merry laugh from the next room, as she reached the door. it was ellinora frothingham's; no one could mistake, who had heard it once. it seemed the out-pouring of glee that could no longer be suppressed. ellinor sat on the floor, just as she had thrown herself on her return from a walk. her pretty little bonnet was lying on the floor on one side, and on the other a travelling bag, whose contents she had just poured into her lap. there were apples, pears, melons, a mock-orange, a pumpkin, squash, and a crooked cucumber. ellinora sprang to her feet when ann entered, and threw the contents of her lap on the floor with such violence, as to set them to rolling all about. then she laughed and clapped her hands to see the squash chase the mock-orange under the bed, a great russet running so furiously after a little fellow of the baldwin family, and finally pinning him in a corner. a pear started in the chase; but after taking a few turns, he sat himself down to shake his fat sides and enjoy the scene. ellinora stepped back a few paces to elude the pursuit of the pumpkin, and then, with well-feigned terror, jumped into a chair. but the drollest personage of the group was the ugly cucumber. there he sat, forminius-like, watching the mad freaks of his companions. "ha! see that cucumber?" exclaimed ellinora, laughing heartily. "if he had hands, how he would raise them so! if he had eyes and mouth, how he would open them so!" suiting action to her words. "look, ann! look, fanny! see if it does not look like the clark girls, when one leaves any thing in the shape of dirt on their table or stand!" peace was at length restored among the _inanimates_. "i came to invite you to walk; but i find i am too late," said ann. "yes. oh, how i wish you had been with us! you would have been so happy!" said ellinora. "we started out very early--before sunrise--intending to take a brisk walk of a mile or two, and return in season for breakfast. we went over to dracut, and met such adventures there and by the way, as will supply me with food for laughter years after i get married, and trouble comes. we came along where some oxen were standing, yoked, eating their breakfast while their owner was eating his. they were attached to a cart filled with pumpkins. i took some of the smallest, greenest ones, and stuck them fast on the tips of the oxen's horns. i was so interested in observing how the ceremony affected the messrs. oxen, that i did not laugh a bit until i had crowned all four of them. i looked up to fanny, as i finished the work, and there she sat on a great rock, where she had thrown herself when she could no longer stand. poor girl! tears were streaming down her cheeks. with one hand she was holding her lame side, and with the other filling her mouth with her pocket handkerchief, that the laugh need not run out, i suppose. well, as soon as i looked at her, and at the oxen, i burst into a laugh that might have been heard miles, i fancy. oh! i shall never forget how reprovingly those oxen looked at me. the poor creatures could not eat with such an unusual weight on their horns, so they pitched their heads higher than usual, and now and then gave them a graceful cant, then stood entirely motionless, as if attempting to conjecture what it all meant. "well, that loud and long laugh of mine, brought a whole volley of folks to the door--farmer, and farmer's wife, farmer's sons, and farmer's daughters. 'whoa hish!' exclaimed the farmer, before he reached the door; and 'whoa hish!' echoed all the farmer's sons. they all stopped as soon as they saw me. i would remind you that i still stood before the oxen, laughing at them. i never saw such comical expressions as those people wore. did you, fanny? even those pictures of mine are not so funny. i thought we should raise the city police; for they had tremendous voices, and i never saw any body laugh so. "as soon as i could speak, and they could listen to me, i walked up to the farmer. 'i beg your pardon sir,' said i, 'but i did want to laugh so! came all the way from lowell for something new to laugh at.' he was a good, sensible man, and this proves it. he said it was a good thing to have a hearty laugh occasionally--good for the health and spirits. work would go off easier all day for it, especially with the boys. as he said 'boys,' i could not avoid smiling as i looked at a fine young sprig of a farmer, his oldest son, as he afterwards told us, full twenty-one." "and now, miss ellinora," said fanny, "i shall avenge myself on you, for certain saucy freaks, perpetrated against my most august commands, by telling ann, that as you looked at this 'young sprig of a farmer,' he looked at you, and you both blushed. what made you, nora? i never saw you blush before." "what made you, nora?" echoed ellinora, laughing and blushing slightly. "well, the farmer's wife invited us to rest and breakfast with them. we began to make excuses; but the farmer added his good natured commands, so we went in; and after a few arrangements, such as placing more plates, &c., a huge pumpkin pie, and some hot potatoes, pealed in the cooking, we sat down to a full round table. there were the mealy potatoes, cold boiled dish, warm biscuit and dough-nuts, pie, coffee, pickles, sauce, cheese, and just such butter and brown bread as mother makes--bread hot, just taken from the oven. they all appeared so pleasant and kind, that i felt as if in my own home, with my own family around me. wild as i was, as soon as i began to tell them how it seemed to me, i burst into tears in spite of myself, and was obliged to leave the table. but they all pitied me so much, that i brushed off my tears, went back to my breakfast, and have laughed ever since." "you have forgotten two very important items," said fanny, looking archly into ellinora's face. "this 'fine young sprig of a farmer' happened to recollect that he had business in town to-day; so he took their carriage and brought us home, after nora and a roguish sister of his had filled her bag as you see. and more and better still, they invited us to spend a day with them soon; and promised to send this 'fine young sprig,' &c., for us on the occasion." ellinora was too busily engaged in collecting her fruit to reply. she ran from the room; and in a few moments returned with several young girls, to whom she gave generous supplies of apples, pears, and melons. she was about seating herself with a full plate, when a new idea seemed to flash upon her. she laughed, and started for the door. "ellinora, where now?" asked fanny. "to the clark girls' room, to leave an apple peeling and core on their table, a pear pealing on their stand, and melon, apple, and pear seeds all about the floor," answered ellinora, gaily snapping her fingers, and nodding her head. "what for? here, nora; come back. for what?" "why, to see them suffer," said the incorrigible girl. "you know i told you this morning, that sport is to be the order of the day. so no scoldings, my dear." she left the room, and fanny turned to one of the ladies who had just entered. "where is alice," said she. "did not ellinora extend an invitation to her?" "yes; but she is half dead with the _blues_, to-day. the brown girls came back last night. they called on alice this morning, and left letters and presents from home for her. she had a letter from her little brother, ten years old. he must be a fine fellow, judging from that letter, it was so sensible, and so witty too! one moment i laughed at some of his lively expressions, and the next cried at his expressions of love for alice, and regret for her loss. he told her how he cried himself to sleep the night after she left home; and his flowers seemed to have faded, and the stars to have lost their brightness, when he no longer had her by his side to talk to him about them. i find by his letter that alice is working to keep him at school. that part of it which contained his thanks for her goodness was blistered with the little fellow's tears. alice cried like a child when she read it, and i did not wonder at it. but she ought to be happy now. her mother sent her a fine pair of worsted hose of her own spinning and knitting, and a nice cake of her own making. she wrote, that, trifling as these presents were, she knew they would be acceptable to her daughter, because made by her. when alice read this, she cried again. her sister sent her a pretty little fancy basket, and her brother a bunch of flowers from her mother's garden. they were enclosed in a tight tin box, and were as fresh as when first gathered. alice sent out for a new vase. she has filled it with her flowers, and will keep them watered with her tears, judging from present appearances. alice is a good-hearted girl, and i love her, but she is always talking or thinking of something to make her unhappy. a letter from a friend, containing nothing but good news, and assurances of friendship, that ought to make her happy, generally throws her into a crying fit, which ends in a moping fit of melancholy. this destroys her own happiness, and that of all around her.'" "you ought to talk to her, she is spoiling herself," said mary mason, whose mouth was literally crammed with the last apple of a second plateful. "i have often urged her to be more cheerful. but she answers me with a helpless, hopeless, 'i can't jane! you know i can't. i shall never be happy while i live; and i often think that the sooner i go where "the weary are at rest," the better.' i don't know how many times she has given me an answer like this. then she will sob as if her heart were bursting. she sometimes wears me quite out; and i feel as i did when ellinora called me, as if released from a prison." "would it improve her spirits to walk with me?" asked ann. "perhaps it would, if you can persuade her to go. do try, dear ann," answered jane. "i called at isabel greenwood's room as i came along, and asked her to go in and see if she could rouse her up." ann heard isabel's voice in gentle but earnest expostulation, as she reached alice's room. isabel paused when ann entered, kissed her cheek, and resigned her rocking-chair to her. alice was sobbing too violently to speak. she took her face from her handkerchief, bowed to ann, and again buried it. ann invited them to walk with her. isabel cheerfully acceded to her proposal, and urged alice to accompany them. "don't urge me, isabel," said alice; "i am only fit for the solitude of my chamber. i could not add at all to your pleasure. my thoughts would be at my home, and i could not enjoy a walk in the least degree. but isabel, i do not want you to leave me so. i know that you think me very foolish to indulge in these useless regrets, as you call them. you will understand me better if you just consider the situation of my mother's family. my mother a widow, my oldest brother at the west, my oldest sister settled in new york, my youngest brother and sister only with mother, and i a lowell factory girl! and such i must be--for if i leave the mill, my brother cannot attend school all of the time; and his heart would almost break to take him from school. and how can i be happy in such a situation; i do not ask for riches; but i would be able to gather my friends all around me. then i could be happy. perhaps i am as happy now as you would be in my situation, isabel." isabel's eyes filled, but she answered in her own sweet, calm manner: "we will compare lots, my dear alice. i have neither father, mother, sister, nor home in the world. three years ago i had all of these, and every other blessing that one could ask. the death of my friends, the distressing circumstances attending them, the subsequent loss of our large property, and the critical state of my brother's health at present, are not slight afflictions, nor are they lightly felt." isabel's emotions, as she paused to subdue them by a powerful mental effort, proved her assertion. alice began to dry her tears, and to look as if ashamed of her weakness. "i, too, am a lowell factory girl," pursued isabel. "i, too, am laboring for the completion of a brother's education. if that brother were well, how gladly would i toil! but that disease is upon his vitals which laid father, mother, and sister in their graves, in one short year. i can see it in the unnatural and increasing brightness of his eye, and hear it in his hollow cough. he has entered upon his third collegiate year; and is too anxious to graduate next commencement, to heed my entreaties, or the warning of his physician." she again paused. her whole frame shook with emotion; but not a tear mingled with ann's, as they fell upon her hand. "you see, alice," she at length added, "what reasons i have for regret when i think of the past, and what for fear when i turn to the future. still i am happy, almost continually. my lost friends are so many magnets, drawing heavenward those affections that would otherwise rivet themselves too strongly to earthly loves. and those dear ones who are yet spared to me, scatter so many flowers in my pathway, that i seldom feel the thorns. i am cheered in my darkest hours by their kindness and affection, animated at all times by a wish to do all in my power to make them happy. if my brother is spared to me, i ask for nothing more. and if he is first called, i trust i shall feel that it is the will of one who is too wise to err, and too good to be unkind." "you are the most like my mother, isabel, of any one i ever saw," said ann. "she is never free from pain, yet she never complains. and if pa, or any of us, just have a cold or head ache, she does not rest till 'she makes us well.' you have more trouble than any other girl in the house; but instead of claiming the sympathies of every one on that account, you are always cheering others in their little, half-imaginary trials. alice, i think you and i ought to be ashamed to shed a tear, until we have some greater cause than mere home-sickness, or low spirits." "why, ann, i can no more avoid low spirits, than i can make a world!" exclaimed alice, in a really aggrieved tone. "and i don't want you all to think that i have no trouble. i want sympathy, and i can't live without it. oh that i was at home this moment!" "why, alice, there is hardly a girl in this house who has not as much trouble, in some shape, as you have. you never think of pitying them; and pray what gives you such strong claims on their sympathies? do you walk with us, or do you not?" alice shook her head in reply. isabel whispered a few words in her ear--they might be of reproof, they might be of consolation--then retired with ann to equip for their walk. "what a beautiful morning this is!" exclaimed ann, as they emerged from the house. "_malgre_ some inconveniences, factory girls are as happy as any class of females. i sometimes think it hard to rise so early, and work so many hours shut up in the house. but when i get out at night, on the sabbath, or at any other time, i am just as happy as a bird, and long to fly and sing with them. and alice will keep herself shut up all day. is it not strange that all will not be as happy as they can be? it is so pleasant." isabel returned ann's smile. "yes, ann, it is strange that every one does not prefer happiness. indeed, it is quite probable that every one does prefer it. but some mistake the modes of acquiring it through want of judgment. others are too indolent to employ the means necessary to its attainment, and appear to expect it to flow in to them, without taking any pains to prepare a channel. others, like our friend alice, have constitutional infirmities, which entail upon them a deal of suffering, that to us, of different mental organization, appears wholly unnecessary." "why, don't you think alice might be as happy as we are, if she chose? could she not be as grateful for letters and love-tokens from home? could she not leave her room, and come out into this pure air, listen to the birds, and catch their spirit? could she not do all this, isabel, as well as we?" "well, i do not know, ann. perhaps not. you know that the minds of different persons are like instruments of different tones. the same touch thrills gaily on one, mournfully on another." "yes; and i know, isabel, that different minds may be compared to the same instrument _in_ and _out_ of tune. now i have heard alice say that she loved to indulge this melancholy; that she loved to read byron, mrs. hemans, and miss landon, until her heart was as gloomy as the grave. isn't this strange--even silly?" "it is most unfortunate, ann." "isabel, you are the strangest girl! i have heard a great many say, that one cannot make you say anything against anybody; and i believe they are correct. and when you reprove one, you do it in such a mild, pretty way, that one only loves you the better for it. now, i smash on, pell-mell, as if unconscious of a fault in myself. hence, i oftener offend than amend. let me think.--this morning i have administered reproof in my own blunt way to bertha for reading novels, to charlotte for eating confectionary, to the clark girls for their 'all work and no play,' and to alice for moping. i have been wondering all along how they can spend their time so foolishly. i see that my own employment would scarcely bear the test of close criticism, for i have been watching motes in others' eyes, while a beam was in my own. now, isabel, i must ask a favor. i do not want to be very fine and nice; but i would be gentle and kind hearted--would do some good in the world. i often make attempts to this end; but always fail, somehow. i know my manner needs correcting; and i want you to reprove me as you would a sister, and assist me with your advice. will you not, dear isabel?" she pressed isabel's arm closer to her side, and a tear was in her eye as she looked up for an answer to her appeal. "you know not what you ask, my beloved girl," answered isabel, in a low and tremulous tone. "you know not the weakness of the staff on which you would lean, or the frailties of the heart to which you would look up, for aid. of myself, dear ann, i can do nothing. i can only look to god for protection from temptation, and for guidance in the right way. when he keeps me, i am safe; when he withdraws his spirit, i am weak indeed. and can i lead you, ann? no! you must go to a higher than earthly friend. pray to him in every hour of need, and he will be 'more to you than you can ask, or even think.'" "how often i have wished that i could go to him as mother does--just as i would go to a father!" said ann. "but i dare not. it would be mockery in one who has never experienced religion." "make prayer a _means_ of this experience, my dear girl. draw near to god by humble, constant prayer, and he will draw near to you by the influences of his spirit, which will make you just what you wish to be, a good, kind-hearted girl. you will learn to love god as a father, as the author of your happiness and every good thing. and you will be prepared to meet those trials which must be yours in life as the 'chastisements of a father's hand, directed by a father's love.' and when the hour of death comes, dear ann, how sweet, how soothing will be the deep-felt conviction that you are going _home_! you will have no fears, for your trust will be in one whom you have long loved and served; and you will feel as if about to meet your best, and most familiar friend." ann answered only by her tears; and for some minutes they walked on in silence. they were now some distance from town. before them lay farms, farm-houses, groves and scattering trees, from whose branches came the mingled song of a thousand birds. isabel directed ann's attention to the beauty of the scene. ann loved nature; but she had such a dread of sentimentalism that she seldom expressed herself freely. now she had no reserves, and isabel found that she had not mistaken her capacities, in supposing her possessed of faculties, which had only to develop themselves more fully, which had only to become constant incentives to action, to make her all she could wish. "you did not promise, isabel," said ann, with a happy smile, as they entered their street, "you did not promise to be my sister; but you will, will you not?" "yes, dear ann; we will be sisters to each other. i think you told me that you have no sister." "i had none until now; and i have felt as if part of my affections could not find a resting place, but were weighing down my heart with a burden that did not belong to it. i shall no longer be like a branch of our woodbine when it cannot find a clinging place, swinging about at the mercy of every breeze; but like that when some kind hand twines it about its frame, firm and trusting. see, isabel!" exclaimed she, interrupting herself, "there sits poor alice, just as we left her. i wish she had walked with us--she would have felt so much better. do you think, isabel, that religion would make her happy?" "most certainly. 'come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden. take my yoke upon you; for i am meek and lowly in heart; and ye _shall_ find rest for your souls,'--is as 'faithful a saying' and as 'worthy of all acceptation' now, as when it was uttered, and when thousands came and 'were healed of _all_ manner of diseases.' yes, alice may yet be happy," she added musingly, "if she can be induced to read byron less, and her bible more; to think less of her own gratification, and more of that of others. and we will be very gentle to her, ann; but not the less faithful and constant in our efforts to win her to usefulness and happiness." ellinora met them at the door, and began to describe a frolic that had occupied her during their absence. she threw her arms around isabel's waist, and entered the sitting-room with her. "now, isabel, i know you don't think it right to be so giddy," said she. "i will tell you what i have resolved to do. you shake your head, isabel, and i do not wonder at all. but this resolution was formed this morning, on my way back from dracut; and i feel in my 'heart of hearts' 'a sober certainty of waking' energy to keep it unbroken. it is that i will be another sort of a girl, altogether, henceforth; steady, but not gloomy; less talkative, but not reserved; more studious, but not a bookworm; kind and gentle to others, but not a whit the less independent, 'for a' that,' in my opinions and conduct.--and, after this day, which i have dedicated to momus, i want you to be my mentor. now i am for another spree of some sort. nay, isabel, do not remonstrate. you will make me weep with five tender words." it needed not so much--for isabel smiled sadly, kissed her cheek, and ellinora's tears fell fast and thick as she ran from the room. ann went immediately to alice's room on her return.--she apologized to her for reproving her so roughly, described her walk, gave a synopsis of isabel's advice, and her consequent determinations. by these means she diverted alice's thoughts from herself, gave her nerves a healthy spring, and when the bell summoned them to dinner, she had recovered much of her happier humor. ellinora sat beside her at table. she laughingly proposed an exchange, offering a portion of her levity for as much of her gravity. she thought the _equilibrium_ would be more perfect. so alice thought, and she heartily wished that the exchange might be made. and this exchange seems actually taking place at this time. they are as intimate as sisters. together they are resolutely struggling against the tide of habit. they meet many discouraging failures; but isabel is ever ready to cheer them by her sympathy, and to assist them by her advice. ann's faults were not so deeply rooted; perhaps she brought more natural energy to their extermination. be that as it may, she is now an excellent lady, a fit companion for the peerless isabel. the clark girls do not, as yet, coalesce in their system of improvement. they still prefer making netting and dresses, to the lecture-room, the improvement circle, and even to the reading of the "book of books." so difficult is it to turn from the worship of plutus! the delusion of bertha and charlotte is partially broken. bertha is beginning to understand that much reading does not naturally result in intellectual or moral improvement, unless it be well regulated. charlotte is learning that "to enjoy is to obey;" and that to pamper her own animal appetites, while her father and mother are suffering for want of the necessaries of life, is not in obedience to divine command. and, dear sisters, how is it with each one of _us_? how do we spend our leisure hours? now, "in the stilly hour of night," let us pause, and give our consciences time to render faithful answers. d. the tomb of washington. "he sleeps there in the midst of the very simplicities of nature." there let him sleep, in nature's arms, her well-beloved, her chosen child-- there 'mid the living, quiet charms of that sequestered wild. he would have chosen such a spot, 'twas fit that they should lay him there, away from all the haunts of care; the world disturbs him not.-- he sleeps full sweet in his retreat-- the place is consecrated ground, it is not meet unhallowed feet should tread that sacred mound. he lies in pomp--not of display-- no useless trappings grace his bier, nor idle words--they may not say what treasures cluster here. the pomp of nature, wild and free, adorns our hero's lowly bed, and gently bends above his head the weeping laurel tree. in glory's day he shunned display, and ye may not bedeck him now, but nature may, in her own way, hang garlands round his brow. he lies in pomp--not sculptured stone, nor chiseled marble--vain pretence-- the glory of his deeds alone is his magnificence. his country's love the meed he won, he bore it with him down to death, unsullied e'en by slander's breath-- his country's sire and son. her hopes and fears, her smiles and tears, were each his own.--he gave his land his earliest cares, his choicest years, and led her conquering band. he lies in pomp--not pomp of war-- he fought, but fought not for renown; he triumphed, yet the victor's star adorned no regal crown. his honor was his country's weal; from off her neck the yoke he tore-- it was enough, he asked no more; his generous heart could feel no low desire for king's attire;-- with brother, friend, and country blest, he could aspire to honors higher than kingly crown or crest. he lies in pomp--his burial place than sculptured stone is richer far; for in the heart's deep love we trace his name, a golden star. wherever patriotism breathes, his memory is devoutly shrined in every pure and gifted mind: and history, with wreaths of deathless fame, entwines that name, which evermore, beneath all skies, like vestal flame, shall live the same, for virtue never dies. there let him rest--'t is a sweet spot; simplicity becomes the great--but vernon's son is not forgot, though sleeping not in state. there, wrapt in his own dignity, his presence makes it hallowed ground, and nature throws her charms around, and o'er him smiles the sky. there let him rest--the noblest, best; the labors of his life all done-- there let him rest, the spot is blessed-- the grave of washington. adelaide. life among farmers. there is much complaint among farmers' wives and daughters, of want of time for rest, recreation, and literary pursuits. "it is cook, eat, and scrub--cook, eat, and scrub, from morning till night, and from year to year," says many a farmer's wife. and so it is in many families. but how far this results from the very nature of the situation, and how far from injudicious domestic management, is a query worthy of our attention. a very large proportion of my readers, who are now factory girls, will in a few months or years be the busy wives of busy farmers; and if by a few speculations on the subject before us, and an illustration to the point, we can reach _one_ hint that may hereafter be useful to us, our labor and "search of thought" will not have been in vain. mr. moses eastman was what is technically called a wealthy farmer. every one in the country knows what this means. he had a farm of some hundred or more acres, a large two-story dwelling house, a capacious yard, in which were two large barns, sheds, a sheep-cote, granary, and hen-coop. he kept a hundred sheep, ten cows, horses and oxen in due proportion. mr. eastman often declared that no music was half so sweet to him as that of the inmates of this yard. i think we shall not quarrel with his taste in this manifestation; for it is certainly delightful, on a warm day, in early spring, to listen to them, the lambs, hens--guinea and american--turkeys, geese, and ducks and peacocks. mr. eastman was unbending in his adherence to the creed, prejudices, and customs of his fathers. it was his boast that his farm had passed on from father to son, to the fourth generation; and everybody could see that it was none the worse for wear. he kept more oxen, sheep, and cows than his father kept. he had "pulled down his barns and built larger." he had surrounded his fields and pastures with stone wall, in lieu of virginian, stump, brush, and board fence. and he had taught his sons and daughters, of whom he had an abundance, to walk in his footsteps--all but mary. he should always rue the day that he consented to let mary go to her aunt's; but he acted upon the belief that it would lessen his expenses to be rid of her during her childhood. he had all along intended to recall her as soon as she was old enough to be serviceable to him. but he said he believed that would never be, if she lived as long as methuselah. she could neither spin nor weave as she ought; for she put so much material in her yarn, and wove her cloth so thick, that no profit resulted from its manufacture and sale. now deborah, his oldest daughter, had just her mother's _knack_ of making a good deal out of a little.--and mary had imbibed some very dangerous ideas of religion,--she did not even believe in ghosts!--dress, and reading. for his part, he would not, on any account, attend any other meeting than old mr. bates's. his father and grandfather always attended there, and they prospered well. but mary wanted to go to the other meeting occasionally, all because mr. morey happened to be a bit of an orator. true, mr. bates was none of the smartest; but there was an advantage in this. he could sleep as soundly, and rest as rapidly, when at his meeting, as in his bed; and by this means he could regain the sleep lost during the week by rising early and working late. and mary had grown so proud that she would not wear a woolen home-manufactured dress visiting, as deborah did. she must flaunt off to meeting every sabbath, in white or silk, while _chintz_ was good enough for deborah. deborah seldom read anything but the bible, watts's hymn book, "pilgrim's progress," and a few tracts they had in the house. mary had hardly laid off her finery, on her return from her aunt's, before she inquired about books and newspapers. her aunt had heaps of books and papers. these had spoilt mary. true, papers were sometimes useful; he would have lost five hundred dollars by the failure of the ---- bank, but for a newspaper he borrowed of captain norwood. but the captain had enough of them--was always ready to lend to him--and he saved no small sum in twenty years by borrowing papers of him. how captain norwood managed to add to his property he could not conceive. so much company, fine clothing, and schooling! he wondered that it did not ruin him. and 'twas all folly--'twas a sin; for they were setting extravagant examples, and every body thought they must do as the norwoods did. mr. norwood ought to remember that his father wore home-made; and what was good enough for his good old father was good enough for _him_. but alas! times were dreadfully altered. as for mary, she must turn over a new leaf, or go back to her aunt. he would not help one who did not help herself. mary was willing, nay, anxious to return. to spend one moment, except on the sabbath, in reading, was considered a crime; to gather a flower or mineral, absurd; and mary begged that she might be permitted to return to mrs. barlow. as there was no prospect of reforming her, mr. eastman and his wife readily consented. mr. eastman told her, at the same time, that she must be preparing for a wet day; and repeatedly charged her to remember that those who folded their hands in the summer, must "beg in harvest, and have nothing." mary had often visited the norwoods and other young friends, during the year spent at home; but she had not been permitted to give a party in return. why, deborah had never thought of doing such a thing! mary begged the indulgence of her mother, with the assurance that it was the last favor she would ever ask at her hand. the _mother_ in her at last yielded; and she promised to use her influence with her husband. after a deal of cavilling, he consented, on the condition that the strictest economy should attend the expenditures on the occasion, and that they should exercise more prudence in the family, until their loss was made gain. so the party was given. "you find yourself thrown on barren ground, miss norwood," said mary, as she saw miss norwood looking around the room; "neither papers, books, plants, plates, nor minerals." "where are those rocks you brought in, molly!" said deborah, with a loud, grating laugh. mary attempted to smile, but her eyes were full of tears. "what rocks, deborah!" asked clarina norwood. "them you see stuffed into the garden wall, there.--mary fixed them all in a row on the table. i think as father does, that nothing is worth saving that can't be used; so i put them in the wall to keep the hens out of the garden. the silly girl cried when she see them; should you have thought it?" "what were they, mary?" asked clarina. "very pretty specimens of white, rose, and smoky quartz, black and white mica, gneiss, hornblende, and a few others, that i collected on that very high hill, west of here." "how unfortunate to lose them!" said miss norwood, in a soothing tone. "could not we recover them, dear mary?" "there is no room for them," said deborah. "we want to spread currants and blueberries on the tables to be dried. besides, i think as father does, that there is enough to do, without spending the time in such flummery. as father says, 'time is our estate,' and i think we ought to improve every moment of it, except sundays, in work." "i must differ from you, miss eastman," said miss norwood. "i cannot think it the duty of any one to labor entirely for the 'meat that perisheth.' too much, vastly too much time is spent thus by almost all." "the mercy! you would have folks prepare for a wet day, wouldn't you?" "i would have every one make provision for a comfortable subsistence; and this is enough. the mind should be cared for, deborah. it should not be left to starve, or feed on husks." "i don't know about this mind, of which you and our mary make such a fuss. my concern is for my body. of this i know enough." "yes; you know that it is dust, and that to dust it must return in a little time, while the mind is to live on for ever, with god and his holy angels. think of this a moment, deborah; and say, should not the mind be fed and clothed upon, when its destiny is so glorious? or should we spend our whole lives in adding another acre to our farms, another dress to our wardrobe, and another dollar to our glittering heap?" "oh, la! all this sounds nicely; but i _do_ think that every man who has children should provide for them." "certainly--intellectual food and clothing. it is for this i am contending. he should provide a comfortable bodily subsistence, and educate them as far as he is able and their destinies require." "and he should leave them a few hundreds, or thousands, to give them a kind of a start in the world." "he does this in giving them a liberal education, and he leaves them in banks that will always discount. but farther than education of intellect and propensity is concerned, i am for the self-made man. i think it better for sons to carve their own way to eminence with little pecuniary aid by way of a settlement; and for daughters to be 'won and wedded' for their own intrinsic excellence, not for the dowry in store for them from a rich father." "there is no arguing with you, everybody says; so i'll go and see how my cakes bake." mr. eastmam came in to tea, contrary to his usual custom. "clarina, has your father sold that great calf of his?" he inquired, as he seated himself snugly beside his "better half." "indeed, i do not know, sir," answered clarina, biting her lip to avoid laughing. "i heard mr. montgomery ask him the same question, this morning; and pa said 'yes,' i believe," said miss norwood, smiling. "how much did he get for it?" miss norwood did not know. "like mary, i see," said mr. eastman. "now i'll warrant you that debby can tell the price of every creature i've sold this year." "yes, father; i remember as plain as day, how much you got from that simple joe slater, for the white-faced calf--how much you got for the black-faced sheep, rowley and jumble, and for star and bright. oh, how i want to see bright! and then there is the black colt--you got forty dollars for him, didn't you, father?" "yes, debby; you are a keen one," said mr. eastman triumphantly. "didn't i tell you so, julia?" "i do not burden my memory with superfluities," answered miss norwood. "i can scarcely find room for necessaries." "and do you rank the best way of making pies, cakes, and puddings, with necessaries or superfluities?" "among necessaries in household economy, certainly," answered miss norwood. "but mrs. child's 'frugal housewife' renders them superfluities as a part of memory's storage." "oh, the book costs something, you know; and if this can be saved by a little exercise of the memory, it is well, you know." "the most capacious and retentive memory would fail to treasure up and retain all that one wishes to know of cooking and other matters," said clarina. "well, then, one may copy from her book," said mr. eastman. "indeed, mr. eastman, to spend one's time in copying her recipes, when the work can be purchased for twenty-five cents, would be 'straining out a gnat, and swallowing a camel,'" remarked the precise and somewhat pedantic miss ellinor gould smith. "and then the peculiar disadvantages of referring to manuscript! i had my surfeit of this before the publication of her valuable work." "ah! it is every thing but valuable," answered mr. eastman. "just think of her pounds of sugar, her two pounds of butter, her dozen eggs, and ounces of nutmegs. depend upon it, they are not very valuable in the holes they would make in our cash-bags." he said this with precisely the air of one who imagines he has uttered a poser. "but you forget her economical and wholesome prescriptions for disease, her directions for repairing and preserving clothing and provisions, that would be lost without them," answered miss smith. "but one should always be prying into these things, and learn them for themselves," said mr. eastman. "on the same principle, extended in its scale, every man might make his own house, furniture, and clothing," said miss norwood. "with the expenditure of much labor and research, she has supplied us with directions; and i think it would be vastly foolish for every wife and daughter to expend just as much, when they can be supplied with the fruits of hers, for the product of half a day's labor." "does your mother use it much?" asked mrs. eastman. "yes; she acknowledges herself much indebted to it." "i shouldn't think she'd need it; she is so notable. has she made many cheeses this summer?" "about the usual number, i believe." "well, i've made more than i ever did a year afore--thirty in my largest hoop, all new milk, and twenty in my next largest, part skimmed milk. our cheese press is terribly out of order, now. it must be fixed, mr. eastman. and i have made more butter, or else our folks haven't ate as much as common. i've made it salter, and there's a great saving in this." "there's a good many ways to save in the world, if one will take pains to find them out," said mr. eastman. "doubtless; but i think the best method of saving in provisions is to eat little," said clarina, as she saw mr. eastman _putting down_ his third biscuit. "why, as to that, i think we ought to eat as much as the appetite calls for," answered mr. eastman. "yes; if the appetite is not depraved by indulgence." "yes; it is an awful thing to pinch in eating," said deborah. "i never knew one to sin in doing it," said miss norwood. "but many individuals and whole families make themselves excessively uncomfortable, and often incur disease, by eating too much. there is, besides, a waste of food, and of labor in preparing it. in such families, there is a continual round of eating, cooking, and sleeping, with the female portion; and no time for rest, recreation, or literary pursuits." "i have told our folks a great many times, that i did not believe that you lived by eating, over to your house," said mr. eastman. "i have been over that way before our folks got breakfast half ready; and your men would be out to work, and you women folks sewing, reading, or watering plants, or weeding your flower garden. i don't see how you manage." "we do not find it necessary to manage at all, our breakfasts are so simple. we have only to make cocoa, and arrange the breakfast." "don't you cook meat for breakfast?" asked mrs. eastman. "never; our breakfast invariably consists of cocoa, or water, cold white bread and butter." "why, our men folks will have meat three times a day--warm, morning and noon, and cold at night. we have warm bread for breakfast and supper, always. when they work very hard, they want luncheon at ten, and again at three. i often tell our folks that it is step, step, from morning till night." "of course, you find no time to read," said miss norwood. "no; but i shouldn't mind this, if i didn't get so dreadful tired. i often tell our folks that it is wearing me all out," said mrs. eastman, in a really aggrieved tone. "well, it is quite the fashion to starve, now-a-days, i know; but it is an awful sin," said mr. eastman. miss norwood saw that she might as well spend her time in rolling a stone up hill, as in attempting to convince him of fallacy in reasoning. "clarina," said she, "did you ask frederic to call for the other volume of the 'alexandrian?'" "why, i should think that you had books enough at home, without borrowing," said mr. eastman, stopping by the way to rinse down his fifth dough-nut. "for my part, i find no time for reading anything but the bible." and the deluded man started up with a gulp and a grunt. he had eaten enough for three full meals, had spent time enough for eating one meal, and reading several pages; yet he left the room with a smile, so self-satisfied in its expression, that it was quite evident that he thought himself the wisest man in new hampshire, except daniel webster. this is rather a sad picture of life among farmers. but many of my readers will bear me witness that it is a correct one, as far as it goes. many of them have left their homes, because, in the quaint but appropriate language of mrs. eastman, it was "step, step, from morning till night." but there are other and brighter pictures, of more extensive application, _perhaps_, than that already drawn. captain norwood had as large a farm as mr. eastman. his family was as large, yet the existence of the female portion was paradisiacal, compared with that of mrs. eastman and her daughters. their meals were prepared with the most perfect elegance and simplicity. their table covers and their china were of the same dazzling whiteness. their cutlery, from the unfrequency of its contact with acids, with a little care, wore a constant polish. much prettier these, than the dark oiled-cloth cover and corresponding _et cetera_ of table appendages, at mr. eastman's. mrs. norwood and her daughters carried _system_ into every department of labour. while one was preparing breakfast, another put things in nice order all about the house, and another was occupied in the dairy. very different was it at mr. eastman's. deborah must get potatoes, and set mary to washing them, while she made bread. mrs. eastman must cut brown bread, and send deborah for butter, little sally for sauce, and susan for pickles. one must cut the meat and set it to cook; then it was "mary, have you seen to that meat? i expect it wants turning. sally, run and salt this side, before she turns it." and then, in a few moments, "debby, do look to that meat. i believe that it is all burning up. how do them cakes bake? look, sally. my goodness! all burnt to a cinder, nearly. debby, why didn't you see to them?" "la, mother! i thought mary was about the lot, somewhere. where is she, i wonder?" "in the other room, reading, i think likely. oh! i forgot: i sent her after some coffee to burn." "what! going to burn coffee now? we sha'nt have breakfast to-day." "you fuss, debby. we can burn enough for breakfast in five minutes. i meant to have had a lot burned yesterday; but we had so much to do. there, debby, you see to the potatoes. i wonder what we are going to have for dinner." "don't begin to talk about dinner yet, for pity's sake," said deborah. "sally, you ha'nt got the milk for the coffee. susan, go and sound for the men folks: breakfast will be ready by the time they get here. mary, put the pepper, vinegar, and salt on the table, if you can make room for them." "yes; and debby, you go and get one of them large pumpkin pies," said mrs. eastman. "and sally, put the chairs round the table; the men folks are coming upon the run." "oh, mother! i am so glad you are going to have pie! i do love it _so_ well," said susan, seating herself at the table, without waiting for her parents. such a _rush!_ such a clatter of knives, forks, plates, cups, and saucers! it "realized the phrase of ----," and was absolutely appalling to common nerves. after breakfast came the making of beds and sweeping, baking and boiling for dinner, making and turning cheese, and so on, until noon. occasional bits of leisure were _seized_ in the afternoon, for sewing and knitting that must be done, and for visiting. the situation of such families is most unpleasant, but it is not irremediable. order may be established and preserved in the entire household economy. they may restrict themselves to a simpler system of dietetics. with the money and time thus saved, they may purchase books, subscribe for good periodicals, and find ample leisure to read them. thus their intellects will be expanded and invigorated. they will have opportunities for social intercourse, for the cultivation of friendships; and thus their affections will be exercised and warmed. then, happy the destiny of the farmer, the farmer's wife, and the farmer's daughters. a. f. d. a weaver's reverie. it was a sunny day, and i left for a few moments the circumscribed spot which is my appointed place of labor, that i might look from an adjoining window upon the bright loveliness of nature. yes, it was a sunny day; but for many days before, the sky had been veiled in gloomy clouds; and joyous indeed was it to look up into that blue vault, and see it unobscured by its sombre screen; and my heart fluttered, like a prisoned bird, with its painful longings for an unchecked flight amidst the beautiful creation around me. why is it, said a friend to me one day, that the factory girls write so much about the beauties of nature? oh! why is it, (thought i, when the query afterwards recurred to me,) why is it that visions of thrilling loveliness so often bless the sightless orbs of those whose eyes have once been blessed with the power of vision? why is it that the delirious dreams of the famine-stricken, are of tables loaded with the richest viands, or groves, whose pendent boughs droop with their delicious burdens of luscious fruit? why is it that haunting tones of sweetest melody come to us in the deep stillness of midnight, when the thousand tongues of man and nature are for a season mute? why is it that the desert-traveller looks forward upon the burning boundless waste, and sees pictured before his aching eyes, some verdant oasis, with its murmuring streams, its gushing founts, and shadowy groves--but as he presses on with faltering step, the bright _mirage_ recedes, until he lies down to die of weariness upon the scorching sands, with that isle of loveliness before him? oh tell me why is this, and i will tell why the factory girl sits in the hour of meditation, and thinks--not of the crowded clattering mill, nor of the noisy tenement which is her home, nor of the thronged and busy street which she may sometimes tread,--but of the still and lovely scenes which, in bygone hours, have sent their pure and elevating influence with a thrilling sweep across the strings of the spirit-harp, and then awaken its sweetest, loftiest notes; and ever as she sits in silence and seclusion, endeavoring to draw from that many-toned instrument a strain which may be meet for another's ear, that music comes to the eager listener like the sound with which the sea-shell echoes the roar of what was once its watery home. all her best and holiest thoughts are linked with those bright pictures which call them forth, and when she would embody them for the instruction of others, she does it by a delineation of those scenes which have quickened and purified her own mind. it was this love of nature's beauties, and a yearning for the pure hallowed feelings which those beauties had been wont to call up from their hidden springs in the depths of the soul, to bear away upon their swelling tide the corruption which had gathered, and i feared might settle there,--it was this love, and longing, and fear, which made my heart throb quickly, as i sent forth a momentary glance from the factory window. i think i said there was a cloudless sky; but it was not so. it was clear, and soft, and its beauteous hue was of "the hyacinth's deep blue"--but there was one bright solitary cloud, far up in the cerulean vault; and i wished that it might for once be in my power to lie down upon that white, fleecy couch, and there, away and alone, to dream of all things holy, calm, and beautiful. methought that better feelings, and clearer thoughts than are often wont to visit me, would there take undisturbed possession of my soul. and might i not be there, and send my unobstructed glance into the depths of ether above me, and forget for a little while that i had ever been a foolish, wayward, guilty child of earth? could i not then cast aside the burden of error and sin which must ever depress me here, and with the maturity of womanhood, feel also the innocence of infancy? and with that sense of purity and perfection, there would necessarily be mingled a feeling of sweet uncloying bliss--such as imagination may conceive, but which seldom pervades and sanctifies the earthly heart. might i not look down from my aerial position, and view this little world, and its hills, valleys, plains, and streamlets, and its thousands of busy inhabitants, and see how puerile and unsatisfactory it would look to one so totally disconnected from it? yes, there, upon that soft snowy cloud could i sit, and gaze upon my native earth, and feel how empty and "vain are all things here below." but not motionless would i stay upon that aerial couch. i would call upon the breezes to waft me away over the broad blue ocean, and with nought but the clear bright ether above me, have nought but a boundless, sparkling, watery expanse below me. then i would look down upon the vessels pursuing their different courses across the bright waters; and as i watched their toilsome progress, i should feel how blessed a thing it is to be where no impediment of wind or wave might obstruct my onward way. but when the beams of a midday sun had ceased to flash from the foaming sea, i should wish my cloud to bear away to the western sky, and divesting itself of its snowy whiteness, stand there, arrayed in the brilliant hues of the setting sun. yes, well should i love to be stationed there, and see it catch those parting rays, and, transforming them to dyes of purple and crimson, shine forth in its evening vestment, with a border of brightest gold. then could i watch the king of day as he sinks into his watery bed, leaving behind a line of crimson light to mark the path which led him to his place of rest. yet once, o only once, should i love to have that cloud pass on--on--on among the myriads of stars; and leaving them all behind, go far away into the empty void of space beyond. i should love, for once, to be _alone_. alone! where _could_ i be alone? but i would fain be where there is no other, save the invisible, and there, where not even one distant star should send its feeble rays to tell of a universe beyond, there would i rest upon that soft light cloud, and with a fathomless depth below me, and a measureless waste above and around me, there would i---- "your looms are going without filling," said a loud voice at my elbow; so i ran as fast as possible and changed my shuttles. ella. our duty to strangers. "deal gently with the stranger's heart."--mrs. hemans. the factory girl has trials, as every one of the class can testify. it was hard for thee to leave "thy hearth, thy home, thy vintage land. the voices of thy hindred band,"-- was it not, my sister? yes, there was a burden at your heart as you turned away from father, mother, sister, and brother, to meet the cold glance of strange stage-companions. there was the mournfulness of the funeral dirge and knell, in the crack of the driver's whip, and in the rattling of the coach-wheels. and when the last familiar object receded from your fixed gaze, there was a sense of utter desolation at your heart. there was a half-formed wish that you could lie down on your own bed, and die, rather than encounter the new trials before you. home may be a capacious farm-house, or a lowly cottage, it matters not. it is _home_. it is the spot around which the dearest affections and hopes of the heart cluster and rest. when we turn away, a thousand tendrils are broken, and they bleed.--lovelier scenes _might_ open before us, but that only "the loved are lovely." yet until new interests are awakened, and new loves adopted, there is a constant heaviness of heart, more oppressive than can be imagined by those who have never felt it. the "kindred band" may be made up of the intelligent and elegant, or of the illiterate and vulgar; it matters not. our hearts yearn for their companionship. we would rejoice with them in health, or watch over them in sickness. in all seasons of trial, whether from sickness, fatigue, unkindness, or _ennui_, there is one bright _oasis_. it is ----"the hope of return to the mother, whose smile could dissipate sadness and sorrow beguile; to the father, whose glance we've exultingly met-- and no meed half so proud hath awaited us yet; to the sister whose tenderness, breathing a charm, no distance could lessen, no danger disarm; to the friends, whose remembrances time cannot chill, and whose home in the heart not the stranger can fill." this hope is invaluable; for it, "like the ivy round the oak, clings closer in the storm." alas! that there are those to whom this hope comes not! those whose affections go out, like noah's dove, in search of a resting place; and return without the olive-leaf. "death is in the world," and it has made hundreds of our factory girls orphans. misfortunes are abroad, and they have left as many destitute of homes. this is a melancholy fact, and one that calls loudly for the sympathy and kind offices of the more fortunate of the class. it is not a light thing to be alone in the world. it is not a light thing to meet only neglect and selfishness, when one longs for disinterestedness and love. oh, then, let us "deal gently with the stranger's heart," especially if the stranger be a destitute orphan. her garb may be homely, and her manners awkward; but we will take her to our heart, and call her sister. some glaring faults may be hers; but we will remember "who it is that maketh us to differ," and if possible, by our kindness and forbearance, win her to virtue and peace. there are many reasons why we should do this. it is a part of "pure and undefiled religion" to "visit the fatherless in their afflictions." and "mercy is twice blest; blest in him that gives, and him that takes." in the beautiful language of the simple scotch girl, "when the hour o' trouble comes, that comes to mind and body, and when the hour o' death comes, that comes to high and low, oh, my leddy, then it is na' what we ha' done for ourselves, but what we ha' done for others, that we think on maist pleasantly." e. elder isaac townsend. elder townsend was a truly meek and pious man. he was not what is called _learned_, being bred a farmer, and never having had an opportunity of attending school but very little--for school privileges were very limited when elder townsend was young. his chief knowledge was what he had acquired by studying the bible (which had been his constant companion from early childhood,) and a study of human nature, as he had seen it exemplified in the lives of those with whom he held intercourse. although a gospel preacher for more than forty years, he never received a salary. he owned a farm of some forty acres, which he cultivated himself; and when, by reason of ill health, or from having to attend to pastoral duties, his farming-work was not so forward as that of his neighbors, he would ask his parishioners to assist him for a day, or a half-day, according to his necessities. as this was the only pay he ever asked for his continuous labors with them, he never received a denial, and a pittance so trifling could not be given grudgingly. the days which were spent on elder townsend's farm were not considered by his parishioners as days of toil, but as holydays, from whose recreations they were sure to return home richly laden with the blessings of their good pastor. the sermons of elder t. were always _extempore_; and if they were not always delivered with the elocution of an orator, they were truly excellent, inasmuch as they consisted principally of passages of scripture, judiciously selected, and well connected. the elder's intimate knowledge of his flock, and their habits and propensities, their joys and their sorrows, together with his thorough acquaintance with the scriptures, enabled him to be ever in readiness to give reproof or consolation (as need might be,) in the language of holy writ. his reproofs were received with meekness, and the recipients would resolve to profit thereby; and when he offered the cup of consolation, it was received with gratitude by those who stood in need of its healing influences. but when he dwelt on the loving-kindness of our god, all hearts would rejoice and be glad. often, while listening to his preaching, have i sat with eyes intently gazing on the speaker, until i fancied myself transported back to the days of the "beloved disciple," and on the isle of patmos was hearing him say, "my little children, love one another." when i last saw elder townsend, his head was white with the frosts of more than seventy winters. it is many years since. i presume, ere this, he sleeps beneath the turf on the hill-side, and is remembered among the worthies of the olden time. b. n. harriet greenough. chapter i. "the day is come i never thought to see, strange revolutions in my farm and me." dryden's virgil. harriet greenough had always been thought a spoiled child, when she left home for newburyport. her father was of the almost obsolete class of farmers, whose gods are their farms, and whose creed--"farmers are the most independent folks in the world." this latter was none the less absolute in its power over mr. greenough, from its being entirely traditionary. he often repeated a vow made in early life, that he would never wear other than "homespun" cloth. when asked his reasons, he invariably answered, "because i won't depend on others for what i can furnish myself. farmers are the most independent class of men; and i mean to be the most independent of farmers."--if for a moment he felt humbled by the presence of a genteel well-educated man, it was only for a moment. he had only to recollect that farmers are the most independent class of people, and his head resumed its wonted elevation, his manner and tone their usual swaggering impudence. while at school he studied nothing but reading, spelling, arithmetic, and writing. latterly, his reading had been restricted to a chapter in the bible per day, and an occasional examination of the almanac. he did not read his bible from devotional feeling--for he had none; but that he might puzzle the "book men" of the village with questions like the following:--"now i should like to have you tell me one thing: how _could_ moses write an account of his own death and burial? can you just tell me where cain and abel found their wives? what verse is there in the bible that has but two words in it? who was the father of zebedee's children? how many chapters has the new testament?--how many verses, and how many words?" inability or disinclination to answer any and all of these, made the subject of a day's laughter and triumph. nothing was so appalling to him as innovations on old customs and opinions. "these notions, that the earth turns round, and the sun stands still; that shooting stars are nothing but little meteors, i think they call them, are turning the heads of our young folks," he was accustomed to say to mr. curtis, the principal of the village academy, every time they met. "and then these new-fangled books, filled with jaw-cracking words and falsehoods, chemistry, philosophy, and so on--why, i wonder if they ever made any man a better farmer, or helped a woman to make better butter and cheese? now, mr. curtis, it is _my_ opinion that young folks had better read their bibles more. now i'll warrant that not one in ten can tell how many chapters there are in it. my father knew from the time he was eight till he was eighty. can _you_ tell, mr. curtis?" mr. curtis smiled a negative; and mr. greenough went laughing about all day. indeed, for a week, the first thing that came after his blunt salutation, was a loud laugh; and in answer to consequent inquiries came the recital of his victory over "the great mr. curtis." he would not listen a moment to arguments in favor of sending harriet to the academy, or of employing any other teachers in his district than old master smith, and miss heath, a superanuated spinster. mrs. greenough was a mild creature, passionless and gentle in her nature as a lamb. she acquiesced in all of her husband's measures, whether from having no opinions of her own, or from a deep and quiet sense of duty and propriety, no one knew. harriet was their pet. as rosy, laughing, and healthy as a hebe, she flew from sport to sport all the day long. her mother attempted, at first, to check her romping propensity; but it delighted her father, and he took every opportunity to strengthen and confirm it. he was never so happy as when watching her swift and eager pursuit of a butterfly; never so lavish of his praises and caresses as when she succeeded in capturing one, and all breathless with the chase, bore her prize to him. "do stay in the house with poor ma, to-day, darling; she is very lonely," her mother would say to her, as she put back the curls from the beautiful face of her child, and kissed her cheek. one day a tear was in her eye and a sadness at her heart; for she had been thinking of the early childhood of her harriet, when she turned from father, little brother, playthings and all, for her. harriet seemed to understand her feelings; for instead of answering her with a spring and laugh as usual, she sat quietly down at her feet, and laid her head on her lap. mr. greenough came in at this moment. "how? what does this mean, wife and hatty?" said he.--"playing the baby, hat? wife, this won't do. harriet has your beauty; and to this i have no objections, if she has my spirits and independence. come, hatty; we want you to help us make hay to-day; and there are lots of butterflies and grasshoppers for you to catch. come," he added; for the child still kept her eyes on her mother's face, as if undecided whether to go or stay. "come, get your bonnet--no; you may go without it. you look too much like a village girl. you must get more tan." "shall i go, ma?" harriet asked, still clinging to her mother's dress. "certainly, if pa wishes it," answered mrs. greenough with a strong effort to speak cheerfully. she went, and from that hour mrs. greenough passively allowed her to follow her father and his laborers as she pleased; to rake hay, ride in the cart, husk corn, hunt hen's eggs, jump on the hay, play ball, prisoner, pitch quoits, throw dice, cut and saw wood, and, indeed, to run into every amusement which her active temperament demanded. she went to school when she pleased; but her father was constant in his hints that her spirits and independence were not to be destroyed by poring over books. she was generally left to do as she pleased, although she was often pleased to perpetrate deeds, for which her school-mates often asserted they would have been severely chastised. there was an expression of fun and good humor lurking about in the dimples of her fat cheeks and in her deep blue eye, that effectually shielded her from reproof. master smith had just been accused of partiality to her, and he walked into the school considerably taller than usual, all from his determination to punish harriet before night. he was not long in detecting her in a rogueish act. he turned from her under the pretence of looking some urchins into silence, and said, with uncommon sternness and precision, "harriet greenough, walk out into the floor." harriet jumped up, shook the hands of those who sat near her, nodded a farewell to others, and walked gaily up to the master. he dreaded meeting her eye; for he knew that his gravity would desert him in such a case. she took a position behind him, and in a moment the whole house was in an uproar of laughter. master smith turned swiftly about on his heel, and confronted the culprit. she only smiled and made him a most graceful courtesy. this was too much for his risibles. he laughed almost as heartily as his pupils. "take your seat, you, he! he! you trollop, you, he! he! and i will settle with you by and bye," he said. she only thanked him, and then returned to her sport. so she passed on. when sixteen, she was a very child in everything but years and form. her forehead was high and full, but a want of taste and care in the arrangement of her beautiful hair destroyed its effect. her complexion was clear, but sunburnt. her laugh was musical, but one missed that _tone_ which distinguishes the laugh of a happy feeling girl of sixteen from that of a child of mere frolic. as to her form, no one knew what it was; for she was always putting herself into some strange but not really uncouth attitude; and besides, she could never _stop_ to adjust her dress properly. such was harriet greenough, when a cousin of hers paid them a visit on her return to the newburyport mills. she was of harriet's age; but one would have thought her ten years her senior, judging from her superior dignity and intelligence. her father died when she was a mere child, after a protracted illness, which left them penniless. by means of untiring industry, and occasional gifts from her kind neighbors, mrs. wood succeeded in keeping her children at school, until her daughter was sixteen and her son fourteen. they then went together to newburyport, under the care of a very amiable girl who had spent several years there. they worked a year, devoting a few hours every day to study; then returned home, and spent a year at school in their native village. they were now on their return to the mills. it was arranged that at the completion of the present year charles should return to school, and remain there until fitted for the study of a profession, if jane's health was spared that she might labor for his support. jane was a gentle affectionate girl; and there was a new feeling at the heart of harriet from the day in which she came under her influence. before the week had half expired which jane was to spend with them, harriet, with characteristic decision, avowed her determination to accompany her. her father and mother had opposed her will in but few instances. in these few she had laughed them into an easy compliance. in the present case she found her task a more difficult one. but they consented at last; and with her mother's tearful blessing, and an injunction from her father not to bear any insolence from her employers, but to remember always that she was the independent daughter of an independent farmer, she left her home. chapter ii. a year passed by, and our harriet was a totally changed being, in intellect and deportment. her cousins boarded in a small family, that they might have a better opportunity of pursuing their studies during their leisure hours. she was their constant companion. at first she did not open a book; and numberless were the roguish artifices she employed to divert the attention of her cousins from theirs. they often laid them aside for a lively chat with her; and then urged her to study with them. she loved them ardently. to her affection she at last yielded, and not to any anticipations of pleasure or profit in the results, for she had been _educated_ to believe that there was none of either. charles had been studying latin and mathematics; jane, botany, geology, and geography of the heavens. she instructed charles in these latter sciences; he initiated her as well as he might, into the mysteries of _hic, hæc, hoc_, and algebra. at times of recitation, harriet sat and laughed at their "queer words." when she accompanied them in their search for flowers, she amused herself by bringing mullen, yarrow, and, in one instance, a huge sunflower.--when they had traced constellations, she repeated to them a satire on star-gazers, which she learned of her father. the _histories_ of the constellations and flowers first arrested her attention, and kindled a romance which had hitherto lain dormant. a new light was in her eye from that hour, and a new charm in her whole deportment. she commenced study under very discouraging circumstances. of this she was deeply sensible. she often shed a few tears as she thought of her utter ignorance, then dashed them off, and studied with renewed diligence and success. she studied two hours every morning before commencing labor and until half past eleven at night. she took her book and her dinner to the mill, that she might have the whole intermission for study. this short season, with the reflection she gave during the afternoon, was sufficient for the mastery of a hard lesson. she was close in her attendance at the sanctuary. she joined a bible class; and the teachings there fell with a sanctifying influence on her spirit, subduing but not destroying its vivacity, and opening a new current to her thoughts and affections. although tears of regret for misspent years often stole down her cheeks, she assured jane that she was happier at the moment than in her hours of loudest mirth. her letters to her friends had prepared them for a change, but not for _such_ a change--so great and so happy. she was now a very beautiful girl, easy and graceful in her manners, soft and gentle in her conversation, and evidently conscious of her superiority, only to feel more humble, more grateful to heaven, her dear cousins, her minister, her sabbath school teacher, and other beloved friends, who by their kindness had opened such new and delightful springs of feeling in her heart. she flung her arms around her mother's neck, and wept tears of gratitude and love. mrs. greenough felt that she was no longer alone in the world; and mr. greenough, as he watched them--the wife and the daughter--inwardly acknowledged that there was that in the world dearer to his heart than his farm and his independence. amongst harriet's baggage was a rough deal box. this was first opened. it contained her books, a few minerals and shells. there were fifty well-selected volumes, besides a package of gifts for her father, mother, and brother.--there was no book-case in the house; and the kitchen shelf was full of old almanacs, school books, sermons, and jest books. mr. greenough rode to the village, and returned with a rich secretary, capacious enough for books, minerals, and shells. he brought the intelligence, too, that a large party of students and others were to spend the evening with them. harriet's heart beat quick, as she thought of young curtis, and wondered if he was among the said students.--before she left bradford, struck with the beauty and simplicity of her appearance, he sought and obtained an introduction to her, but left her side, after sundry ineffectual attempts to draw her into conversation, disappointed and disgusted. he _was_ among harriet's visitors. "pray, miss curtis, what may be your opinion of our belle, miss greenough?" asked young lane, on the following morning, as mr. curtis and his sister entered the hall of the academy. "why, i think that her improvement has been astonishingly rapid during the past year; and that she is now a really charming girl." "has she interfered with your heart, lane?" asked his chum. "as to that, i do not feel entirely decided. i think i shall renew my call, however--nay, do not frown, curtis; i was about to add, if it be only to taste her father's delicious melons, pears, plums, and apples." curtis blushed slightly, bowed, and passed on to the school room. he soon proved that he cared much less for mr. greenough's fruit than for his daughter: for the fruit remained untasted if harriet was at his side. he was never so happy as when mr. greenough announced his purpose of sending harriet to the academy two or three years. arrangements were made accordingly, and the week before charles left home for college, she was duly installed in his father's family. she missed him much; but the loss of his society was partially counterbalanced by frequent and brotherly letters from him, and by weekly visits to her home, which by the way, is becoming quite a paradise under her supervision.--she has been studying painting and drawing. several well-executed specimens of each adorn the walls and tables of their sitting-room and parlor. she has no "regular built" centre-table, but in lieu thereof she has removed from the garret an old round table that belonged to her grandmother. this she has placed in the centre of the sitting-room; and what with its very pretty covering (which falls so near the floor as to conceal its uncouth legs), and its books, it forms no mean item of elegance and convenience. mr. greenough and his help have improved a few leisure days in removing the trees that entirely concealed the merrimac. by the profits resulting from their sale, he has built a neat and tasteful enclosure for his house and garden. this autumn shade-trees and shrubbery are to be removed to the yard, and fruit-trees and vines to the garden. next winter a summer-house is to be put in readiness for erection in the spring. all this, and much more, mr. greenough is confident he can accomplish, without neglecting his _necessary_ labors, or the course of reading he has marked out, "by and with the advice" of his wife and harriet. and more, and better still, he has decided that his son george shall attend school, at least two terms yearly. he will board at home, and will be accompanied by his cousin charles, whom mr. greenough has offered to board gratis, until his education is completed. by this generosity on the part of her uncle, jane will be enabled to defray other expenses incidental to charles's education, and still have leisure for literary pursuits. most truly might mr. greenough say,-- "the day is come i never thought to see, strange revolutions in my farm and me." a. [illustration: decoration] fancy. o swiftly flies the shuttle now, swift as an arrow from the bow: but swifter than the thread is wrought, is soon the flight of busy thought; for fancy leaves the mill behind, and seeks some novel scenes to find. and now away she quickly hies-- o'er hill and dale the truant flies. stop, silly maid! where dost thou go? thy road may be a road of woe: some hand may crush thy fairy form, and chill thy heart so lately warm. "oh no," she cries in merry tone, "i go to lands before unknown; i go in scenes of bliss to dwell, where ne'er is heard a factory bell." away she went; and soon i saw, that fancy's wish was fancy's law; for where the leafless trees were seen, and fancy wished them to be green, her wish she scarcely had made known, before green leaves were on them grown. she spake--and there appear'd in view, bright manly youths, and maidens, too. and fancy called for music rare-- and music filled the ravished air. and then the dances soon began, and through the mazes lightly ran the footsteps of the fair and gay-- for this was fancy's festal day. on, on they move, a lovely group! their faces beam with joy and hope; nor dream they of a danger nigh, beneath their bright and sunny sky. one of the fair ones is their queen, for whom they raise a throne of green; and fancy weaves a garland now, to place upon the maiden's brow; and fragrant are the blooming flowers, in her enchanted fairy-bowers. and fancy now away may slip, and o'er the green-sward lightly skip, and to her airy castle hie-- for fancy hath a castle nigh. the festal board she quick prepares, and every guest the bounty shares,-- and seated at the festal board, their merry voices now are heard, as each youth places to his lips, and from the golden goblet sips a draught of the enchanting wine that came from fancy's fruitful vine. but hark! what sound salutes mine ear? a distant rumbling now i hear. ah, fancy! 'tis no groundless fear, the rushing whirlwind draweth near! thy castle walls are rocking fast,-- the glory of thy feast is past; thy guests are now beneath the wave,-- oblivion is their early grave, thy fairy bower has vanished--fled: thy leafy tree are withered--dead! thy lawn is now a barren heath, thy bright-eyed maids are cold in death! those manly youth that were so gay, have vanished in the self-same way! oh fancy! now remain at home, and be content no more to roam; for visions such as thine are vain, and bring but discontent and pain. remember, in thy giddy whirl, that _i_ am but a factory girl: and be content at home to dwell, though governed by a "factory bell." fiducia. the widow's son. among the multitudes of females employed in our manufacturing establishments, persons are frequently to be met with, whose lives are interspersed with incidents of an interesting and even thrilling character. but seldom have i met with a person who has manifested so deep devotion, such uniform cheerfulness, and withal so determined a perseverance in the accomplishment of a cherished object, as mrs. jones. this inestimable lady was reared in the midst of affluence, and was early married to the object of her heart's affection. a son was given them, a sweet and lovely boy. with much joy they watched the development of his young mind, especially as he early manifested a deep devotional feeling, which was cultivated with the most assiduous attention. but happiness like this may not always continue. reverses came. that faithful husband and affectionate father was laid on a bed of languishing. still he trusted in god; and when he felt that the time of his departure approached, he raised his eyes, and exclaimed, "holy father! thou hast promised to be the widow's god and judge, and a father to the fatherless; into thy care i commit my beloved wife and child. keep thou them from evil, as they travel life's uneven journey. may their service be acceptable in thy sight." he then quietly fell asleep. bitter indeed were the tears shed over his grave by that lone widow and her orphan boy; yet they mourned not as those who mourn without hope. instead of devoting her time to unavailing sorrow, mrs. jones turned her attention to the education of her son, who was then in his tenth year. finding herself in reduced circumstances, she nobly resolved to support her family by her own exertions, and keep her son at school. with this object, she procured plain needle-work, by which, with much economy, she was enabled to live very comfortably, until samuel had availed himself of all the advantages presented him by the common schools and high school. he was then ready to enter college--but how were the necessary funds to be raised to defray his expenses? this was not a new question to mrs. jones. she had pondered it long and deeply, and decided upon her course; yet she had not mentioned it to her son, lest it should divert his mind from his studies. but as the time now rapidly approached when she was to carry her plan into operation, she deemed it proper to acquaint samuel with the whole scheme. as they were alone in their neat little parlor, she aroused him from a fit of abstraction, by saying, "samuel, my dear son, before your father died we solemnly consecrated you to the service of the lord; and that you might be the better prepared to labor in the gospel vineyard, your father designed to give you a liberal education. he was called home; yet through the goodness of our heavenly father, i have been enabled thus far to prosecute his plan. it is now time for you to enter college, and in order to raise the necessary funds, i have resolved to sell my little stock of property, and engage as an operative in a factory." at this moment, neighbor hall, an old-fashioned, good-natured sort of a man, entered very unceremoniously, and having heard the last sentence, replied: "ah! widow, you know that i do not like the plan of bringing up our boys in idleness. but then samuel is such a good boy, and so fond of reading, that i think it a vast pity if he cannot read all the books in the state. yes, send him to college, widow; there he will have reading to his heart's content. you know there is a gratuity provided for the education of indigent and pious young men." "yes," said mrs. jones, "i know it; but i am resolved that if my son ever obtains a place among the servants of the prince of peace, he shall stand forth unchained by the bondage of men, and nobly exert the energies of his mind as the lord's freeman." samuel, who had early been taught the most perfect obedience, now yielded reluctant consent to this measure.--little time was requisite for arrangements; and having converted her little effects into cash, they who had never before been separated, now took an affectionate and sorrowful leave of each other, and departed--the one to the halls of learning, and the other to the power-looms. we shall now leave samuel jones, and accompany his mother to dover. on her arrival, she assumed her maiden name, which i shall call lucy cambridge; and such was her simplicity and quietness of deportment, that she was never suspected of being other than she seemed. she readily obtained a situation in a weave-room, and by industry and close application, she quickly learned the grand secret of a successful weaver--namely, "keep the filling running, and the web clear." the wages were not then reduced to the present low standard, and lucy transmitted to her son, monthly, all, saving enough to supply her absolute necessities. as change is the order of the day in all manufacturing places, so, in the course of change, lucy became my room-mate; and she whom i had before admired, secured my love and ardent friendship. upon general topics she conversed freely; but of her history and kindred, never. her respectful deportment was sufficient to protect her from the inquiries of curiosity; and thus she maintained her reserve until one evening when i found her sadly perusing a letter. i thought she had been weeping. all the sympathies of my nature were aroused, and throwing my arms around her neck, i exclaimed, "dear lucy, does your letter bring you bad news, or are any of your relatives"----i hesitated and stopped; for, thought i, "perhaps she _has_ no relatives. i have never heard her speak of any: she may be a lone orphan in the world." it was then she yielded to sympathy, what curiosity had never ventured to ask. from that time she continued to speak to me of her history and hopes. as i have selected names to suit myself, she has kindly permitted me to make an extract from her answer to that letter, which was as follows: "my dear son,--in your letter of the th, you entreat me to leave the mill, saying, 'i would rather be a scavenger, a wood-sawyer, or anything, whereby i might honestly procure a subsistence for my mother and myself, than have you thus toil, early and late. mother, the very thought is intolerable! o come away--for dearly as i love knowledge, i cannot consent to receive it at the price of my mother's happiness.' "my son, it is true that factory life is a life of toil--but i am preparing the way for my only son to go forth as a herald of the cross, to preach repentance and salvation to those who are out of the way. i am promoting an object which was very near the heart of my dear husband. wherefore i desire that you will not again think of pursuing any other course than the one already marked out for you; for you perceive that my agency in promoting your success, forms an important part of _my_ happiness." often have i seen her eyes sparkle with delight as she mentioned her son and his success. and after the labor and toil of attending "double work" during the week, very often have i seen her start with all the elasticity of youth, and go to the post office after a letter from samuel. and seldom did she return without one, for he was ever thoughtful of his mother, who was spending her strength for him. and he knew very well that it was essential to her happiness to be well informed of his progress and welfare. nearly three years had elapsed since lucy cambridge first entered the mill, when the stage stopped in front of her boarding house, and a young gentleman sprang out, and inquired if miss lucy cambridge was in. immediately they were clasped in each other's arms. this token of mutual affection created no small stir among the boarders. one declared, "she thought it very singular that such a pretty young man should fancy so old a girl as lucy cambridge." another said, "she should as soon think that he would marry his mother." samuel jones was tall, but of slender form. his hair, which was of the darkest brown, covered an unusually fine head. his eyes, of a clear dark grey, beaming with piety and intelligence, shed a lustre over his whole countenance, which was greatly heightened by being overshadowed by a deep, broad forehead. he visited his mother at this time, to endeavor to persuade her to leave the mill, and spend her time in some less laborious occupation. he assured her that he had saved enough from the stock she had already sent him, to complete his education. but she had resolved to continue in her present occupation, until her son should have a prospect of a permanent residence; and he departed alone. intelligence was soon conveyed to lucy that a young student had preached occasionally, and that his labors had been abundantly blessed. and ere the completion of another year, samuel jones went forth a licentiate, to preach the everlasting gospel. i will not attempt to describe the transports of that widowed heart, when she received the joyful tidings that her son had received a unanimous call to take the pastoral charge of a small but well-united society in the western part of ohio, and only waited for her to accompany him thither. speedily she prepared to leave a place which she really loved; "for," said she, "have i not been blessed with health and strength to perform a great and noble work in this place?" ay, undoubtedly thou hast performed a blessed work; and now, go forth, and in the heartfelt satisfaction that thou hast performed thy duty, reap the rich reward of all thy labors. samuel jones and his mother have departed for the scene of their future labors, with their hearts filled with gratitude to god, and an humble desire to be of service in winning many souls to the flock of our savior and lord. orianna. witchcraft. it may not, perhaps, be generally known that a belief in witchcraft still prevails, to a great extent, in some parts of new england. whether this is owing to the effect of early impressions on the mind, or to some defect in the physical organization of the human system, is not for me to say; my present purpose being only to relate, in as concise a manner as may be, some few things which have transpired within a quarter of a century; all of which happened in the immediate neighborhood of my early home, and among people with whom i was well acquainted. my only apology for so doing is, that i feel desirous to transmit to posterity, something which may give them an idea of the superstition of the present age--hoping that when they look back upon its dark page, they will feel a spirit of thankfulness that they live in more enlightened times, and continue the work of mental illumination, till the mists of error entirely vanish before the light of all-conquering truth. in a little glen between the mountains, in the township of b., stands a cottage, which, almost from time immemorial, has been noted as the residence of some one of those ill-fated beings, who are said to take delight in sending their spirits abroad to torment the children of men. these beings, it is said, purchase their art of his satanic majesty--the price, their immortal souls, and when satan calls for his due, the mantle of the witch is transferred to another mortal, who, for the sake of exercising the art for a brief space of time, makes over the soul to perdition. the mother of the present occupant of this cottage lived to a very advanced age; and for a long series of years, all the mishaps within many miles were laid to her spiritual agency; and many were the expedients resorted to to rid the neighborhood of so great a pest. but the old woman, spite of all exertions to the contrary, lived on, till she died of sheer old age. it was some little time before it was ascertained who inherited her mantle; but at length it was believed to be a fact that her daughter molly was duly authorized to exercise all the prerogatives of a witch; and so firmly was this belief established, that it even gained credence with her youngest brother; and after she was married, and had removed to a distant part of the country, a calf of his, that had some strange actions, was pronounced by the _knowing ones_, to be bewitched; and this inhuman monster chained his calf in the fire place of his cooper-shop, and burned it to death--hoping thereby to kill his sister, whose spirit was supposed to be in the body of the calf. for several years it went current that molly fell into the fire, and was burned to death, at the same time in which the calf was burned. but she at length refuted this, by making her brother a visit, and spending some little time in the neighborhood. some nineteen or twenty years since, two men, with whom i was well acquainted, had an action pending in the superior court, and it was supposed that the testimony of the widow goodwin in favor of the plaintiff, would bear hard upon the defendant. a short time previous to the sitting of the court, a man by the name of james doe, offered himself as an evidence for the defendant to destroy the testimony of the widow goodwin, by defaming her character. doe said that he was willing to testify that the widow goodwin was a witch--he knew it to be a fact; for, once on a time she came to his bed-side, and flung a bridle over his head, and he was instantly metamorphosed into a horse. the widow then mounted and rode him nearly forty miles; she stopped at a tavern, which he named, dismounted, tied him to the sign-post and left him. after an absence of several hours, she returned, mounted, and rode him home; and at the bed-side took off the bridle, when he resumed his natural form. no one acquainted with doe thought that he meant to deviate from the truth. those naturally superstitious thought that the widow goodwin was in reality a witch; but the more enlightened believed that their neighbor doe was under the influence of spirituous liquor when he went to bed; and that whatever might be the scene presented to his imagination, it was owing to false vision, occasioned by derangement in his upper story; and they really felt a sympathy for him, knowing that he belonged to a family who were subject to mental aberration. a scene which i witnessed in part, in the autumn of , shall close my chapter on witchcraft. it was between the hours of nine and ten in the morning, that a stout-built, ruddy-faced man confined one of his cows, by means of bows and iron chains, to an apple-tree and then beat her till she dropped dead--saying that the cow was bewitched, and that he was determined to kill the witch. his mother, and some of the neighbors witnessed this cruel act without opposing him, so infatuated were they with a belief in witchcraft. i might enlarge upon this scene, but the recollection of what then took place recalls so many disagreeable sensations, that i forbear. let it suffice to state that the cow was suffering in consequence of having eaten a large quantity of potatoes from a heap that was exposed in the field where she was grazing. tabitha. [illustration: decoration] cleaning up. there is something to me very interesting in observing the manifestations of animal instinct--that unerring prompter which guides its willing disciple into the ever straight path, and shows him, with unfailing sagacity, the easiest and most correct method of accomplishing each necessary design. but to enter here, upon a philosophical dissertation, respecting the nature and developments of instinct, is not my design, and i will now detain you with but one or two instances of it, which have fallen under my own observation. one warm day in the early spring, i observed a spider, very busily engaged upon a dirty old web, which had for a long time, curtained a pane of my factory window. where madame arachne had kept herself during the winter, was not in my power to ascertain; but she was in a very good condition, plump, spry, and full of energy. the activity of her movements awakened my curiosity, and i watched with much interest the commotion in the old dwelling, or rather slaughter house, for i doubted not that many a green head and blue bottle had there met an untimely end. i soon found that madam was very laboriously engaged in that very necessary part of household exercises, called, cleaning up; and she had chosen precisely the season for her labors which all good housewives have by common consent appropriated to paint-cleaning, white-washing, &c. with much labor, and a prodigal expenditure of steps, she removed, one by one, the tiny bits of dirt, sand &c., &c., which had accumulated in this net during the winter; but it was not done, as i at first thought, by pushing and poking, and thrusting the intruders out, but by gradually destroying their _location_, as a western emigrant would say.--whether this was done, as i at one time imagined, by devouring the fibre as she passed over it, or by winding it around some under part of her body, or whether she left it at the centre of the web, to which point she invariably returned after every peregrination to the outskirts, i could not satisfy myself. it was to me a cause of great marvel, and awakened my perceptive as well as reflective faculties from a long winter nap. to the first theory there was no objection, excepting that i had never heard of its being done; but then it might be so, and in this case i had discovered what had escaped the observation of all preceding naturalists. to the second there was this objection, that when i occasionally caught a front view of "my lady," she showed no distaff, upon which she might have re-wound her unravelled thread. the third suggestion was also objectionable, because, though the centre looked somewhat thicker, or i surmised that it did, yet it was not so much so as it must have been, had it been the depot of the whole concern. of one thing i was at length assured--that there was to be an entire demolition of the whole fabric, with the exception of the main beams, (or sleepers, i think is the technical term,) which remained as usual, when all else had been removed. then i went away for the night, and when i returned the next morning, expecting to behold a blank--a void, an evacuation of premises--a removal--a disappearance--a destruction most complete, without even a wreck left behind--lo! there was again the rebuilt mansion--the restored fabric, the reversed penelopian labor: and madam was rejoicing like the patient man of uz, when more than he had lost was restored to him. my feelings, (for i have a large bump of sympathy) were of that pleasurable kind which jack must have experienced, when he saw the castle, which in a single night had established itself on the top of his bean-pole; or which enlivened the bosom of aladdin, when he saw the beautiful palace, which in a night had travelled from the genii's dominions to the waste field, which it then beautified; and i felt truly rejoiced that my industrious neighbor's works of darkness were not always deeds of evil. but alack for the poor _spinster_, when it came _my_ turn to be _cleaning up_! [illustration: decoration] visits to the shakers. a first visit. sometime in the summer of --, i paid a visit to one of the shaker villages in the state of new york. previously to this, many times and oft had i (when tired of the noise and contention of the world, its erroneous opinions, and its wrong practices) longed for some retreat, where, with a few chosen friends, i could enjoy the present, forget the past, and be free from all anxiety respecting any future portion of time. and often had i pictured, in imagination, a state of happy society, where one common interest prevailed--where kindness and brotherly love were manifested in all of the every-day affairs of life--where liberty and equality would live, not in name, but in very deed--where idleness, in no shape whatever, would be tolerated--and where vice of every description would be banished, and neatness, with order, would be manifested in all things. actually to witness such a state of society was a happiness which i never expected. i thought it to be only a thing among the airy castles which it has ever been my delight to build. but with this unostentatious and truly kind-hearted people, the shakers, i found it; and the reality, in beauty and harmony, exceeded even the picturings of imagination. no unprejudiced mind could, for a single moment, resist the conviction that this singular people, with regard to their worldly possessions, lived in strict conformity to the teachings of jesus of nazareth. there were men in this society who had added to the common stock thousands and tens of thousands of dollars; they nevertheless labored, dressed, and esteemed themselves as no better, and fared in all respects like those who had never owned, neither added to the society, any worldly goods whatever. the cheerfulness with which they bore one another's burdens made even the temporal calamities, so unavoidable among the inhabitants of the earth, to be felt but lightly. this society numbered something like six hundred persons, who in many respects were differently educated, and who were of course in possession of a variety of prejudices, and were of contrary dispositions and habits. conversing with one of their elders respecting them, he said, "you may say that these were rude materials of which to compose a church, and speak truly: but here (though strange it may seem) they are worked into a building, with no sound of axe or hammer. and however discordant they were in a state of nature, the square and the plumb-line have been applied to them, and they now admirably fit the places which they were designed to fill. here the idle become industrious, the prodigal contracts habits of frugality, the parsimonious become generous and liberal, the intemperate quit the tavern and the grog-shop, the debauchee forsakes the haunts of dissipation and infamy, the swearer leaves off the habits of profanity, the liar is changed into a person of truth, the thief becomes an honest man, and the sloven becomes neat and clean." the whole deportment of this truly singular people, together with the order and neatness which i witnessed in their houses, shops, and gardens, to all of which i had free access for the five days which i remained with them, together with the conversations which i held with many of the people of both sexes, confirmed the words of the elder.--truly, thought i, there is not another spot in the wide earth where i could be so happy as i could be here, provided the religious faith and devotional exercises of the shakers were agreeable to my own views. although i could not see the utility of their manner of worship, i felt not at all disposed to question that it answered the end for which spiritual worship was designed, and as such is accepted by our heavenly father. that the shakers have a love for the gospel exceeding that which is exhibited by professing christians in general, cannot be doubted by any one who is acquainted with them. for on no other principle could large families, to the number of fifty or sixty, live together like brethren and sisters. and a number of these families could not, on any other principles save those of the gospel, form a society, and live in peace and harmony, bound together by no other bond than that of brotherly love, and take of each other's property, from day to day and from year to year, using it indiscriminately, as every one hath need, each willing that his brother should use his property, as he uses it himself, and all this without an equivalent. many think that a united interest in all things temporal is contrary to reason. but in what other light, save that of common and united interest, could the words of christ's prophecy or promise be fulfilled? according to the testimony of mark, christ said, "there is no man who hath left house, or brethren, or sisters, or father, or mother, or wife, or children, or lands, for my sake and the gospel's, but he shall receive an hundredfold now in this time, houses, and brethren, and sisters, and mothers, and children, and lands, with persecutions, and in the world to come eternal life." not only in fact, but in theory, is an hundredfold of private interest out of the question. for a believer who forsook all things could not possess an hundredfold of all things only on the principle in which he could possess _all that_ which his brethren possessed, while they also possessed the same in an united capacity. in whatever light it may appear to others, to me it appears beautiful indeed, to see a just and an impartial equality reign, so that the rich and the poor may share an equal privilege, and have all their wants supplied. that the shakers are in reality what they profess to be, i doubt not. neither do i doubt that many, very many lessons of wisdom might be learned of them, by those who profess to be wiser. and to all who wish to know if "any good thing can come out of nazareth," i would say, you had better "go and see." a second visit. i was so well pleased with the appearance of the shakers, and the prospect of quietness and happiness among them, that i visited them a second time. i went with a determination to ascertain as much as i possibly could of their forms and customs of worship, the every-day duties devolving on the members, &c.; and having enjoyed excellent opportunities for acquiring the desired information, i wish to present a brief account of what "i verily do know" in relation to several particulars. first of all, justice will not permit me to retract a word in relation to the industry, neatness, order, and general good behavior, in the shaker settlement which i visited. in these respects, that singular people are worthy of all commendation--yea, they set an example for the imitation of christians everywhere. justice requires me to say, also, that their hospitality is proverbial, and deservedly so. they received and entertained me kindly, and (hoping perhaps that i might be induced to join them) they extended extra-civilities to me. i have occasion to modify the expression of my gratitude in only one particular--and that is, one of the female elders made statements to me concerning the requisite confessions to be made, and the forms of admission to their society, which statements she afterwards denied, under circumstances that rendered her denial a most aggravated insult. declining farther notice of this matter, because of the indelicacy of the confessions alluded to, i pass to notice, st. the domestic arrangements of the shakers. however strange the remark may seem, it is nevertheless true, that our factory population work fewer hours out of every twenty-four than are required by the shakers, whose bell to call them from their slumbers, and also to warn them that it is time to commence the labors of the day, rings much earlier than our factory bells; and its calls were obeyed, in the family where i was entertained, with more punctuality than i ever knew the greatest "workey" among my numerous acquaintances (during the fourteen years in which i have been employed in different manufacturing establishments) to obey the calls of the factory-bell. and not until nine o'clock in the evening were the labors of the day closed, and the people assembled at their religious meetings. whoever joins the shakers with the expectation of relaxation from toil, will be greatly mistaken, since they deem it an indispensable duty to have every moment of time profitably employed. the little portions of leisure which the females have, are spent in knitting--each one having a basket of knitting-work for a constant companion. their habits of order are, in many things, carried to the extreme. the first bell for their meals rings for all to repair to their chambers, from which, at the ringing of the second bell, they descend to the eating-room. here, all take their appropriate places at the tables, and after locking their hands on their breasts, they drop on their knees, close their eyes, and remain in this position about two minutes. then they rise, seat themselves, and with all expedition swallow their food; then rise on their feet, again lock their hands, drop on their knees, close their eyes, and in about two minutes rise and retire. their meals are taken in silence, conversation being prohibited. those whose chambers are in the fourth story of one building, and whose work-shops are in the third story of another building, have a daily task in climbing stairs which is more oppressive than any of the rules of a manufacturing establishment. d. with all deference, i beg leave to introduce some of the religious views and ceremonies of the shakers. from the conversation of the elders, i learned that they considered it doing god service to sever the sacred ties of husband and wife, parent and child--the relationship existing between them being contrary to their religious views--views which they believe were revealed from heaven to "mother ann lee," the founder of their sect, and through whom they profess to have frequent revelations from the spiritual world. these communications, they say, are often written on gold leaves, and sent down from heaven to instruct the poor simple shakers in some new duty. they are copied, and perused, and preserved with great care. i one day heard quite a number of them read from a book, in which they were recorded, and the names of several of the brethren and sisters to whom they were given by the angels, were told me. one written on a gold leaf, was (as i was told) presented to proctor sampson by an angel, so late as the summer of . these "revelations" are written partly in english, and partly in some unintelligible jargon, or unknown tongue, having a spiritual meaning, which can be understood only by those who possess the spirit in an eminent degree. they consist principally of songs, which they sing at their devotional meetings, and which are accompanied with dancing, and many unbecoming gestures and noises. often in the midst of a religious march, all stop, and with all their might set to stamping with both feet. and it is no uncommon thing for many of the worshipping assembly to crow like a parcel of young chanticleers, while others imitate the barking of dogs; and many of the young women set to whirling round and round--while the old men shake and clap their hands; the whole making a scene of noise and confusion which can be better imagined than described. the elders seriously told me that these things were the outward manifestations of the spirit of god. apart from their religious meetings, the shakers have what they call "union meetings." these are for social converse, and for the purpose of making the people acquainted with each other. during the day, the elders tell who may visit such and such chambers. a few minutes past nine, work is laid aside; the females change, or adjust, as best suits their fancy, their caps, handkerchiefs, and pinners, with a precision which indicates that they are not _altogether_ free from vanity. the chairs, perhaps to the number of a dozen, are set in two rows, in such a manner that those who occupy them may face each other. at the ringing of a bell each one goes to the chamber where either he or she has been directed by the elders, or remains at home to receive company, as the case may be. they enter the chambers _sans cérémonie_, and seat themselves--the men occupying one row of chairs, the women the other. here, with their clean checked home-made pocket-handkerchiefs spread in their laps, and their spit-boxes standing in a row between them, they converse about raising sheep and kine, herbs and vegetables, building walls and raising corn, heating the oven and paring apples, killing rats and gathering nuts, spinning tow and weaving sieves, making preserves and mending the brethren's clothes,--in short, every thing they do will afford some little conversation. but beyond their own little world they do not appear to extend scarcely a thought. and why should they? having so few sources of information, they know not what is passing beyond them. they however make the most of their own affairs, and seem to regret that they can converse no longer, when, after sitting together from half to three-quarters of an hour, the bell warns them that it is time to separate, which they do by rising up, locking their hands across their breasts, and bowing. each one then goes silently to his own chamber. it will readily be perceived, that they have no access to libraries, no books, excepting school-books, and a few relating to their own particular views; no periodicals, and attend no lectures, debates, lyceums, &c. they have none of the many privileges of manufacturing districts--consequently their information is so very limited, that their conversation is, as a thing in course, quite insipid. the manner of their life seems to be a check to the march of mind and a desire for improvement; and while the moral and perceptive faculties are tolerably developed, the intellectual, with a very few exceptions, seem to be below the average. i have considered it my duty to make the foregoing statement of facts, lest the glowing description of the shakers, given in the story of my first visit, might have a wrong influence. i then judged by outward appearances only--having a very imperfect knowledge of the true state of the case. nevertheless, the _facts_ as i saw them in my first visit, are still facts; my error is to be sought only in my inferences. having since had greater opportunities for observation, i am enabled to judge more righteous judgment. c. b. the lock of gray hair. touching and simple memento of departed worth and affection! how mournfully sweet are the recollections thou awakenest in the heart, as i gaze upon thee--shorn after death had stamped her loved features with the changeless hue of the grave. how vividly memory recalls the time when, in childish sportiveness and affection, i arranged this little tress upon the venerable forehead of my grandmother! though time had left his impress there, a majestic beauty yet rested upon thy brow; for age had no power to quench the light of benevolence that beamed from thine eye, nor wither the smile of goodness that animated thy features. again do i seem to listen to the mild voice, whose accents had ever power to subdue the waywardness of my spirit, and hush to calmness the wild and turbulent passions of my nature.--though ten summers have made the grass green upon thy grave, and the white rose burst in beauty above thine honored head, thy name is yet green in our memory, and thy virtues have left a deathless fragrance in the hearts of thy children. though she of whom i tell claimed not kindred with the "high-born of earth"--though the proud descent of titled ancestry marked not her name--yet the purity of her spotless character, the practical usefulness of her life, her firm adherence to duty, her high and holy submission to the will of heaven, in every conflict, shed a radiance more resplendent than the glittering coronet's hues, more enduring than the wreath that encircles the head of genius. it was no lordly dome of other climes, nor yet of our far-off sunny south, that called her mistress; but among the granite hills of new hampshire (my own father-land) was her humble home. well do i remember the morning when she related to me (a sportive girl of thirteen) the events of her early days.--at her request, i was her companion during her accustomed morning walk about her own homestead. during our ramble, she suddenly stopped, and looked intently down upon the green earth, leaving me in silent wonder at what could so strongly rivet her attention. at length she raised her eyes, and pointing to an ancient hollow in the earth, nearly concealed by rank herbage, she said, "that spot is the dearest to me on earth." i looked around, then into her face for an explanation, seeing nothing unusually attractive about the place. but ah! how many cherished memories came up at that moment! the tear of fond recollection stood in her eye as she spoke:--"on this spot i passed the brightest hours of my existence." to my eager inquiry, did you not always live in the large white house yonder? she replied, "no, my child. fifty years ago, upon this spot stood a rude dwelling, composed of logs. here i passed the early days of my marriage, and here my noble first-born drew his first breath." in answer to my earnest entreaty to tell me all about it, she seated herself upon the large broad stone which had been her ancient hearth, and commenced her story. "it was a bright midsummer eve when your grandfather, whom you never saw, brought me here, his chosen and happy bride. on that morning had we plighted our faith at the altar--that morning, with all the feelings natural to a girl of eighteen, i bade adieu to the home of my childhood, and with a fond mother's last kiss yet warm upon my cheek, commenced my journey with my husband towards his new home in the wilderness. slowly on horseback we proceeded on our way, through the green forest path, whose deep winding course was directed by incisions upon the trees left by the axe of the sturdy woodsman. yet no modern bride, in her splendid coach, decked in satin, orange-flowers, and lace--on the way to her stately city mansion, ever felt her heart beat higher than did my own on that day. for as i looked upon the manly form of him beside me, as with careful hand he guided my bridal rein--or met the fond glance of his full dark eye, i felt that his was a changeless love. "thus we pursued our lonely way through the lengthening forest, where nature reigned almost in her primitive wildness and beauty. now and then a cultivated patch, with a newly-erected cottage, where sat the young mother, hushing with her low wild song the babe upon her bosom, with the crash of the distant falling trees, proclaimed it the home of the emigrant. "twilight had thrown her soft shade over the earth: the bending foliage assumed a deeper hue; the wild wood bird singing her last note, as we emerged from the forest to a spot termed by the early settlers 'a clearing.' it was an enclosure of a few acres, where the preceding year had stood in its pride the stately forest-tree. in the centre, surrounded by tall stalks of indian corn, waving their silken tassels in the night-breeze, stood the lowly cot which was to be my future home. beneath yon aged oak, which has been spared to tell of the past, we dismounted from our horses, and entered our rude dwelling. all was silent within and without, save the low whisper of the wind as it swept through the forest. but blessed with youth, health, love, and hope, what had we to fear? not that the privations and hardships incident to the early emigrant were unknown to us--but we heeded them not. "the early dawn and dewy eve saw us unremitting in our toil, and heaven crowned our labors with blessings. 'the wilderness began to blossom as the rose,' and our barns were filled with plenty. "but there was coming a time big with the fate of these then infant colonies. the murmur of discontent, long since heard in our large commercial ports, grew longer and louder, beneath repeated acts of british oppression. we knew the portentous cloud every day grew darker. in those days our means of intelligence were limited to the casual visitation of some traveller from abroad to our wilderness. "but uncertain and doubtful as was its nature, it was enough to rouse the spirit of patriotism in many a manly heart; and while the note of preparation loudly rang in the bustling thoroughfares, its tones were not unheard among these granite rocks. the trusty firelock was remounted, and hung in polished readiness over each humble door. the shining pewter was transformed to the heavy bullet, awaiting the first signal to carry death to the oppressor. "it was on the memorable th of june, , that your grandfather was at his usual labor in a distant part of his farm: suddenly there fell upon his ear a sound heavier than the crash of the falling tree: echo answered echo along these hills; he knew the hour had come--that the flame had burst forth which blood alone could extinguish. his was not a spirit to slumber within sound of that battle-peal. he dropped his implements, and returned to his house. never shall i forget the expression of his face as he entered.--there was a wild fire in his eye--his cheek was flushed--the veins upon his broad forehead swelled nigh to bursting. he looked at me--then at his infant-boy--and for a moment his face was convulsed. but soon the calm expression of high resolve shone upon his features. "then i felt that what i had long secretly dreaded was about to be realized. for awhile the woman struggled fearfully within me--but the strife was brief; and though i could not with my lips say 'go,' in my heart i responded, 'god's will be done'--for as such i could but regard the sacred cause in which all for which we lived was staked. i dwell not on the anguished parting, nor on the lonely desolation of heart which followed. a few hasty arrangements, and he, in that stern band known as the green mountain boys, led by the noble stark, hurried to the post of danger. on the plains of bennington he nobly distinguished himself in that fierce conflict with the haughty briton and mercenary foe. "long and dreary was the period of my husband's absence; but the god of my fathers forsook me not. to him i committed my absent one, in the confidence that he would do all things well. now and then, a hurried scrawl, written perhaps on the eve of an expected battle, came to me in my lonely solitude like the 'dove of peace' and consolation--for it spoke of undying affection and unshaken faith in the ultimate success of that cause for which he had left all. "but he did return. once more he was with me. i saw him press his first-born to his bosom, and receive the little dark-eyed one, whom he had never yet seen, with new fondness to his paternal arms. he lived to witness the glorious termination of that struggle, the events of which all so well know; to see the 'stars and stripes' waving triumphantly in the breeze, and to enjoy for a brief season the rich blessings of peace and independence. but ere the sere and yellow leaf of age was upon his brow, the withering hand of disease laid his noble head in the dust. as the going down of the sun, which foretells a glorious rising, so was his death. many years have gone by, since he was laid in his quiet resting-place, where, in a few brief days, i shall slumber sweetly by his side." such was her unvarnished story; and such is substantially the story of many an ancient mother of new england. yet while the pen of history tells of the noble deeds of the patriot fathers, it records little of the days of privation and toil of the patriot mothers--of their nights of harassing anxiety and uncomplaining sorrow. but their virtues remain written upon the hearts of their daughters, in characters that perish not. let not the rude hand of degeneracy desecrate the hallowed shrine of their memory. theresa. [illustration: decoration] lament of the little hunchback. oh, ladies, will you listen to a little orphan's tale? and pity her whose youthful voice must breathe so sad a wail; and shrink not from the wretched form obtruding on your view. as though the heart which in it dwells must be as loathsome too. full well i know that mine would be a strange repulsive mind, were the outward form an index true of the soul within it shrined; but though i am so all devoid of the loveliness of youth, yet deem me not as destitute of its innocence and truth. and ever in this hideous frame i strive to keep the light of faith in god, and love to man, still shining pure and bright; though hard the task, i often find, to keep the channel free whence all the kind affections flow to those who love not me. i sometimes take a little child quite softly on my knee, i hush it with my gentlest tones, and kiss it tenderly; but my kindest words will not avail, my form cannot be screened, and the babe recoils from my embrace, as though i were a fiend. i sometimes, in my walks of toil, meet children at their play; for a moment will my pulses fly, and i join the band so gay; but they depart with nasty steps, while their lips and nostrils curl, nor e'en their childhood's sports will share with the little crooked girl but once it was not thus with me: i was a dear-loved child; a mother's kiss oft pressed my brow, a father on me smiled; no word was ever o'er me breathed, but in affection's tone, for i to them was very near--their cherish'd, only one. but sad the change which me befel, when they were laid to sleep, where the earth-worms o'er their mouldering forms their noisome revels keep; for of the orphan's hapless fate there were few or none to care, and burdens on my back were laid a child should never bear. and now, in this offensive form, their cruelty is viewed-- for first upon me came disease--and deformity ensued: woe! woe to her, for whom not even this life's earliest stage could be redeemed from the bended form and decrepitude of age. and yet of purest happiness i have some transient gleams; 'tis when, upon my pallet rude, i lose myself in dreams: the gloomy present fades away; the sad past seems forgot; and in those visions of the night mine is a blissful lot. the dead then come and visit me: i hear my father's voice; i hear that gentle mother's tones, which makes my heart rejoice; her hand once more is softly placed upon my aching brow, and she soothes my every pain away, as if an infant now. but sad is it to wake again, to loneliness and fears; to find myself the creature yet of misery and tears; and then, once more, i try to sleep, and know the thrilling bliss to see again my father's smile, and feel my mother's kiss. and sometimes, then, a blessed boon has unto me been given-- an entrance to the spirit-world, a foretaste here of heaven; i have heard the joyous anthems swell, from voice and golden lyre, and seen the dearly loved of earth join in that gladsome choir. and i have dropped this earthly frame, this frail disgusting clay, and, in a beauteous spirit-form, have soared on wings away; i have bathed my angel-pinions in the floods of glory bright, which circle, with their brilliant waves, the throne of living light. i have joined the swelling chorus of the holy glittering bands who ever stand around that throne, with cymbals in their hands: but the dream would soon be broken by the voices of the morn, and the sunbeams send me forth again, the theme of jest and song. i care not for their mockery now--the thought disturbs me not, that, in this little span of life, contempt should be my lot; but i would gladly welcome here some slight reprieve from pain, and i'd murmur of my back no more, if it might not ache again. full well i know this ne'er can be, till i with peace am blest, where the heavy-laden sweetly sleep, and the weary are at rest; for the body shall commingle with its kindred native dust, and the soul return for evermore to the "holy one and just." letty. [illustration: decoration] this world is not our home. how difficult it is for the wealthy and proud to realize that they must die, and mingle with the common earth! though a towering monument may mark the spot where their lifeless remains repose, their heads will lie as low as that of the poorest peasant. all their untold gold cannot reprieve them for one short day. when death places his relentless hand upon them, and as their spirit is fast passing away, perhaps for the first time the truth flashes upon their mind, that this world is not their home; and a thrill of agony racks their frame at the thought of entering that land where all is uncertainty to them. it may be that they have never humbled themselves before the great lawgiver and judge, and their hearts, alas! have not been purified and renewed by that grace for which they never supplicated. and as the vacant eye wanders around the splendidly furnished apartment, with its gorgeous hangings and couch of down, how worthless it all seems, compared with that peace of mind which attends "the pure in heart!" the aspirant after fame would fain believe this world was his home, as day by day he twines the laurel-wreath for his brow, and fondly trusts it will be unfading in its verdure; and as the applause of a world, that to him appears all bright and beautiful, meets his ear, he thinks not of him who resigned his life on the cross for suffering humanity--he thinks of naught but the bubble he is seeking; and when he has obtained it, it has lost all its brilliancy--for the world has learned to look with indifference upon the bright flowers he has scattered so profusely on all sides, and his friends, one by one, become alienated and cold, or bestow their praise upon some new candidate who may have entered the arena of fame. how his heart shrinks within him, to think of the long hours of toil by the midnight lamp--of health destroyed--of youth departed--of near and dear ties broken by a light careless word, that had no meaning! how bitterly does he regret that he has thrown away all the warm and better feelings of his heart upon the fading things of earth! how deeply does he feel that he has slighted god's holy law--for, in striving after worldly honors, he had forgotten that this world was not his home; and while the rainbow tints of prosperity gleamed in his pathway, he had neglected to cultivate the fadeless wreath that cheers the dying hour! and now the low hollow cough warns him of the near approach of that hour beyond which all to him is darkness and gloom; and as he tosses on the bed of pain and languishing, lamenting that all the bright visions of youth had so soon vanished away, the cold world perchance passes in review before him. he beholds the flushed cheek of beauty fade, and the star of fame fall from the brow of youth. he marks the young warrior on the field of battle, fighting bravely, while the banner of stars and stripes waves proudly over his head; and while thinking of the glory he shall win, a ball enters his heart.--he gazes upon an aged sire, as he bends over the lifeless form of his idolized child, young and fair as the morning, just touched by the hand of death; she was the light of his home, the last of many dear ones; and he wondered why he was spared, and the young taken. though the cup was bitter, he drank it. again he turned his eyes from the world, whereon everything is written, "fading away." yes, wealth, beauty, fame, glory, honor, friendship, and oh! must it be said that even love, too, fades? almost in despair, he exclaimed, "is there aught that fades not?" and a voice seemed to whisper in his ear, "there is god's love which never fades; this world is not your home; waste not the short fragment of your life in vain regrets, but rather prepare for that dissolution which is the common lot of all; be ready, therefore, to pass to that bourne from which there is no return, before you enter the presence of him whose name is love." "then ask not life, but joy to know that sinless they in heaven shall stand; that death is not a cruel foe, to execute a wise command. 'tis ours to ask, 'tis god's to give.-- we live to die--and die to live." beatrice. [illustration: decoration] dignity of labor. from whence originated the idea, that it was derogatory to a lady's dignity, or a blot upon the female character, to labor? and who was the first to say sneeringly, "oh, she _works_ for a living?" surely, such ideas and expressions ought not to grow on republican soil. the time has been when ladies of the first rank were accustomed to busy themselves in domestic employment. homer tells us of princesses who used to draw water from the springs, and wash with their own hands the finest of the linen of their respective families. the famous lucretia used to spin in the midst of her attendants; and the wife of ulysses, after the siege of troy, employed herself in weaving, until her husband returned to ithaca. and in later times, the wife of george the third, of england, has been represented as spending a whole evening in hemming pocket-handkerchiefs, while her daughter mary sat in the corner, darning stockings. few american fortunes will support a woman who is above the calls of her family; and a man of sense, in choosing a companion to jog with him through all the up-hills and down-hills of life, would sooner choose one who _had_ to work for a living, than one who thought it beneath her to soil her pretty hands with manual labor, although she possessed her thousands. to be able to earn one's own living by laboring with the hands, should be reckoned among female accomplishments; and i hope the time is not far distant when none of my countrywomen will be ashamed to have it known that they are better versed in useful than they are in ornamental accomplishments. c. b. [illustration: decoration] the village chronicle. chapter i. "come, lina, dear," said mr. wheeler to his little daughter, "lay by your knitting, if you please, and read me the paper." "what, pa, this old paper, 'the village chronicle?'" "old, lina!--why, it is damp from the press. not so old, by more than a dozen years, as you are." "but, pa, the _news_ is _olds_. our village mysteries are all worn threadbare by the gossiping old maids before the printer can get them in type; and the foreign information is more quickly obtained from other sources. and, pa, i wish you wouldn't call me lina--it sounds so childish, and i begin to think myself quite a young lady--almost in my teens, you know; and angeline is not so very long." "well, angeline, as you please; but see if there is not something in the paper." "oh, yes, pa; to please you i will read the stupid old (_new_, i mean) concern.--well, in the first place, we have some poetry--some of our village poets' (genius, you know, admits not of distinction of sex) effusions, or rather confusions. miss helena (it used to be ellen once) carrol's sublime sentiments upon 'the belvidere apollo,'--which she never saw, nor anything like it, and knows nothing about. she had better write about our penny-post, and then we might feel an interest in her lucubrations, even if not very intrinsically valuable. but if she does not want to be an old maid, she might as well leave off writing sentimental poetry for the newspapers; for who will marry a _bleu_?" "there is much that i might say in reply, but i will wait until you are older. and now do not let me hear you say anything more about old maids, at least deridingly; for i have strong hopes that my little girl will be one herself." "no, pa, never!--i will not marry, at least while you, or alfred, or jimmy, are alive; but i cannot be an old maid--not one of those tattling, envious, starched-up, prudish creatures, whom i have always designated as old maids, whether they are married or single--on the sunny or shady side of thirty." "well, child, i hope you never will be metamorphosed into an old maid, then. but now for the chronicle--i will excuse you from the poetry, if you will read what comes next." "thank you, my dear father, a thousand times. it would have made me as sick as a cup-full of warm water would do. you know i had rather take so much hot drops.--but the next article is miss simpkins's very original tale, entitled 'the injured one,'--probably all about love and despair, and ladies so fair, and men who don't care, if the mask they can wear, and the girls must beware. now ain't i literary? but to be a heroine also, i will muster my resolution, and commence the story: "'madeline and emerilla were the only daughters of mr. beaufort, of h., new hampshire.' "now, pa, i can't go any farther--i would as lieve travel through the deserts of sahara, or run the gauntlet among the seminoles, as to wade through this sloshy story. miss simpkins always has such names to her heroines; and they would do very well if they were placed anywhere but in the unromantic towns of our granite state. h., i suppose, stands for hawke, or hopkinton. miss simpkins is so soft that i do not believe mr. baxter would publish her stories, if he were not engaged to her sister. she makes me think of old 'deaf uncle jeff,' in the story, who wanted somebody to love." "and she does love--she loves everybody; and i am sorry to hear you talk so of this amiable and intellectual girl. but i do not wish to hear you read her story now--as for her names, she would not find one unappropriated by our towns-folks. what comes next?" "the editorial, pa, and the caption is, 'our representatives.' i had ten times rather read about the antediluvians, and i wish sometimes they might go and keep them company. and now for the items: our new bell got cracked, in its winding way to this 'ere town; and the meeting-house at the west parish, has been fired by an incendiary; and the old elm, near the central house, has been blown down; and widow frye has had a yoke of oxen struck by lightning; and old col. morton fell down dead, in a fit of apoplexy; and the bridge over the branch needs repairing; and 'a friend of good order' wishes that our young men would not stand gaping around the meeting-house doors, before or after service; and 'a friend of equal rights' wishes that people might sell and drink as much rum as they please, without interference, &c., &c.; and all these things we knew before, as well as we did our a b c's. next are the cards: the ladies have voted their thanks to mr. k., for his lecture upon phrenology--the matrimonial part, i presume, included; and the anti-slavery society is to have a fair, at which will be sold all sorts of abolition things, such as anti-slavery paper, wafers, and all such important articles. i declare i will make a nigger doll for it. and mr. p., of boston, is to deliver a lecture upon temperance; and the trustees of the academy have chosen mr. dalton for the preceptor, and here is his long advertisement; and the overseers of the poor are ready to receive proposals for a new alms-house; and all these things, pa, which have been the town talk this long time. but here is something new. our minister, dear mr. olden, has been very seriously injured by an accident upon the boston and salem railroad. the news must be very recent, for we had not heard of it; and it is crowded into very fine type. oh, how sorry i am for him!" "well, lina, or miss angeline, there is something of sufficient importance to repay you for the trouble of reading it, and i am very glad that you have done so--for i will start upon my intended journey to boston to-day, and can assist him to return home. anything else?" "oh, yes, pa! a long list of those who have taken advantage of the bankrupt act, and the deaths and marriages; but all mentioned here, with whose names we were familiar, have been subjects for table-talk these several days." "well, is there no foreign news?" "yes, pa; queen victoria has given another ball at buckingham palace; and prince albert has accepted a very fine blood-hound, from major sharp, of houston; and sir howard douglas has been made a civil grand cross of the bath, &c., &c. are not these fine things to fill up our republican papers with?" "well, my daughter, look at the doings in congress--that will suit you." "you know better, pa. they do nothing there but scold, and strike, and grumble--then pocket their money, and go home. see, here it begins, 'the proceedings of the house can hardly be said to have been _important_. an instructive and delightful _scene_ took place between mr. wise of virginia, and mr. stanly, of south carolina.' yes, pa, that's the way they spend their time. in this _act_ of the farce, or tragedy, one called t' other a _bull-dog_, t' other called one a _coward_. do you wish to hear any more?" "you are somewhat out of humor, my child; but are there no new notices?" "yes, here is an 'assessors' notice,' and an 'assignee's notice,' and a 'contractors' notice;' but you do not care anything about them. and here is an 'auction notice.'" "what auction? read it, my love." "why, the late old mr. gardner's farm-house, and all his furniture, are to be sold at auction. and here is a notice of a meeting of the directors of the pentucket bank, to be held this very afternoon." "i am very glad to have learned of it, for i must be there. is that all?" "all?--no, indeed! here are some long articles, full of _whereases_, and _resolved's_, and _be it enacted's_; but i know you will excuse me from reading them. and now for the advertisements: here is a fine new lot of _chenie-de-laines_, 'just received' at grosvenor's--oh, pa! do let me have a new dress, won't you?" "no, i can't--at least, i do not see how i can. but if you will promise to read my paper through patiently for the future, and will prepare my valise for my journey to boston, i will see what i may do. meantime i must be off to the directors' meeting. and now let me remind you that two items, at least, in this paper, have been of much importance to me; and one, it seems, somewhat interesting to you. so no more fretting about the chronicle, if you want a _new gown_." mr. wheeler left the room, and angeline seated herself at the work-table, to repair his vest. she was sorry she had fretted so much about the chronicle; but she did wish her father would take the "ladies' companion," or something else, in its stead. while seated there, her little brother came running into the room, all out of breath, and but just able to gasp out, "oh, lina! there is a man at the central house, who has just stopped in the stage, and he is going right on to kentucky, and straight through the town where alfred lives, for i heard him say so; and i asked him if he would carry anything for us, and he said, 'yes, willingly.' so i ran home as fast as i could come, to tell you to write a note, or do up a paper, or something, because he will be so sure to get it--and right from us, too, as fast as it can go. now do be quick, or the stage will start off." "oh, dear me," exclaimed angeline, "how i do wish we had a new york mirror, or a philadelphia courier, or a boston gazette, or anything but this stupid chronicle! do look, jimmy! is there nothing in this pile of papers?" "no, nothing that will do--so fold up the chronicle, quick, for the stage is starting." angeline, who had spent some moments in looking for another paper, now had barely time to scrawl the short word "lina" on the paper, wrap it in an envelop, and direct it. jimmy snatched it as soon as it was ready, and ran out "_full tilt_," in knightly phrase, or, as he afterwards said, "_lickity split_." the stage was coming on at full speed, and he wished to stop it. many a time had he stood by the road-side, with his school companions, and, waving his cap, and stretching out his neck, had hallooed, "hurrah for jackson!" and he feared that, like the boy in the fable, who called "wolves! wolves!" if he now shouted to them from the road-side, they would not heed him. so he ran into the middle of the road, threw up his arms, and stood still. the driver barely reined in his horses within a few feet of the daring boy. "where is the man who is going straight ahead to kentucky?" "here, my lad," replied a voice, as a head popped out of the window, to see what was the matter. "well, here is a paper which i wish you to carry to my brother; and if you stop long enough where he is, you must go and see him, and tell him you saw me too." "well done, my lad! you are a keen one. i'll do your bidding--but don't you never run under stage-horses again." he took the packet, while the driver cracked his whip; and the horses started as the little boy leaped upon the bank, shouting, "hurra for yankee land and old kentucky!" chapter ii. in a rude log hut of western kentucky was seated an animated and intelligent-looking young man. a bright moon was silvering the forest-tops, which were almost the only prospect from his window; but in that beauteous light the rough clearing around seemed changed to fairy land; and even his rude domicile partook of the transient renovation. his lone walls, his creviced roof, and ragged floor, were transformed beneath that silvery veil; and truly did it look as though it might well be the abode of peaceful happiness. "i feel as though i could write poetry now," said alfred to himself. "let me see--'the spirit's call to the absent,' or something like that; but if i should strike my light, and really get pens, ink, and paper, it would all evaporate, vanish, abscond, make tracks, become scarce, be o. p. h. ah, yes! the poetry would go, but the feeling, the deep affection, which would find some other language than simple prose, can never depart. "how i wish i could see them all! there is not a codger in my native town--not a crusty fusty old bachelor--not an envious tattling old maid--not a flirt, sot, pauper, idiot, or sainted hypocrite, but i could welcome with an embrace. but if i could only see my father, or jimmy, or lina, dear girl! how much better i should feel! it would make me ten years younger, to have a chat with lina; and, to tell the truth, i should like to see any woman, just to see how it would seem. i'd go a quarter of a mile, now, to look at a row of aprons hung out to dry. but there! it's no use to talk. "an evening like this is such an one as might entice me to my mother's grave, were i at home. oh! if she were but alive--if i could only know that she was still somewhere on the wide earth, to think and pray for me--i might be better, as well as happier. methinks it must be a blessed thing to be a mother, if all sons cherish that parent's memory as i have mine--and they do. it cheers and sustains the exile in a stranger's land; it invigorates him in trial, and lights him through adversity; it warns the felon, and haunts and harrows the convict; it strengthens the captive, and exhilarates the homeward-bound. truly must it be a blessed thing to be a mother!" he stopped--for in the moonlight was distinctly seen the figure of a horseman, emerging from the public road, and galloping across the clearing. he turned towards the office of the young surveyor, and in a few moments the carrier had related the incident by which he obtained the paper, and placed "the village chronicle" in alfred's hand. he struck a light, tore off the wrapper, and the only written word which met his eye was "lina." "dear name!" said he, "i could almost kiss it, especially as there is none to see me. she must have been in a prodigious hurry! and how funny that little rascal, jimmy, must have looked! well, 'when he next doth run a race, may i be there to see.'" he took the paper to read. it was a very late one--he had never before received one so near the date; and even that line of dates was now so pleasing. first was miss helena carroll's poetry. "dear girl!" said he, "what a beautiful writer she is! really, this is poetry! this is something which carries us away from ourselves, and more closely connects us with the enduring, high, and beautiful. methinks i see her now--more thin, pale, and ethereal in her appearance than when we were gay school-mates; but i wonder that, with all her treasures of heart and intellect, she is still helena carroll. "and now here is miss simpkin's story of 'the injured one'--beautiful, interesting, and instructive, i am confident; and i will read it, every word; but she italicises too much; she throws too lavishly the bright robes of her prolific fancy upon the forms she conjures up from new-england hills and vales. i wonder if she remembers now the time when she made me shake the old-apple tree, near the pound, for her, and in jumping down, i nearly broke my leg. well, if i read her story, i will try that it does not break my heart. "and here is an excellent editorial about 'our representatives'--i will read it again, and now for the items." these were all highly interesting to the _absentee_, and on each did he expatiate to himself. how different were his feelings from his sister's, as he read of the cracked bell, the burned meeting-house, the dead oxen, the apoplectic old colonel, the decayed bridge, the hints of the friends of "good order" and "equal rights." then there was a little scene suggested by every card; he wondered who had their heads examined at the phrenological lecture; and if the west parish old farmers were now as stiffly opposed to the science. and how he would like to see lina's chart, and to know if jimmy had brains--he was sure he had legs, and a big heart for a little boy; and he wondered what girls ran up to have their heads felt of in public; and what the man said about matrimony--an affair which in old times was thought to have more to do with the heart than the head. then his imagination went forward to the fair of the anti-slavery society, and he wondered where it would be, and who would go, and what lina would make, and whether so much fuss about slavery was right or wrong, and if "father" approved of it. then the temperance lecture was the theme for another self-disquisition. he wondered who had joined the society, and how the washingtonians held out, and if mr. hawkins was ever coming to the west. then he was glad the trustees were determined to resuscitate the old academy. what grand times he had enjoyed there, especially at the exhibitions! and he wondered where all the pretty girls were who used to go to school with his bachelorship. then they were to have a new alms-house; and forty more things were mentioned, of equal interest--not forgetting mr. olden's accident, for which "father would be so sorry." then there were the marriages and deaths--each a subject of deep interest, as was also the list of bankrupts. the foreign news was news to him; and congress matters were not passed unheeded by. then he read with deep interest every "assessor's notice," also those of "assignees," "contractors," and "auctioneers." there was not a single "whereas" or "resolved," but was most carefully perused; and every "be it enacted" stared him in the face like an old familiar friend. then there were the advertisements; and grosvenor's first attracted his attention from its _big_ letters. "chenie-de-laines!" said he, "what in the name of common sense are they? something for gal's gowns, _i guess_; and what will they next invent for a name?" but each advertisement told its little history. some of the old "_pillars_" of the town were still in their accustomed places. the same signatures, places, and almost the same goods--nothing much changed but the dates. another advertisement informed him of the dissolution of an old copartnership, and another showed the formation of a new one. some old acquaintances had changed their location or business, and others were about to retire from it. those whom he remembered as almost boys, were now just entering into active life, and those who should now be preparing for another world were still laying up treasures on earth. one, who had been a farmer, was now advertising himself as a _doctor_. a lawyer had changed into a miller, and old capt prouty was post-master. the former cobler now kept the bookstore, and the young major had turned printer. the old printer was endeavoring to collect his debts--for he said his devil had gone to oregon, and he wished to go to the devil. not a single puff did alfred omit; he noticed every new book, and swallowed every new nostrum. "old rags," "buffalo oil," "bear's grease," "corn plaster," "lip salve," "accordions," "feather renovators," "silk dye-houses," "worm lozenges," "ready-made clothing," "ladies' slips," "misses' ties," "christmas presents," "sugar-house molasses," "choice butter," "shell combs," "new music," "healing lotions," "last chance," "hats and caps," "prime cost," "family pills," "ladies' cuff pins," "summer boots," "vegetable conserve," "muffs and boas," "pease's horehound candy," "white ash coal," "bullard's oil-soap," "universal panacea," "tailoress wanted," "unrivalled elixir," "excellent vanilla," "taylor's spool cotton," "rooms to let," "chairs and tables," "pleasant house," "particular notice," "family groceries," "a removal," "anti-dyspeptic bitters," &c., &c., down to "one cent reward--ran away from the subscriber," &c.--yes; he had read them all, and all with much interest, but one with a deeper feeling than was awakened by the others. it was the notice of the sale of the late mr. gardner's house, farm, &c. "and so," said alfred, "cynthia gardner is now free. she used to love me dearly--at least she said so in every thing but words; but the old man said she should never marry a harum-scarum scape-grace like me. well! it's no great matter if i did sow all my wild oats then, for there is too little cleared land to do much at it here. the old gentleman is dead, and i'll forgive him; but i will write this very night to cynthia, and ask her to-- ----'come, and with me share whate'er my hut bestows; my cornstalk bed, my frugal fare, my labor and repose.'" lucinda. ambition and contentment. it has been said that all virtues, carried to their extremes, become vices, as firmness may be carried to obstinacy, gentleness to weakness, faith to superstition, &c., &c.; and that while cultivating them, a perpetual care is necessary that they may not be resolved into those kindred vices. but there are other qualities of so opposite a character, that, though we may acknowledge them both to be virtues, we can hardly cherish them at the same time. contentment is a virtue often urged upon us, and too often neglected. it is essential to our happiness; for how can we experience pleasure while dissatisfied with the station which has been allotted us, or the circumstances which befall us? but when contentment degenerates into that slothful feeling which will not exert itself for a greater good--which would sit, and smile at ease upon the gifts which providence has forced upon its possessor, and turns away from the objects, which call for the active spring and tenacious grasp--when, i repeat, contentment is but another excuse for indolence, it then has ceased to be a virtue. and ambition, which is so often denounced as a vice--which _is_ a vice when carried to an extent that would lead its votary to grasp all upon which it can lay its merciless clutch, and which heeds not the rights or possessions of a fellow-being when conflicting with its own domineering will, which then becomes so foul a vice--this same ambition, when kept within its proper bounds, is then a virtue; and not only a virtue, but the parent of virtues. the spirit of laudable enterprise, the noble desire for superior excellence, the just emulation which would raise itself to an equality with the highest--all this is the fruit of ambition. here then are two virtues, ambition and contentment, both to be commended, both to be cherished, yet at first glance at variance with each other; at all events, with difficulty kept within those proper bounds which will prevent a conflict between them. we are not metaphysicians, and did we possess the power to draw those finely-pencilled mental and moral distinctions in which the acute reasoner delights so often to display his power, this would be no place for us to indulge our love for nicely attenuated theories. we are aware, that to cherish ambition for the good it may lead us to acquire, for the noble impulses of which it may be the fountain-spring, and yet to restrain those waters when they would gush forth with a tide which would bear away all better feelings of the heart--this, we know, is not only difficult, but almost impossible. to strive for a position upon some loftier eminence, and yet to remain unruffled if those strivings are in vain; to remain calm and cheerful within the little circle where providence has stationed us, yet actively endeavoring to enlarge that circle, if not to obtain admittance to a higher one; to plume the pinions of the soul for an upward flight, yet calmly sink again to the earth if these efforts are but useless flutterings; all this seems contradictory, though essential to perfection of character. thankfulness for what we have, yet longings for a greater boon; resignation to a humble lot, and a determination that it shall not always be humble; ambition and contentment--how wide the difference, and how difficult for one breast to harbor them both at the same time! nothing so forcibly convinces us of the frailty of humanity as the tendency of all that is good and beautiful to corruption. as in the natural world, earth's loveliest things are those which yield most easily to blighting and decay, so in the spiritual, the noblest feelings and powers are closely linked to some dark passion. how easily does ambition become rapacity; and if the heart's yearnings for the unattainable are forcibly stilled, and the mind is governed by the determination that no wish shall be indulged but for that already in its power, how soon and easily may it sink into the torpor of inaction! to keep all the faculties in healthful exercise, yet always to restrain the feverish glow, must require a constant and vigilant self-command. how soon, in that long-past sacred time when the savior dwelt on earth, did the zeal of one woman in her master's cause become tainted with the earth-born wish that her sons might be placed, the one upon his right and the other upon his left hand, when he should sit upon his throne of glory; and how soon was _their_ ardent love mingled with the fiery zeal which would call down fire from heaven upon the heads of their fellow-men! here was ambition, but not a justifiable desire for elevation; an ambition, also, which had its source in some of the noblest feelings of the soul, and which, when directed by the pure principles which afterwards guided their conduct, was the heart-spring of deeds which shall claim the admiration, and spur to emulous exertions, the men of all coming time. "be content with what ye have," but never with what ye are; for the wish to be perfect, "even as our father in heaven is perfect," must ever be mingled with regrets for the follies and frailties which our weak nature seems to have entailed upon us. and while we endeavor to be submissive, cheerful, and contented with the lot marked out for us, may gratitude arouse us to the noble desire to render ourselves worthy of a nobler station than earth can ever present us, even to a place upon our savior's right hand in his heavenly kingdom. h. f. a conversation on physiology. introduction. physiology, astronomy, geology, botany, and kindred sciences, are not now, as formerly, confined to our higher seminaries of learning. they are being introduced into the common schools, not only of our large towns and cities, but of our little villages throughout new-england. hence a knowledge of these sciences is becoming general. it needs not sibylline wisdom to predict that the time is not far distant when it will be more disadvantageous and more humiliating to be ignorant of their principles and technicalities, than to be unable to tell the length and breadth of sahara, the rise, course and fall of little rivers in other countries, which we shall never see, never hear mentioned--and the latitude and longitude of remote or obscure cities and towns. if a friend would describe a flower, she would not tell us that it has so many flower-leaves, so many of those shortest things that rise from the centre of the flower, and so many of the longest ones; but she will express herself with more elegance and rapidity by using the technical names of these parts--petals, stamens, and pistils. she will not tell us that the green leaves are formed some like a rose-leaf, only that they are rounder, or more pointed, as the case may be; or if she can find no similitudes, she will not use fifty words in conveying an idea that might be given in one little word. we would be able to understand her philosophical description. and scientific lectures, the sermons of our best preachers, and the conversation of the intelligent, presuppose some degree of knowledge of the most important sciences; and to those who have not this knowledge, half their zest is lost. if we are so situated that we cannot attend school, we have, by far the greater part of us, hours for reading, and means to purchase books. we should be systematic in our expenditures. they should be regulated by the nature of the circumstances in which we find ourselves placed,--by our wages, state of health, and the situation of our families. after a careful consideration of these, and other incidentals that may be, we can make a periodical appropriation of any sum we please, for the purchase of books. our readings, likewise, should be systematic. if we take physiology, physiology should be read exclusively of all others, except our bibles and a few well-chosen periodicals, until we acquire a knowledge of its most essential parts. then let this be superseded by others, interrupted in their course only by occasional reviews of those already studied. but there are those whose every farthing is needed to supply themselves with necessary clothing, their unfortunate parents, or orphan brothers and sisters with a subsistence. and forever sacred be these duties. blessings be on the head of those who faithfully discharge them, by a cheerful sacrifice of selfish gratification. cheerful, did i say? ah! many will bear witness to the pangs which such a sacrifice costs them. it is a hard lot to be doomed to live on in ignorance, when one longs for knowledge, "as the hart panteth after the water brook." my poor friend l.'s complaint will meet an answering thrill of sympathy in many a heart. "oh, why is it so?" said she, while tears ran down her cheeks. "why have i such a thirst for knowledge, and not one source of gratification?" we may not know _why_, my sister, but faith bids us trust in god, and "rest in his decree,"--to be content "when he refuses more." yet a spirit of _true_ contentment induces no indolent yieldings to adverse circumstances; no slumbering and folding the hands in sleep, when there is so much within the reach of every one, worthy of our strongest and most persevering efforts. mrs. hale says,-- "there is a charm in knowledge, _best_ when bought _by vigorous toil of frame and earnest search of thought_." and we will toil. morning, noon, and evening shall witness our exertions to prepare for happiness and usefulness here, and for the exalted destiny that awaits us hereafter. but proper attention should be paid to physical comfort as well as to mental improvement. it is only by retaining the former that we can command the latter. the mind cannot be vigorous while the body is weak. hence we should not allow our toils to enter upon those hours which belong to repose. we should not allow ourselves, however strong the temptation, to visit the lecture-room, &c., if the state of the weather, or of our health, renders the experiment hazardous. above all, we should not forget our dependence on a higher power. "paul may plant, and apollos water, but god alone giveth the increase." * * * * * _ann._ isabel, before we commence our "big talk," let me ask you to proceed upon the inference that we are totally ignorant of the subject under discussion. _ellinora._ yes, isabel, proceed upon the _fact_ that i am ignorant even of the meaning of the term _physiology_. _isabel._ it comes from the greek words _phusis_, nature, and _logia_, a collection, or _logos_, discourse; and means a collection of facts or discourse relating to nature. physiology is divided, first, into vegetable and animal; and the latter is subdivided into comparative and human. we shall confine our attention to human physiology, which treats of the organs of the human body, their mutual dependence and relation, their functions, and the laws by which our physical constitution is governed. _a._ and are you so heretical, dear isabel, as to class this science, on the score of utility, with arithmetic and geography--the alpha and omega of common school education? _i._ yes. it is important, inasmuch as it is necessary that we know how to preserve the fearfully delicate fabric which our creator has entrusted to our keeping. we gather many wholesome rules and cautions from maternal lips; we learn many more from experiencing the painful results that follow their violation. but this kind of knowledge comes tardily; it may be when an infringement of some organic law, of which we were left in ignorance, has fastened upon us painful, perhaps fatal, disease. _a._ we may not always avoid sickness and premature death by a knowledge and observance of these laws; for there are hereditary diseases, in whose origin we are not implicated, and whose effects we cannot eradicate from our system by "all knowledge, all device." _i._ but a knowledge of physiology is none the less important in this case. if the chords of our existence are shattered, they must be touched only by the skilful hand, or they break. _e._ were it not for this, were there no considerations of utility in the plea, there are others sufficiently important to become impulsive. it would be pleasant to be able to trace the phenomena which we are constantly observing within ourselves to their right causes. _i._ yes; we love to understand the springs of disease, even though "a discovery of the cause" neither "suspends the effect, nor heals it." we rejoice in health, and we love to know why it sits so strongly within us. the warm blood courses its way through our veins; the breath comes and goes freely in and out; the nerves, those subtle organs, perform their important offices; the hand, foot, brain--nay, the whole body moves as we will: we taste, see, hear, smell, feel; and the inquiring mind delights in knowing by what means these wonderful processes are carried on,--how far they are mechanical, how far chemical, and how far resolvable into the laws of vitality. this we may learn by a study of physiology, at least as far as is known. we may not satisfy ourselves upon all points. there may be, when we have finished our investigations, a longing for a more perfect knowledge of ourselves; for "some points must be greatly dark," so long as mind is fettered in its rangings, and retarded in its investigations by its connection with the body. and this is well. we love to think of the immortal state as one in which longings for moral and intellectual improvement will _all_ be satisfied. _a._ yes; it would lose half its attractions if we might attain perfection here. _e._ and now permit me to bring you at once to our subject. what is this life that i feel within me? does physiology tell us? it ought. _i._ it does not, however; indeed, it cannot. it merely develops its principles. _e._ the principles of life--what are they? _i._ the most important are _contractibility_ and _sensibility_. _e._ let me advertise you that i am particularly hostile to technical words--all because i do not understand them, i allow, but please humor this ignorance by avoiding them. _i._ and thus perpetuate your ignorance, my dear ellinora? no; this will not do; for my chief object in these conversations is that you may be prepared to profit by lectures, essays and conversation hereafter. you will often be thrown into the company of those who express themselves in the easiest and most proper manner, that is, by the use of technical words and phrases. these will embarrass you, and prevent that improvement which would be derived, if these terms were understood. interrupt me as often as you please with questions; and if we spend the remainder of the evening in compiling a physiological glossary, we may all reap advantage from the exercise. to return to the vital principles--vital is from _vita_, life--_contractibility_ and _sensibility_. the former is the property of the muscles. the muscles, you know, are what we call flesh. they are composed of fibres, which terminate in tendons. _alice._ please give form to my ideas of the tendons. _i._ with the muscles, they constitute the agents of all motion in us. place your hand on the inside of your arm, and then bend your elbow. you perceive that cord, do you not? that is a tendon. you have observed them in animals, doubtless. _ann._ i have. they are round, white, and lustrous; and these are the muscular terminations. _i._ yes; this tendon which you perceive, is the termination of the muscles of the fore-arm, and it is inserted into the lower arm to assist in its elevation. _e._ now we are coming to it. please tell me how i move a finger--how i raise my hand in this manner. _i._ it is to the contractile power of the muscles that you are indebted for this power. i will read what dr. paley says of muscular contraction; it will make it clearer than any explanation of mine. he says, "a muscle acts only by contraction. its force is exerted in no other way. when the exertion ceases, it relaxes itself, that is, it returns by relaxation to its former state, but without energy." _e._ just as this india-rubber springs back after extension, for illustration. _i._ very well, ellinora. he adds, "this is the nature of the muscular fibre; and being so, it is evident that the reciprocal _energetic_ motion of the limbs, by which we mean _with force_ in opposite directions, can only be produced by the instrumentality of opposite or antagonist muscles--of flexors and extensors answering to each other. for instance, the biceps and brachiæus _internus_ muscles, placed in the front part of the upper arm, by their contraction, bend the elbow, and with such a degree of force as the case requires, or the strength admits. the relaxation of these muscles, after the effort, would merely let the fore-arm drop down. for the _back stroke_ therefore, and that the arm may not only bend at the elbow, but also extend and straighten itself with force, other muscles, the longus, and brevis brachiæus _externus_, and the aconæus, placed on the hinder part of the arms, by their contractile twitch, fetch back the fore-arm into a straight line with the cubit, with no less force than that with which it was bent out. the same thing obtains in all the limbs, and in every moveable part of the body. a finger is not bent and straightened without the _contraction_ of two muscles taking place. it is evident, therefore, that the animal functions require that particular disposition of the muscles which we describe by the name of antagonist muscles." _a._ thank you, isabel. this does indeed make the subject very plain. these muscles contract at will. _e._ but how can the will operate in this manner? i have always wished to understand. _i._ and i regret that i cannot satisfy you on this point. if we trace the cause of muscular action by the nerves to the brain, we are no nearer a solution of the mystery; for we cannot know what power sets the organs of the brain at work--whether it be foreign to or of itself. we will come now, if you please to _sensibility_, which belongs to the nerves. _a._ i have a very indefinite idea of the nerves. _e._ my _ideal_ is sufficiently definite in its shape, but so droll! i do not think of them as "being flesh of my flesh," but as a _species_ of the _genus_ fairy. they are to us, what the nereides are to the green wave, the dryades to the oak, and the hamadryades to the little flower. they are quite omnipotent in their operations. they make us cry or they make us laugh; thrill us with rapture or woe as they please. and, my dear isabel, i shall not allow you to cheat me out of this pleasing fancy. you may tell us just what they are, but i shall be as incredulous as possible. _i._ they are very slender white cords, extending from the brain and spinal marrow--twelve pairs from the former, and thirty from the latter. these send out branches so numerous that we cannot touch the point of a pin to a spot that has not its nerve. the mucous membrane is-- _f._ oh, these technicals! what is the mucous membrane? _i._ it is a texture, or web of fibres, which lines all cavities exposed to the atmosphere--for instance, the mouth, windpipe and stomach. it is the seat of the senses of taste and smell. _e._ and the nerves are the little witches that inform the brain how one thing is sweet, another bitter; one fragrant, another nauseous. alimentiveness ever after frowns or smiles accordingly. so it seems that the actions of the brain, and of the external senses, are reciprocated by the nerves, or something of this sort. how is it, isabel? oh, i see! you say sensibility belongs to the nerves. so sights by means of--of what? _i._ of the optical nerves. _e._ yes; and sounds by means of the-- _i._ auditory nerves. _e._ yes; convey impressions of externals to the brain. and "upon this hint" the brain acts in its consequent reflections, and in the nervous impulses which induce muscular contractibility. and this muscular contractibility is a contraction of the fibres of the muscles. this contraction, of course, shortens them, and this latter _must_ result in the bending of the arm. i think i understand it. what are the brain and spine, isabel? how are they connected? _i._ you will get correct ideas of the texture of the brain by observing that of animals. it occupies the whole cavity of the skull, is rounded and irregular in its form, full of prominences, _alias_ bumps. these appear to fit themselves to the skull; but doubtless the bone is moulded by the brain. the brain is divided into two parts; the upper and frontal part is called the _cerebrum_, the other the _cerebellum_. the former is the larger division, and is the seat of the moral sentiments and intellectual faculties. the latter is the seat of the propensities, domestic and selfish. _a._ i thank you, isabel. now, what is this spine, of which there is so much "complaint" now-a-days? _i._ i will answer you from paley: "the spine, or backbone, is a chain of joints of very wonderful construction. it was to be firm, yet flexible; _firm_, to support the erect position of the body; _flexible_, to allow of the bending of the the trunk in all degrees of curvature. it was further, also, to become a pipe or conduit for the safe conveyance from the brain of the most important fluid of the animal frame, that, namely, upon which _all voluntary motion depends, the spinal marrow_; a substance not only of the first necessity to action, if not to life, but of a nature so delicate and tender, so susceptible and impatient of injury, that any unusual pressure upon it, or any considerable obstruction of its course, is followed by paralysis or death. now, the spine was not only to furnish the main trunk for the passage of the medullary substance from the brain, but to give out, in the course of its progress, small pipes therefrom, which, being afterwards indefinitely subdivided, might, under the name of nerves, distribute this exquisite supply to every part of the body." _alice._ i understand now why disease of the spine causes such involuntary contortions and gestures, in some instances. its connection with the brain and nerves is so immediate, that it cannot suffer disease without affecting the whole nervous system. _i._ it cannot. the spinal cord or marrow is a continuation of the brain. but we must not devote any more time to this subject. _bertha._ i want to ask you something about the different parts of the eye, isabel. when ---- ---- lectured on optics, i lost nearly all the benefit of his lecture, except a newly awakened desire for knowledge on this subject. he talked of the retina, cornea, iris, &c.; please tell me precisely what they are. _i._ the retina is a nervous membrane; in other words a thin net-work, formed of very minute sensitive filaments. it is supposed by some to be an expansion of the optic nerve; and on this the images of objects we see are formed. it is situated at the back part of the eye. rays pass through the round opening in the iris, which we call the pupil. _b._ what did the lecturer say is the cause of the color of the pupil? _i._ he said that its _want of color_ is to be imputed to the fact that rays of light which enter there are not returned; they fall on the retina, forming there images of objects. and you recollect he said that "absence of rays is blackness." the iris is a kind of curtain, covering the aqueous humor--aqueous is from the latin _aqua_, water. it is confined only at its outer edge, or circumference; and is supplied with muscular fibres which confer the power of adjustment to every degree of light. it contracts or dilates involuntarily, as the light is more or less intense, as you must have observed. the rays of light falling on that part of the iris which immediately surrounds the pupil, cause it to be either black, blue, or hazel. we will not linger on this ground, for it belongs more properly to natural philosophy. we will discuss the other four senses as briefly as possible. "the sense of taste," says hayward, "resides in the mucus membrane of the tongue, the lips, the cheeks, and the fauces." branches of nerves extend to every part of the mouth where the sense of taste resides. the fluid with which the mouth is constantly moistened is called mucus, and chiefly subserves to the sense of taste. _ann._ i have observed that when the mucus is dried by fever, food is nearly tasteless. i now understand the reason. _e._ _apropos_ to the senses, let me ask if feeling and touch are the same. alfred says they are; i contend they are not, precisely. _i._ hayward thinks a distinction between them unnecessary. he says they are both seated in the same organs, and have the same nerves. but the sense of feeling is more general, extending over the whole surface of the skin and mucus membrane, while that of touch is limited to particular parts, being in man most perfect in the hand; and the sense of feeling is passive, while that of touch is active. this sense is in the skin, and is most perfect where the epidermis, or external coat, is the thinnest. we will look through this little magnifying glass at the skin on my hand. you will see very minute prominences all over the surface. these points are called papillæ. they are supposed to be the termination of the nerves, and the _locale_ of sensation. _e._ will you _shape_ my ideas of sensation? _i._ according to lord brougham, one of the english editors of this edition of paley, it is "the effect produced upon the mind by the operation of the senses; and involves nothing like an exertion of the mind itself." of the sense of hearing, i can tell you but little. physiologists have doubts relative to many parts of the ear; and i do not understand the subject well enough to give you much information. i will merely name some of the parts and their relative situations. we have first the external ear, which projecting as it does from the head, is perfectly adapted to the office of gathering sounds, and transmitting them to the membrane of the tympanum, commonly called the drum of the ear, from its resembling somewhat, in its use and structure, the head of a drum. the tympanum is a cavity, of a cylindrical or tunnel form, and its office is supposed to be the transmission to the internal ear of the vibrations made upon the membrane. these vibrations are first communicated to the malleus or hammer. this is the first of four bones, united in a kind of chain, extending and conveying vibrations from the tympanum to the labyrinth of the ear beyond. the other bones are the incus, or anvil, the round bone, and the stapes, or stirrup--the latter so called from its resemblance to a stirrup-iron. it is placed over an oval aperture, which leads to the labyrinth, and which is closed by means of a membranous curtain. these bones are provided with very small muscles, and move with the vibrations of the tympanum. the equilibrium of the air in the tympanum and atmosphere is maintained by the means of the eustachian tube, which extends from the back part of the fauces, or throat, to the cavity of the tympanum. the parts last mentioned constitute the middle ear. of the internal ear little is known. it has its semicircular canals, vestibules, and cochlea; but their agencies are not ascertained. the organ of smell is more simple. this sense lies, or is supposed to lie, in the mucous membrane which lines the nostrils and the openings in connection. particles are constantly escaping from odorous bodies; and, by being inhaled in respiration, they are thrown in contact with the mucous membrane. _a._ before leaving the head, will you tell us something of the organs of voice? _i._ by placing your finger on the top of your windpipe, you will perceive a slight prominence. in males this is very large. this is the thorax. it is formed of four cartilages, two of which are connected with a third, by means of four chords, called vocal chords, from their performing an important part in producing the voice. experiments have been made, which prove that a greater part of the larynx, except these chords, may be removed without destroying the voice. magendie thus accounts for the production of the voice. he says, "the air, in passing from the lungs in expiration, is forced out of small cavities, as the air-cells and the minute branches of the windpipe, into a large canal; it is thence sent through a narrow passage, on each side of which is a vibratory chord, and it is by the action of the air on these chords, that the sonorous undulations are produced which are called voice." _e._ do not the lips and tongue contribute essentially to speech? _i._ they do not. hayward says he can bear witness to the fact that the articulation remains unimpaired after the tongue has been removed. the labials, _f_ and _v_, cannot be perfectly articulated without the action of the lips.--what subject shall we take next? _a._ a natural transition would be from the head to the heart, and, in connection, the circulation of the blood. _i._ yes. i will give you an abstract of the ideas i gained in the study of hayward's physiology, and the reading of dr. paley's theology. the heart, arteries, and veins are the agents of circulation. the heart is irregular and conical in its shape; and it is hollow and double. _a._ there is no channel of communication between these parts, is there? _i._ none; but each side has its separate office to perform. by the right, circulation is carried on in the lungs; and by the left through the rest of the body. i will mark a few passages in paley, for you to read to us, ann. they will do better than any descriptions of mine. _a._ i thank you, isabel, for giving me an opportunity to lend you temporary relief.--"the disposition of the blood-vessels, as far as regards the supply of the body, is like that of the water-pipes in a city, viz. large and main trunks branching off by smaller pipes (and these again by still narrower tubes) in every direction and towards every part in which the fluid which they convey can be wanted. so far, the water-pipes which serve a town may represent the vessels which carry the blood from the heart. but there is another thing necessary to the blood, which is not wanted for the water; and that is, the carrying of it back again to its source. for this office, a reversed system of vessels is prepared, which, uniting at their extremities with the extremities of the first system, collects the divided and subdivided streamlets, first by capillary ramifications into larger branches, secondly by these branches into trunks; and thus returns the blood (almost exactly inverting the order in which it went out) to the fountain whence its motion proceeded. the body, therefore, contains two systems of blood-vessels, arteries and veins. "the next thing to be considered is the engine which works this machinery, viz., the _heart_. there is provided in the central part of the body a hollow muscle invested with spiral fibres, running in both directions, the layers intersecting one another. by the contraction of these fibres, the sides of the muscular cavity are necessarily squeezed together, so as to force out from them any fluid which they may at that time contain: by the relaxation of the same fibres, the cavities are in their turn dilated, and, of course, prepared to admit every fluid which may be poured into them. into these cavities are inserted the great trunks both of the arteries which carry out the blood, and of the veins which bring it back. as soon as the blood is received by the heart from the veins of the body, and _before_ that is sent out again into its arteries, it is carried, by the force of the contraction of the heart, and by means of a separate and supplementary artery, to the lungs, and made to enter the vessels of the lungs, from which, after it has undergone the action, whatever it may be, of that viscus, it is brought back, by a large vein, once more to the heart, in order, when thus concocted and prepared, to be thence distributed anew into the system. this assigns to the heart a double office. the pulmonary circulation is a system within a system; and one action of the heart is the origin of both. for this complicated function four cavities become necessary, and four are accordingly provided; two called ventricles, which _send out_ the blood, viz., one into the lungs in the first instance, the other into the mass, after it has returned from the lungs; two others also, called auricles, which receive the blood from the veins, viz. one as it comes from the body; the other, as the same blood comes a second time after its circulation through the lungs." _i._ that must answer our purpose, dear ann. of the change which takes place in the blood, and of the renewal of our physical system, which is effected by circulation, i shall say nothing. we will pass to respiration. _e._ whose popular name is breathing? _i._ yes. the act of inhaling air, is called inspiration; that of sending it out, expiration. its organs are the lungs and windpipe. the apparatus employed in the mechanism of breathing is very complex. the windpipe extends from the mouth to the lungs. _a._ how is it that air enters it so freely, while food and drink are excluded? _i._ by a most ingenious contrivance. the opening to the pipe is called glottis. this is closed, when necessary, by a little valve, or lid, called the epiglottis (_epi_ means _upon_.) _e._ and this faithful sentinel is none other than that perpendicular little body which we can see in our throats, and which we have _dubbed_ palate. _i._ you are right, ellinora. over this, food and drink pass on their way to the road to the stomach, the gullet. the pressure of solids or liquids tends to depress this lid on the glottis; and its muscular action in deglutition, or swallowing, tends to the same effect. as soon as the pressure is removed, the lid springs to its erect position, and the air passes freely. larynx and trachea are other names for the windpipe, and pharynx is another for the gullet. the larynx divides into two branches at the lungs, and goes to each side. hence, by subdivisions, it passes off in numerous smaller branches, to different parts of the lungs, and terminates in air-cells. the lungs, known in animals by the name of lights, consist of three parts, or lobes, one on the right side, and two on the left. _alice._ the lights of inferior animals are very light and porous--do our lungs resemble them in this? _i._ yes; they are full of air-tubes and air-cells. these, with the blood vessels and the membrane which connects (and this is cellular, that is, composed of cells,) form the lungs. the process of respiration involves chemical, mechanical, and vital or physiological principles. of the mechanism i shall say but little more. you already know that the lungs occupy the chest. of this, the breast bone forms the front, the spine, the back wall. attached to this bone are twelve ribs on each side. these are joined by muscles which are supposed to assist in elevating them in breathing, thus enlarging the cavity of the chest. the lower partition is formed by a muscle of great power, called the diaphragm, and by the action of this organ alone common inspiration can be performed. hayward says, "the contraction of this muscle necessarily depresses its centre, which was before elevated towards the lungs. the instant this takes place, the air rushes into the lungs through the windpipe, and thus prevents a vacuum, which would otherwise be produced between the chest and lungs." expiration is the reverse of this. the chemistry of respiration regards the change produced in the blood by respiration. to this change i have before alluded. _ann._ when we consider the offices of the heart and lungs, their importance in vital economy, how dangerous appears the custom of pressing them so closely between the ribs by tight lacing? _i._ yes; fearful and fatal beyond calculation! and one great advantage in a general knowledge of our physical system, is the tendency this knowledge must have to correct this habit. _a._ to me there is not the weakest motive for tight lacing. everything but pride _must_ revolt at the habit; and there is something positively disgusting and shocking in the wasp-like form, labored breathing, purple lips and hands of the tight lacer. _e._ they indicate such a pitiful servitude to fashion, such an utter disregard of comfort, when it comes in collision with false notions of elegance! well for our sex, as we could not be induced to act from a worthier motive, popular opinion is setting in strongly against this practice. many of our authors and public lecturers are bringing strong arms and benevolent hearts to the work. _a._ yes; but to be perfectly consistent, should not the fashions of the "lady's book," the "ladies' companion," and of "graham's magazine," be more in keeping with the general sentiment? their contributors furnish essays, deprecating the evils of tight lacing, and tales illustrative of its evil effects, yet the figures of the plates of fashions are uniformly most unnaturally slender. and these are offered for national standards! _e._ "and, more's the pity," followed as such. _i._ i think the improvements you mention would only cause a temporary suspension of the evil. they might indeed make it the _fashion_ to wear natural waists; but like all other fashions, it must unavoidably give way to new modes. they might lop off a few of the branches; but science, a knowledge of physiology alone, is capable of laying the axe at the root of the tree.--what is digestion, ellinora? _e._ it is the dissolving, pulverizing, or some other _ing_, of our food, isn't it? _i._ hayward says that "it is an important part of that process by which aliment taken into the body is made to nourish it." he divides the digestive apparatus into "the mouth and its appendages, the stomach and the intestines." the teeth, tongue, jaws, and saliva, perform their respective offices in mastication. then the food passes over the epiglottis, you recollect, down the gullet to the stomach. the saliva is an important agent in digestion. it is secreted in glands, which pour it into the mouth by a tube about the size of a wheat straw. _alice._ i heard our physician say that food should be so thoroughly masticated before deglutition (you see i have caught your technicals, isabel,) that every particle would be moistened with the saliva. then digestion would be easy and perfect. he says that dyspepsia is often incurred and perpetuated by eating too rapidly. _i._ doubtless this is the case. as soon as the food reaches the stomach, the work of digestion commences; and the food is converted to a mass, neither fluid or solid, called chyme. with regard to this process, there have been many speculative theories. it has been imputed to animal heat, to putrefaction, to a mechanical operation (something like that carried on in the gizzard of a fowl,) to fermentation, and maceration. it is now a generally adopted theory, that the food is _dissolved_ by the gastric juices. _ann._ if these juices are such powerful solvents, why do they not act on the stomach, when they are no longer supplied with _subjects_ in the shape of food? _i._ according to many authorities, they do. comstock says that "hunger is produced by the action of the gastric juices on the stomach." this theory does not prevail, however; for it has been proved by experiment, that these juices do not act on anything that has life. _alice._ how long does it take the food to digest? _i._ food of a proper kind will digest in a healthy stomach, in four or five hours. it then passes to the intestines. _ann._ but why does it never leave the stomach until thoroughly digested? _i._ at the orifice of the stomach, there is a sort of a valve, called pylorus, or door-keeper. some have supposed that this valve has the power of ascertaining when the food is sufficiently digested, and so allows chyme to pass, while it contracts at the touch of undigested substances. _a._ how wonderful! _i._ and "how passing wonder he who made us such!" _alice._ no wonder that a poet said-- "strange that a harp of thousand strings should keep in tune so long!" _ann._ and no wonder that the christian bends in lowly adoration and love before _such_ a creator, and _such_ a preserver? _e._ now, dear isabel, will you tell us something more? _i._ indeed, ellinora, i have already gone much farther than i intended when i commenced. but i knew not where to stop. even now, you have but just _commenced_ the study of _yourselves_. let me urge you to read in your leisure hours, and reflect in your working ones, until you understand physiology, as well as you now do geography. d. [illustration: decoration] * * * * * transcriber's note: minor typographical errors and inconsistencies have been silently normalized. archaic and variable spellings retained. the distributed online proofing team l'assommoir by emile zola chapter i gervaise gervaise had waited and watched for lantier until two in the morning. then chilled and shivering, she turned from the window and threw herself across the bed, where she fell into a feverish doze with her cheeks wet with tears. for the last week when they came out of the veau a deux tetes, where they ate, he had sent her off to bed with the children and had not appeared until late into the night and always with a story that he had been looking for work. this very night, while she was watching for his return, she fancied she saw him enter the ballroom of the grand-balcon, whose ten windows blazing with lights illuminated, as with a sheet of fire, the black lines of the outer boulevards. she caught a glimpse of adele, a pretty brunette who dined at their restaurant and who was walking a few steps behind him, with her hands swinging as if she had just dropped his arm, rather than pass before the bright light of the globes over the door in his company. when gervaise awoke about five o'clock, stiff and sore, she burst into wild sobs, for lantier had not come in. for the first time he had slept out. she sat on the edge of the bed, half shrouded in the canopy of faded chintz that hung from the arrow fastened to the ceiling by a string. slowly, with her eyes suffused with tears, she looked around this miserable _chambre garnie_, whose furniture consisted of a chestnut bureau of which one drawer was absent, three straw chairs and a greasy table on which was a broken-handled pitcher. another bedstead--an iron one--had been brought in for the children. this stood in front of the bureau and filled up two thirds of the room. a trunk belonging to gervaise and lantier stood in the corner wide open, showing its empty sides, while at the bottom a man's old hat lay among soiled shirts and hose. along the walls and on the backs of the chairs hung a ragged shawl, a pair of muddy pantaloons and a dress or two--all too bad for the old-clothes man to buy. in the middle of the mantel between two mismated tin candlesticks was a bundle of pawn tickets from the mont-de-piete. these tickets were of a delicate shade of rose. the room was the best in the hotel--the first floor looking out on the boulevard. meanwhile side by side on the same pillow the two children lay calmly sleeping. claude, who was eight years old, was breathing calmly and regularly with his little hands outside of the coverings, while etienne, only four, smiled with one arm under his brother's neck. when their mother's eyes fell on them she had a new paroxysm of sobs and pressed her handkerchief to her mouth to stifle them. then with bare feet, not stopping to put on her slippers which had fallen off, she ran to the window out of which she leaned as she had done half the night and inspected the sidewalks as far as she could see. the hotel was on the boulevard de la chapelle, at the left of the barriere poissonniers. it was a two-story building, painted a deep red up to the first floor, and had disjointed weather-stained blinds. above a lantern with glass sides was a sign between the two windows: hotel boncoeur kept by marsoullier in large yellow letters, partially obliterated by the dampness. gervaise, who was prevented by the lantern from seeing as she desired, leaned out still farther, with her handkerchief on her lips. she looked to the right toward the boulevard de rochechoumart, where groups of butchers stood with their bloody frocks before their establishments, and the fresh breeze brought in whiffs, a strong animal smell--the smell of slaughtered cattle. she looked to the left, following the ribbonlike avenue, past the hospital de lariboisiere, then building. slowly, from one end to the other of the horizon, did she follow the wall, from behind which in the nightime she had heard strange groans and cries, as if some fell murder were being perpetrated. she looked at it with horror, as if in some dark corner--dark with dampness and filth--she should distinguish lantier--lantier lying dead with his throat cut. when she gazed beyond this gray and interminable wall she saw a great light, a golden mist waving and shimmering with the dawn of a new parisian day. but it was to the barriere poissonniers that her eyes persistently returned, watching dully the uninterrupted flow of men and cattle, wagons and sheep, which came down from montmartre and from la chapelle. there were scattered flocks dashed like waves on the sidewalk by some sudden detention and an endless succession of laborers going to their work with their tools over their shoulders and their loaves of bread under their arms. suddenly gervaise thought she distinguished lantier amid this crowd, and she leaned eagerly forward at the risk of falling from the window. with a fresh pang of disappointment she pressed her handkerchief to her lips to restrain her sobs. a fresh, youthful voice caused her to turn around. "lantier has not come in then?" "no, monsieur coupeau," she answered, trying to smile. the speaker was a tinsmith who occupied a tiny room at the top of the house. his bag of tools was over his shoulder; he had seen the key in the door and entered with the familiarity of a friend. "you know," he continued, "that i am working nowadays at the hospital. what a may this is! the air positively stings one this morning." as he spoke he looked closely at gervaise; he saw her eyes were red with tears and then, glancing at the bed, discovered that it had not been disturbed. he shook his head and, going toward the couch where the children lay with their rosy cherub faces, he said in a lower voice: "you think your husband ought to have been with you, madame. but don't be troubled; he is busy with politics. he went on like a mad man the other day when they were voting for eugene sue. perhaps he passed the night with his friends abusing that reprobate bonaparte." "no, no," she murmured with an effort. "you think nothing of that kind. i know where lantier is only too well. we have our sorrows like the rest of the world!" coupeau gave a knowing wink and departed, having offered to bring her some milk if she did not care to go out; she was a good woman, he told her and might count on him any time when she was in trouble. as soon as gervaise was alone she returned to the window. from the barriere the lowing of the cattle and the bleating of the sheep still came on the keen, fresh morning air. among the crowd she recognized the locksmiths by their blue frocks, the masons by their white overalls, the painters by their coats, from under which hung their blouses. this crowd was cheerless. all of neutral tints--grays and blues predominating, with never a dash of color. occasionally a workman stopped and lighted his pipe, while his companions passed on. there was no laughing, no talking, but they strode on steadily with cadaverous faces toward that paris which quickly swallowed them up. at the two corners of la rue des poissonniers were two wineshops, where the shutters had just been taken down. here some of the workmen lingered, crowding into the shop, spitting, coughing and drinking glasses of brandy and water. gervaise was watching the place on the left of the street, where she thought she had seen lantier go in, when a stout woman, bareheaded and wearing a large apron, called to her from the pavement, "you are up early, madame lantier!" gervaise leaned out. "ah, is it you, madame boche! yes, i am up early, for i have much to do today." "is that so? well, things don't get done by themselves, that's sure!" and a conversation ensued between the window and the sidewalk. mme boche was the concierge of the house wherein the restaurant veau a deux tetes occupied the _rez-de-chaussee_. many times gervaise had waited for lantier in the room of this woman rather than face the men who were eating. the concierge said she had just been round the corner to arouse a lazy fellow who had promised to do some work and then went on to speak of one of her lodgers who had come in the night before with some woman and had made such a noise that every one was disturbed until after three o'clock. as she gabbled, however, she examined gervaise with considerable curiosity and seemed, in fact, to have come out under the window for that express purpose. "is monsieur lantier still asleep?" she asked suddenly. "yes, he is asleep," answered gervaise with flushing cheeks. madame saw the tears come to her eyes and, satisfied with her discovery, was turning away when she suddenly stopped and called out: "you are going to the lavatory this morning, are you not? all right then, i have some things to wash, and i will keep a place for you next to me, and we can have a little talk!" then as if moved by sudden compassion, she added: "poor child, don't stay at that window any longer. you are purple with cold and will surely make yourself sick!" but gervaise did not move. she remained in the same spot for two mortal hours, until the clock struck eight. the shops were now all open. the procession in blouses had long ceased, and only an occasional one hurried along. at the wineshops, however, there was the same crowd of men drinking, spitting and coughing. the workmen in the street had given place to the workwomen. milliners' apprentices, florists, burnishers, who with thin shawls drawn closely around them came in bands of three or four, talking eagerly, with gay laughs and quick glances. occasionally one solitary figure was seen, a pale-faced, serious woman, who walked rapidly, neither looking to the right nor to the left. then came the clerks, blowing on their fingers to warm them, eating a roll as they walked; young men, lean and tall, with clothing they had outgrown and with eyes heavy with sleep; old men, who moved along with measured steps, occasionally pulling out their watches, but able, from many years' practice, to time their movements almost to a second. the boulevards at last were comparatively quiet. the inhabitants were sunning themselves. women with untidy hair and soiled petticoats were nursing their babies in the open air, and an occasional dirty-faced brat fell into the gutter or rolled over with shrieks of pain or joy. gervaise felt faint and ill; all hope was gone. it seemed to her that all was over and that lantier would come no more. she looked from the dingy slaughterhouses, black with their dirt and loathsome odor, on to the new and staring hospital and into the rooms consecrated to disease and death. as yet the windows were not in, and there was nothing to impede her view of the large, empty wards. the sun shone directly in her face and blinded her. she was sitting on a chair with her arms dropping drearily at her side but not weeping, when lantier quietly opened the door and walked in. "you have come!" she cried, ready to throw herself on his neck. "yes, i have come," he answered, "and what of it? don't begin any of your nonsense now!" and he pushed her aside. then with an angry gesture he tossed his felt hat on the bureau. he was a small, dark fellow, handsome and well made, with a delicate mustache which he twisted in his fingers mechanically as he spoke. he wore an old coat, buttoned tightly at the waist, and spoke with a strongly marked provencal accent. gervaise had dropped upon her chair again and uttered disjointed phrases of lamentation. "i have not closed my eyes--i thought you were killed! where have you been all night? i feel as if i were going mad! tell me, auguste, where have you been?" "oh, i had business," he answered with an indifferent shrug of his shoulders. "at eight o'clock i had an engagement with that friend, you know, who is thinking of starting a manufactory of hats. i was detained, and i preferred stopping there. but you know i don't like to be watched and catechized. just let me alone, will you?" his wife began to sob. their voices and lantier's noisy movements as he pushed the chairs about woke the children. they started up, half naked with tumbled hair, and hearing their mother cry, they followed her example, rending the air with their shrieks. "well, this is lovely music!" cried lantier furiously. "i warn you, if you don't all stop, that out of this door i go, and you won't see me again in a hurry! will you hold your tongue? good-by then; i'll go back where i came from." he snatched up his hat, but gervaise rushed toward him, crying: "no! no!" and she soothed the children and stifled their cries with kisses and laid them tenderly back in their bed, and they were soon happy and merrily playing together. meanwhile the father, not even taking off his boots, threw himself on the bed with a weary air. his face was white from exhaustion and a sleepless night; he did not close his eyes but looked around the room. "a nice-looking place, this!" he muttered. then examining gervaise, he said half aloud and half to himself: "so! you have given up washing yourself, it seems!" gervaise was only twenty-two. she was tall and slender with delicate features, already worn by hardships and anxieties. with her hair uncombed and shoes down at the heel, shivering in her white sack, on which was much dust and many stains from the furniture and wall where it had hung, she looked at least ten years older from the hours of suspense and tears she had passed. lantier's word startled her from her resignation and timidity. "are you not ashamed?" she said with considerable animation. "you know very well that i do all i can. it is not my fault that we came here. i should like to see you with two children in a place where you can't get a drop of hot water. we ought as soon as we reached paris to have settled ourselves at once in a home; that was what you promised." "pshaw," he muttered; "you had as much good as i had out of our savings. you ate the fatted calf with me--and it is not worth while to make a row about it now!" she did not heed his word but continued: "there is no need of giving up either. i saw madame fauconnier, the laundress in la rue neuve. she will take me monday. if you go in with your friend we shall be afloat again in six months. we must find some kind of a hole where we can live cheaply while we work. that is the thing to do now. work! work!" lantier turned his face to the wall with a shrug of disgust which enraged his wife, who resumed: "yes, i know very well that you don't like to work. you would like to wear fine clothes and walk about the streets all day. you don't like my looks since you took all my dresses to the pawnbrokers. no, no, auguste, i did not intend to speak to you about it, but i know very well where you spent the night. i saw you go into the grand-balcon with that streetwalker adele. you have made a charming choice. she wears fine clothes and is clean. yes, and she has reason to be, certainly; there is not a man in that restaurant who does not know her far better than an honest girl should be known!" lantier leaped from the bed. his eyes were as black as night and his face deadly pale. "yes," repeated his wife, "i mean what i say. madame boche will not keep her or her sister in the house any longer, because there are always a crowd of men hanging on the staircase." lantier lifted both fists, and then conquering a violent desire to beat her, he seized her in his arms, shook her violently and threw her on the bed where the children were. they at once began to cry again while he stood for a moment, and then, with the air of a man who finally takes a resolution in regard to which he has hesitated, he said: "you do not know what you have done, gervaise. you are wrong--as you will soon discover." for a moment the voices of the children filled the room. their mother, lying on their narrow couch, held them both in her arms and said over and over again in a monotonous voice: "if you were not here, my poor darlings! if you were not here! if you were not here!" lantier was lying flat on his back with his eyes fixed on the ceiling. he was not listening; his attention was concentrated on some fixed idea. he remained in this way for an hour and more, not sleeping, in spite of his evident and intense fatigue. when he turned and, leaning on his elbow, looked about the room again, he found that gervaise had arranged the chamber and made the children's bed. they were washed and dressed. he watched her as she swept the room and dusted the furniture. the room was very dreary still, however, with its smoke-stained ceiling and paper discolored by dampness and three chairs and dilapidated bureau, whose greasy surface no dusting could clean. then while she washed herself and arranged her hair before the small mirror, he seemed to examine her arms and shoulders, as if instituting a comparison between herself and someone else. and he smiled a disdainful little smile. gervaise was slightly, very slightly, lame, but her lameness was perceptible, only on such days as she was very tired. this morning, so weary was she from the watches of the night, that she could hardly walk without support. a profound silence reigned in the room; they did not speak to each other. he seemed to be waiting for something. she, adopting an unconcerned air, seemed to be in haste. she made up a bundle of soiled linen that had been thrown into a corner behind the trunk, and then he spoke: "what are you doing? are you going out?" at first she did not reply. then when he angrily repeated the question she answered: "certainly i am. i am going to wash all these things. the children cannot live in dirt." he threw two or three handkerchiefs toward her, and after another long silence he said: "have you any money?" she quickly rose to her feet and turned toward him; in her hand she held some of the soiled clothes. "money! where should i get money unless i had stolen it? you know very well that day before yesterday you got three francs on my black skirt. we have breakfasted twice on that, and money goes fast. no, i have no money. i have four sous for the lavatory. i cannot make money like other women we know." he did not reply to this allusion but rose from the bed and passed in review the ragged garments hung around the room. he ended by taking down the pantaloons and the shawl and, opening the bureau, took out a sack and two chemises. all these he made into a bundle, which he threw at gervaise. "take them," he said, "and make haste back from the pawnbroker's." "would you not like me to take the children?" she asked. "heavens! if pawnbrokers would only make loans on children, what a good thing it would be!" she went to the mont-de-piete, and when she returned a half-hour later she laid a silver five-franc piece on the mantelshelf and placed the ticket with the others between the two candlesticks. "this is what they gave me," she said coldly. "i wanted six francs, but they would not give them. they always keep on the safe side there, and yet there is always a crowd." lantier did not at once take up the money. he had sent her to the mont-de-piete that he might not leave her without food or money, but when he caught sight of part of a ham wrapped in paper on the table with half a loaf of bread he slipped the silver piece into his vest pocket. "i did not dare go to the milk woman," explained gervaise, "because we owe her for eight days. but i shall be back early. you can get some bread and some chops and have them ready. don't forget the wine too." he made no reply. peace seemed to be made, but when gervaise went to the trunk to take out some of lantier's clothing he called out: "no--let that alone." "what do you mean?" she said, turning round in surprise. "you can't wear these things again until they are washed! why shall i not take them?" and she looked at him with some anxiety. he angrily tore the things from her hands and threw them back into the trunk. "confound you!" he muttered. "will you never learn to obey? when i say a thing i mean it--" "but why?" she repeated, turning very pale and seized with a terrible suspicion. "you do not need these shirts; you are not going away. why should i not take them?" he hesitated a moment, uneasy under the earnest gaze she fixed upon him. "why? why? because," he said, "i am sick of hearing you say that you wash and mend for me. attend to your own affairs, and i will attend to mine." she entreated him, defended herself from the charge of ever having complained, but he shut the trunk with a loud bang and then sat down upon it, repeating that he was master at least of his own clothing. then to escape from her eyes, he threw himself again on the bed, saying he was sleepy and that she made his head ache, and finally slept or pretended to do so. gervaise hesitated; she was tempted to give up her plan of going to the lavatory and thought she would sit down to her sewing. but at last she was reassured by lantier's regular breathing; she took her soap and her ball of bluing and, going to the children, who were playing on the floor with some old corks, she said in a low voice: "be very good and keep quiet. papa is sleeping." when she left the room there was not a sound except the stifled laughter of the little ones. it was then after ten, and the sun was shining brightly in at the window. gervaise, on reaching the boulevard, turned to the left and followed the rue de la goutte-d'or. as she passed mme fauconnier's shop she nodded to the woman. the lavatory, whither she went, was in the middle of this street, just where it begins to ascend. over a large low building towered three enormous reservoirs for water, huge cylinders of zinc strongly made, and in the rear was the drying room, an apartment with a very high ceiling and surrounded by blinds through which the air passed. on the right of the reservoirs a steam engine let off regular puffs of white smoke. gervaise, habituated apparently to puddles, did not lift her skirts but threaded her way through the part of _eau de javelle_ which encumbered the doorway. she knew the mistress of the establishment, a delicate woman who sat in a cabinet with glass doors, surrounded by soap and bluing and packages of bicarbonate of soda. as gervaise passed the desk she asked for her brush and beater, which she had left to be taken care of after her last wash. then having taken her number, she went in. it was an immense shed, as it were, with a low ceiling--the beams and rafters unconcealed--and lighted by large windows, through which the daylight streamed. a light gray mist or steam pervaded the room, which was filled with a smell of soapsuds and _eau de javelle_ combined. along the central aisle were tubs on either side, and two rows of women with their arms bare to the shoulders and their skirts tucked up stood showing their colored stockings and stout laced shoes. they rubbed and pounded furiously, straightening themselves occasionally to utter a sentence and then applying themselves again to their task, with the steam and perspiration pouring down their red faces. there was a constant rush of water from the faucets, a great splashing as the clothes were rinsed and pounding and banging of the beaters, while amid all this noise the steam engine in the corner kept up its regular puffing. gervaise went slowly up the aisle, looking to the right and the left. she carried her bundle under her arm and limped more than usual, as she was pushed and jarred by the energy of the women about her. "here! this way, my dear," cried mme boche, and when the young woman had joined her at the very end where she stood, the concierge, without stopping her furious rubbing, began to talk in a steady fashion. "yes, this is your place. i have kept it for you. i have not much to do. boche is never hard on his linen, and you, too, do not seem to have much. your package is quite small. we shall finish by noon, and then we can get something to eat. i used to give my clothes to a woman in la rue pelat, but bless my heart, she washed and pounded them all away, and i made up my mind to wash myself. it is clear gain, you see, and costs only the soap." gervaise opened her bundle and sorted the clothes, laying aside all the colored pieces, and when mme boche advised her to try a little soda she shook her head. "no, no!" she said. "i know all about it!" "you know?" answered boche curiously. "you have washed then in your own place before you came here?" gervaise, with her sleeves rolled up, showing her pretty, fair arms, was soaping a child's shirt. she rubbed it and turned it, soaped and rubbed it again. before she answered she took up her beater and began to use it, accenting each phrase or rather punctuating them with her regular blows. "yes, yes, washed--i should think i had! ever since i was ten years old. we went to the riverside, where i came from. it was much nicer than here. i wish you could see it--a pretty corner under the trees by the running water. do you know plassans? near marseilles?" "you are a strong one, anyhow!" cried mme boche, astonished at the rapidity and strength of the woman. "your arms are slender, but they are like iron." the conversation continued until all the linen was well beaten and yet whole! gervaise then took each piece separately, rinsed it, then rubbed it with soap and brushed it. that is to say, she held the cloth firmly with one hand and with the other moved the short brush from her, pushing along a dirty foam which fell off into the water below. as she brushed they talked. "no, we are not married," said gervaise. "i do not intend to lie about it. lantier is not so nice that a woman need be very anxious to be his wife. if it were not for the children! i was fourteen and he was eighteen when the first one was born. the other child did not come for four years. i was not happy at home. papa macquart, for the merest trifle, would beat me. i might have married, i suppose." she dried her hands, which were red under the white soapsuds. "the water is very hard in paris," she said. mme boche had finished her work long before, but she continued to dabble in the water merely as an excuse to hear this story, which for two weeks had excited her curiosity. her mouth was open, and her eyes were shining with satisfaction at having guessed so well. "oh yes, just as i knew," she said to herself, "but the little woman talks too much! i was sure, though, there had been a quarrel." then aloud: "he is not good to you then?" "he was very good to me once," answered gervaise, "but since we came to paris he has changed. his mother died last year and left him about seventeen hundred francs. he wished to come to paris, and as father macquart was in the habit of hitting me in the face without any warning, i said i would come, too, which we did, with the two children. i meant to be a fine laundress, and he was to continue with his trade as a hatter. we might have been very happy. but, you see, lantier is extravagant; he likes expensive things and thinks of his amusement before anything else. he is not good for much, anyhow! "we arrived at the hotel montmartre. we had dinners and carriages, suppers and theaters, a watch for him, a silk dress for me--for he is not selfish when he has money. you can easily imagine, therefore, at the end of two months we were cleaned out. then it was that we came to hotel boncoeur and that this life began." she checked herself with a strange choking in the throat. tears gathered in her eyes. she finished brushing her linen. "i must get my scalding water," she murmured. but mme boche, much annoyed at this sudden interruption to the long-desired confidence, called the boy. "charles," she said, "it would be very good of you if you would bring a pail of hot water to madame lantier, as she is in a great hurry." the boy brought a bucketful, and gervaise paid him a sou. it was a sou for each bucket. she turned the hot water into her tub and soaked her linen once more and rubbed it with her hands while the steam hovered round her blonde head like a cloud. "here, take some of this," said the concierge as she emptied into the water that gervaise was using the remains of a package of bicarbonate of soda. she offered her also some _eau de javelle_, but the young woman refused. it was only good, she said, for grease spots and wine stains. "i thought him somewhat dissipated," said mme boche, referring to lantier without naming him. gervaise, leaning over her tub and her arms up to the elbows in the soapsuds, nodded in acquiescence. "yes," continued the concierge, "i have seen many little things." but she started back as gervaise turned round with a pale face and quivering lips. "oh, i know nothing," she continued. "he likes to laugh--that is all--and those two girls who are with us, you know, adele and virginie, like to laugh too, so they have their little jokes together, but that is all there is of it, i am sure." the young woman, with the perspiration standing on her brow and her arms still dripping, looked her full in the face with earnest, inquiring eyes. then the concierge became excited and struck her breast, exclaiming: "i tell you i know nothing whatever, nothing more than i tell you!" then she added in a gentle voice, "but he has honest eyes, my dear. he will marry you, child; i promise that he will marry you!" gervaise dried her forehead with her damp hand and shook her head. the two women were silent for a moment; around them, too, it was very quiet. the clock struck eleven. many of the women were seated swinging their feet, drinking their wine and eating their sausages, sandwiched between slices of bread. an occasional economical housewife hurried in with a small bundle under her arm, and a few sounds of the pounder were still heard at intervals; sentences were smothered in the full mouths, or a laugh was uttered, ending in a gurgling sound as the wine was swallowed, while the great machine puffed steadily on. not one of the women, however, heard it; it was like the very respiration of the lavatory--the eager breath that drove up among the rafters the floating vapor that filled the room. the heat gradually became intolerable. the sun shone in on the left through the high windows, imparting to the vapor opaline tints--the palest rose and tender blue, fading into soft grays. when the women began to grumble the boy charles went from one window to the other, drawing down the heavy linen shades. then he crossed to the other side, the shady side, and opened the blinds. there was a general exclamation of joy--a formidable explosion of gaiety. all this time gervaise was going on with her task and had just completed the washing of her colored pieces, which she threw over a trestle to drip; soon small pools of blue water stood on the floor. then she began to rinse the garments in cold water which ran from a spigot near by. "you have nearly finished," said mme boche. "i am waiting to help you wring them." "oh, you are very good! it is not necessary though!" answered the young woman as she swashed the garments through the clear water. "if i had sheets i would not refuse your offer, however." nevertheless, she accepted the aid of the concierge. they took up a brown woolen skirt, badly faded, from which poured out a yellow stream as the two women wrung it together. suddenly mme boche cried out: "look! there comes big virginie! she is actually coming here to wash her rags tied up in a handkerchief." gervaise looked up quickly. virginie was a woman about her own age, larger and taller than herself, a brunette and pretty in spite of the elongated oval of her face. she wore an old black dress with flounces and a red ribbon at her throat. her hair was carefully arranged and massed in a blue chenille net. she hesitated a moment in the center aisle and half shut her eyes, as if looking for something or somebody, but when she distinguished gervaise she went toward her with a haughty, insolent air and supercilious smile and finally established herself only a short distance from her. "that is a new notion!" muttered mme boche in a low voice. "she was never known before to rub out even a pair of cuffs. she is a lazy creature, i do assure you. she never sews the buttons on her boots. she is just like her sister, that minx of an adele, who stays away from the shop two days out of three. what is she rubbing now? a skirt, is it? it is dirty enough, i am sure!" it was clear that mme boche wished to please gervaise. the truth was she often took coffee with adele and virginie when the two sisters were in funds. gervaise did not reply but worked faster than before. she was now preparing her bluing water in a small tub standing on three legs. she dipped in her pieces, shook them about in the colored water, which was almost a lake in hue, and then, wringing them, she shook them out and threw them lightly over the high wooden bars. while she did this she kept her back well turned on big virginie. but she felt that the girl was looking at her, and she heard an occasional derisive sniff. virginie, in fact, seemed to have come there to provoke her, and when gervaise turned around the two women fixed their eyes on each other. "let her be," murmured mme boche. "she is not the one, now i tell you!" at this moment, as gervaise was shaking her last piece of linen, she heard laughing and talking at the door of the lavatory. "two children are here asking for their mother!" cried charles. all the women looked around, and gervaise recognized claude and etienne. as soon as they saw her they ran toward her, splashing through the puddle's, their untied shoes half off and claude, the eldest, dragging his little brother by the hand. the women as they passed uttered kindly exclamations of pity, for the children were evidently frightened. they clutched their mother's skirts and buried their pretty blond heads. "did papa send you?" asked gervaise. but as she stooped to tie etienne's shoes she saw on claude's finger the key of her room with its copper tag and number. "did you bring the key?" she exclaimed in great surprise. "and why, pray?" the child looked down on the key hanging on his finger, which he had apparently forgotten. this seemed to remind him of something, and he said in a clear, shrill voice: "papa is gone!" "he went to buy your breakfast, did he not? and he told you to come and look for me here, i suppose?" claude looked at his brother and hesitated. then he exclaimed: "papa has gone, i say. he jumped from the bed, put his things in his trunk, and then he carried his trunk downstairs and put it on a carriage. we saw him--he has gone!" gervaise was kneeling, tying the boy's shoe. she rose slowly with a very white face and with her hands pressed to either temple, as if she were afraid of her head cracking open. she could say nothing but the same words over and over again: "great god! great god! great god!" mme boche, in her turn, interrogated the child eagerly, for she was charmed at finding herself an actor, as it were, in this drama. "tell us all about it, my dear. he locked the door, did he? and then he told you to bring the key here?" and then, lowering her voice, she whispered in the child's ear: "was there a lady in the carriage?" she asked. the child looked troubled for a moment but speedily began his story again with a triumphant air. "he jumped off the bed, put his things in the trunk, and he went away." then as mme boche made no attempt to detain him, he drew his brother to the faucet, where the two amused themselves in making the water run. gervaise could not weep. she felt as if she were stifling. she covered her face with her hands and turned toward the wall. a sharp, nervous trembling shook her from head to foot. an occasional sobbing sigh or, rather, gasp escaped from her lips, while she pressed her clenched hands more tightly on her eyes, as if to increase the darkness of the abyss in which she felt herself to have fallen. "come! come, my child!" muttered mme boche. "if you knew! if you only knew all!" answered gervaise. "only this very morning he made me carry my shawl and my chemises to the mont-de-piete, and that was the money he had for the carriage." and the tears rushed to her eyes. the recollection of her visit to the pawnbroker's, of her hasty return with the money in her hand, seemed to let loose the sobs that strangled her and was the one drop too much. tears streamed from her eyes and poured down her face. she did not think of wiping them away. "be reasonable, child! be quiet," whispered mme boche. "they are all looking at you. is it possible you can care so much for any man? you love him still, although such a little while ago you pretended you did not care for him, and you cry as if your heart would break! oh lord, what fools we women are!" then in a maternal tone she added: "and such a pretty little woman as you are too. but now i may as well tell you the whole, i suppose? well then, you remember when i was talking to you from the sidewalk and you were at your window? i knew then that it was lantier who came in with adele. i did not see his face, but i knew his coat, and boche watched and saw him come downstairs this morning. but he was with adele, you understand. there is another person who comes to see virginie twice a week." she stopped for a moment to take breath and then went on in a lower tone still. "take care! she is laughing at you--the heartless little cat! i bet all her washing is a sham. she has seen her sister and lantier well off and then came here to find out how you would take it." gervaise took her hands down from her face and looked around. when she saw virginie talking and laughing with two or three women a wild tempest of rage shook her from head to foot. she stooped with her arms extended, as if feeling for something, and moved along slowly for a step or two, then snatched up a bucket of soapsuds and threw it at virginie. "you devil! be off with you!" cried virginie, starting back. only her feet were wet. all the women in the lavatory hurried to the scene of action. they jumped up on the benches, some with a piece of bread in their hands, others with a bit of soap, and a circle of spectators was soon formed. "yes, she is a devil!" repeated virginie. "what has got into the fool?" gervaise stood motionless, her face convulsed and lips apart. the other continued: "she got tired of the country, it seems, but she left one leg behind her, at all events." the women laughed, and big virginie, elated at her success, went on in a louder and more triumphant tone: "come a little nearer, and i will soon settle you. you had better have remained in the country. it is lucky for you that your dirty soapsuds only went on my feet, for i would have taken you over my knees and given you a good spanking if one drop had gone in my face. what is the matter with her, anyway?" and big virginie addressed her audience: "make her tell what i have done to her! say! fool, what harm have i ever done to you?" "you had best not talk so much," answered gervaise almost inaudibly; "you know very well where my husband was seen yesterday. now be quiet or harm will come to you. i will strangle you--quick as a wink." "her husband, she says! her husband! the lady's husband! as if a looking thing like that had a husband! is it my fault if he has deserted her? does she think i have stolen him? anyway, he was much too good for her. but tell me, some of you, was his name on his collar? madame has lost her husband! she will pay a good reward, i am sure, to anyone who will carry him back!" the women all laughed. gervaise, in a low, concentrated voice, repeated: "you know very well--you know very well! your sister--yes, i will strangle your sister!" "oh yes, i understand," answered virginie. "strangle her if you choose. what do i care? and what are you staring at me for? can't i wash my clothes in peace? come, i am sick of this stuff. let me alone!" big virginie turned away, and after five or six angry blows with her beater she began again: "yes, it is my sister, and the two adore each other. you should see them bill and coo together. he has left you with these dirty-faced imps, and you left three others behind you with three fathers! it was your dear lantier who told us all that. ah, he had had quite enough of you--he said so!" "miserable fool!" cried gervaise, white with anger. she turned and mechanically looked around on the floor; seeing nothing, however, but the small tub of bluing water, she threw that in virginie's face. "she has spoiled my dress!" cried virginie, whose shoulder and one hand were dyed a deep blue. "you just wait a moment!" she added as she, in her turn, snatched up a tub and dashed its contents at gervaise. then ensued a most formidable battle. the two women ran up and down the room in eager haste, looking for full tubs, which they quickly flung in the faces of each other, and each deluge was heralded and accompanied by a shout. "is that enough? will that cool you off?" cried gervaise. and from virginie: "take that! it is good to have a bath once in your life!" finally the tubs and pails were all empty, and the two women began to draw water from the faucets. they continued their mutual abuse while the water was running, and presently it was virginie who received a bucketful in her face. the water ran down her back and over her skirts. she was stunned and bewildered, when suddenly there came another in her left ear, knocking her head nearly off her shoulders; her comb fell and with it her abundant hair. gervaise was attacked about her legs. her shoes were filled with water, and she was drenched above her knees. presently the two women were deluged from head to foot; their garments stuck to them, and they dripped like umbrellas which had been out in a heavy shower. "what fun!" said one of the laundresses as she looked on at a safe distance. the whole lavatory were immensely amused, and the women applauded as if at a theater. the floor was covered an inch deep with water, through which the termagants splashed. suddenly virginie discovered a bucket of scalding water standing a little apart; she caught it and threw it upon gervaise. there was an exclamation of horror from the lookers-on. gervaise escaped with only one foot slightly burned, but exasperated by the pain, she threw a tub with all her strength at the legs of her opponent. virginie fell to the ground. "she has broken her leg!" cried one of the spectators. "she deserved it," answered another, "for the tall one tried to scald her!" "she was right, after all, if the blonde had taken away her man!" mme boche rent the air with her exclamations, waving her arms frantically high above her head. she had taken the precaution to place herself behind a rampart of tubs, with claude and etienne clinging to her skirts, weeping and sobbing in a paroxysm of terror and keeping up a cry of "mamma! mamma!" when she saw virginie prostrate on the ground she rushed to gervaise and tried to pull her away. "come with me!" she urged. "do be sensible. you are growing so angry that the lord only knows what the end of all this will be!" but gervaise pushed her aside, and the old woman again took refuge behind the tubs with the children. virginie made a spring at the throat of her adversary and actually tried to strangle her. gervaise shook her off and snatched at the long braid hanging from the girl's head and pulled it as if she hoped to wrench it off, and the head with it. the battle began again, this time silent and wordless and literally tooth and nail. their extended hands with fingers stiffly crooked, caught wildly at all in their way, scratching and tearing. the red ribbon and the chenille net worn by the brunette were torn off; the waist of her dress was ripped from throat to belt and showed the white skin on the shoulder. gervaise had lost a sleeve, and her chemise was torn to her waist. strips of clothing lay in every direction. it was gervaise who was first wounded. three long scratches from her mouth to her throat bled profusely, and she fought with her eyes shut lest she should be blinded. as yet virginia showed no wound. suddenly gervaise seized one of her earrings--pear-shaped, of yellow glass--she tore it out and brought blood. "they will kill each other! separate them," cried several voices. the women gathered around the combatants; the spectators were divided into two parties--some exciting and encouraging gervaise and virginie as if they had been dogs fighting, while others, more timid, trembled, turned away their heads and said they were faint and sick. a general battle threatened to take place, such was the excitement. mme boche called to the boy in charge: "charles! charles! where on earth can he be?" finally she discovered him, calmly looking on with his arms folded. he was a tall youth with a big neck. he was laughing and hugely enjoying the scene. it would be a capital joke, he thought, if the women tore each other's clothes to rags and if they should be compelled to finish their fight in a state of nudity. "are you there then?" cried mme boche when she saw him. "come and help us separate them, or you can do it yourself." "no, thank you," he answered quietly. "i don't propose to have my own eyes scratched out! i am not here for that. let them alone! it will do them no harm to let a little of their hot blood out!" mme boche declared she would summon the police, but to this the mistress of the lavatory, the delicate-looking woman with weak eyes, strenuously objected. "no, no, i will not. it would injure my house!" she said over and over again. both women lay on the ground. suddenly virginie struggled up to her knees. she had got possession of one of the beaters, which she brandished. her voice was hoarse and low as she muttered: "this will be as good for you as for your dirty linen!" gervaise, in her turn, snatched another beater, which she held like a club. her voice also was hoarse and low. "i will beat your skin," she muttered, "as i would my coarse towels." they knelt in front of each other in utter silence for at least a minute, with hair streaming, eyes glaring and distended nostrils. they each drew a long breath. gervaise struck the first blow with her beater full on the shoulders of her adversary and then threw herself over on the side to escape virginie's weapon, which touched her on the hip. thus started, they struck each other as laundresses strike their linen, in measured cadence. the women about them ceased to laugh; many went away, saying they were faint. those who remained watched the scene with a cruel light in their eyes. mme boche had taken claude and etienne to the other end of the room, whence came the dreary sound of their sobs which were heard through the dull blows of the beaters. suddenly gervaise uttered a shriek. virginie had struck her just above the elbow on her bare arm, and the flesh began to swell at once. she rushed at virginie; her face was so terrible that the spectators thought she meant to kill her. "enough! enough!" they cried. with almost superhuman strength she seized virginie by the waist, bent her forward with her face to the brick floor and, notwithstanding her struggles, lifted her skirts and showed the white and naked skin. then she brought her beater down as she had formerly done at plassans under the trees on the riverside, where her employer had washed the linen of the garrison. each blow of the beater fell on the soft flesh with a dull thud, leaving a scarlet mark. "oh! oh!" murmured charles with his eyes nearly starting from his head. the women were laughing again by this time, but soon the cry began again of "enough! enough!" gervaise did not even hear. she seemed entirely absorbed, as if she were fulfilling an appointed task, and she talked with strange, wild gaiety, recalling one of the rhymes of her childhood: _"pan! pan! margot au lavoir, pan! pan! a coups de battoir; pan! pan! va laver son coeur, pan! pan! tout noir de douleur_ "take that for yourself and that for your sister and this for lantier. and now i shall begin all over again. that is for lantier--that for your sister--and this for yourself! _"pan! pan! margot au lavoir! pan! pan! a coups de battoir."_ they tore virginie from her hands. the tall brunette, weeping and sobbing, scarlet with shame, rushed out of the room, leaving gervaise mistress of the field, who calmly arranged her dress somewhat and, as her arm was stiff, begged mme boche to lift her bundle of linen on her shoulder. while the old woman obeyed she dilated on her emotions during the scene that had just taken place. "you ought to go to a doctor and see if something is not broken. i heard a queer sound," she said. but gervaise did not seem to hear her and paid no attention either to the women who crowded around her with congratulations. she hastened to the door where her children awaited her. "two hours!" said the mistress of the establishment, already installed in her glass cabinet. "two hours and two sous!" gervaise mechanically laid down the two sous, and then, limping painfully under the weight of the wet linen which was slung over her shoulder and dripped as she moved, with her injured arm and bleeding cheek, she went away, dragging after her with her naked arm the still-sobbing and tear-stained etienne and claude. behind her the lavatory resumed its wonted busy air, a little gayer than usual from the excitement of the morning. the women had eaten their bread and drunk their wine, and they splashed the water and used their beaters with more energy than usual as they recalled the blows dealt by gervaise. they talked from alley to alley, leaning over their tubs. words and laughs were lost in the sound of running water. the steam and mist were golden in the sun that came in through holes in the curtain. the odor of soapsuds grew stronger and stronger. when gervaise entered the alley which led to the hotel boncoeur her tears choked her. it was a long, dark, narrow alley, with a gutter on one side close to the wall, and the loathsome smell brought to her mind the recollection of having passed through there with lantier a fortnight previous. and what had that fortnight been? a succession of quarrels and dissensions, the remembrance of which would be forevermore a regret and bitterness. her room was empty, filled with the glowing sunlight from the open window. this golden light rendered more apparent the blackened ceiling and the walls with the shabby, dilapidated paper. there was not an article beyond the furniture left in the room, except a woman's fichu that seemed to have caught on a nail near the chimney. the children's bed was pulled out into the center of the room; the bureau drawers were wide open, displaying their emptiness. lantier had washed and had used the last of the pomade--two cents' worth on the back of a playing card--the dirty water in which he had washed still stood in the basin. he had forgotten nothing; the corner hitherto occupied by his trunk now seemed to gervaise a vast desert. even the small mirror was gone. with a presentiment of evil she turned hastily to the chimney. yes, she was right, lantier had carried away the tickets. the pink papers were no longer between the candlesticks! she threw her bundle of linen into a chair and stood looking first at one thing and then at another in a dull agony that no tears came to relieve. she had but one sou in the world. she heard a merry laugh from her boys who, already consoled, were at the window. she went toward them and, laying a hand on each of their heads, looked out on that scene on which her weary eyes had dwelt so long that same morning. yes, it was on that street that she and her children would soon be thrown, and she turned her hopeless, despairing eyes toward the outer boulevards--looking from right to left, lingering at the two extremities, seized by a feeling of terror, as if her life thenceforward was to be spent between a slaughterhouse and a hospital. chapter ii gervaise and coupeau three weeks later, about half-past eleven one fine sunny morning, gervaise and coupeau, the tinworker, were eating some brandied fruit at the assommoir. coupeau, who was smoking outside, had seen her as she crossed the street with her linen and compelled her to enter. her huge basket was on the floor, back of the little table where they sat. father colombe's tavern, known as the assommoir, was on the corners of the rue des poissonniers and of the boulevard de rochechouart. the sign bore the one single word in long, blue letters: distillation and this word stretched from one end to the other. on either side of the door stood tall oleanders in small casks, their leaves covered thick with dust. the enormous counter with its rows of glasses, its fountain and its pewter measures was on the left of the door, and the huge room was ornamented by gigantic casks painted bright yellow and highly varnished, hooped with shining copper. on high shelves were bottles of liquors and jars of fruits; all sorts of flasks standing in order concealed the wall and repeated their pale green or deep crimson tints in the great mirror behind the counter. the great feature of the house, however, was the distilling apparatus which stood at the back of the room behind an oak railing on which the tipsy workmen leaned as they stupidly watched the still with its long neck and serpentine tubes descending to subterranean regions--a very devil's kitchen. at this early hour the assommoir was nearly empty. a stout man in his shirt sleeves--father colombe himself--was serving a little girl not more than twelve years old with four cents' worth of liquor in a cup. the sun streamed in at the door and lay on the floor, which was black where the men had spat as they smoked. and from the counter, from the casks, from all the room, rose an alcoholic emanation which seemed to intoxicate the very particles of dust floating in the sunshine. in the meantime coupeau rolled a new cigarette. he was very neat and clean, wearing a blouse and a little blue cloth cap and showing his white teeth as he smiled. the lower jaw was somewhat prominent and the nose slightly flat; he had fine brown eyes and the face of a happy child and good-natured animal. his hair was thick and curly. his complexion was delicate still, for he was only twenty-six. opposite him sat gervaise in a black gown, leaning slightly forward, finishing her fruit, which she held by the stem. they were near the street, at the first of the four tables arranged in front of the counter. when coupeau had lighted his cigar he placed both elbows on the table and looked at the woman without speaking. her pretty face had that day something of the delicate transparency of fine porcelain. then continuing something which they apparently had been previously discussing, he said in a low voice: "then you say no, do you? absolutely no?" "of course. no it must be, monsieur coupeau," answered gervaise with a smile. "surely you do not intend to begin that again here! you promised to be reasonable too. had i known, i should certainly have refused your treat." he did not speak but gazed at her more intently than before with tender boldness. he looked at her soft eyes and dewy lips, pale at the corners but half parted, allowing one to see the rich crimson within. she returned his look with a kind and affectionate smile. finally she said: "you should not think of such a thing. it is folly! i am an old woman. i have a boy eight years old. what should we do together?" "much as other people do, i suppose!" answered coupeau with a wink. she shrugged her shoulders. "you know nothing about it, monsieur coupeau, but i have had some experience. i have two mouths in the house, and they have excellent appetites. how am i to bring up my children if i trifle away my time? then, too, my misfortune has taught me one great lesson, which is that the less i have to do with men, the better!" she then proceeded to explain all her reasons, calmly and without anger. it was easy to see that her words were the result of grave consideration. coupeau listened quietly, saying only at intervals: "you are hurting my feelings. yes, hurting my feelings." "yes, i see that," she answered, "and i am really very sorry for you. if i had any idea of leading a different life from that which i follow today it might as well be with you as with another. you have the look of a good-natured man. but what is the use? i have now been with madame fauconnier for a fortnight. the children are going to school, and i am very happy, for i have plenty to do. don't you see, therefore, that it is best for us to remain as we are?" and she stooped to pick up her basket. "you are keeping me here to talk," she said, "and they are waiting for me at my employer's. you will find some other woman, monsieur coupeau, far prettier than i, who will not have two children to bring up!" he looked at the clock and made her sit down again. "wait!" he cried. "it is still thirty-five minutes of eleven. i have twenty-five minutes still, and don't be afraid of my familiarity, for the table is between us! do you dislike me so very much that you can't stay and talk with me for five minutes?" she put down her basket, unwilling to seem disobliging, and they talked for some time in a friendly sort of way. she had breakfasted before she left home, and he had swallowed his soup in the greatest haste and laid in wait for her as she came out. gervaise, as she listened to him, watched from the windows--between the bottles of brandied fruit--the movement of the crowd in the street, which at this hour--that of the parisian breakfast--was unusually lively. workmen hurried into the baker's and, coming out with a loaf under their arms, they went into the veau a deux tetes, three doors higher up, to breakfast at six sous. next the baker's was a shop where fried potatoes and mussels with parsley were sold. a constant succession of shopgirls carried off paper parcels of fried potatoes and cups filled with mussels, and others bought bunches of radishes. when gervaise leaned a little more toward the window she saw still another shop, also crowded, from which issued a steady stream of children holding in their hands, wrapped in paper, a breaded cutlet or a sausage, still warm. a group formed around the door of the assommoir. "say, bibi-la-grillade," asked a voice, "will you stand a drink all around?" five workmen went in, and the same voice said: "father colombe, be honest now. give us honest glasses, and no nutshells, if you please." presently three more workmen entered together, and finally a crowd of blouses passed in between the dusty oleanders. "you have no business to ask such questions," said gervaise to coupeau; "of course i loved him. but after the manner in which he deserted me--" they were speaking of lantier. gervaise had never seen him again; she supposed him to be living with virginie's sister, with a friend who was about to start a manufactory for hats. at first she thought of committing suicide, of drowning herself, but she had grown more reasonable and had really begun to trust that things were all for the best. with lantier she felt sure she never could have done justice to the children, so extravagant were his habits. he might come, of course, and see claude and etienne. she would not show him the door; only so far as she herself was concerned, he had best not lay his finger on her. and she uttered these words in a tone of determination, like a woman whose plan of life is clearly defined, while coupeau, who was by no means inclined to give her up lightly, teased and questioned her in regard to lantier with none too much delicacy, it is true, but his teeth were so white and his face so merry that the woman could not take offense. "did you beat him?" he asked finally. "oh, you are none too amiable. you beat people sometimes, i have heard." she laughed gaily. yes, it was true she had whipped that great virginie. that day she could have strangled someone with a glad heart. and she laughed again, because coupeau told her that virginie, in her humiliation, had left the _quartier_. gervaise's face, as she laughed, however, had a certain childish sweetness. she extended her slender, dimpled hands, declaring she would not hurt a fly. all she knew of blows was that she had received a good many in her life. then she began to talk of plassans and of her youth. she had never been indiscreet, nor was she fond of men. when she had fallen in with lantier she was only fourteen, and she regarded him as her husband. her only fault, she declared, was that she was too amiable and allowed people to impose on her and that she got fond of people too easily; were she to love another man, she should wish and expect to live quietly and comfortably with him always, without any nonsense. and when coupeau slyly asked her if she called her dear children nonsense she gave him a little slap and said that she, of course, was much like other women. but women were not like men, after all; they had their homes to take care of and keep clean; she was like her mother, who had been a slave to her brutal father for more than twenty years! "my very lameness--" she continued. "your lameness?" interrupted coupeau gallantly. "why, it is almost nothing. no one would ever notice it!" she shook her head. she knew very well that it was very evident, and at forty it would be far worse, but she said softly, with a faint smile, "you have a strange taste, to fall in love with a lame woman!" he, with his elbows on the table, still coaxed and entreated, but she continued to shake her head in the negative. she listened with her eyes fixed on the street, seemingly fascinated by the surging crowd. the shops were being swept; the last frying pan of potatoes was taken from the stove; the pork merchant washed the plates his customers had used and put his place in order. groups of mechanics were hurrying out from all the workshops, laughing and pushing each other like so many schoolboys, making a great scuffling on the sidewalk with their hobnailed shoes; while some, with their hands in their pockets, smoked in a meditative fashion, looking up at the sun and winking prodigiously. the sidewalks were crowded and the crowd constantly added to by men who poured from the open door--men in blouses and frocks, old jackets and coats, which showed all their defects in the clear morning light. the bells of the various manufactories were ringing loudly, but the workmen did not hurry. they deliberately lighted their pipes and then with rounded shoulders slouched along, dragging their feet after them. gervaise mechanically watched a group of three, one man much taller than the other two, who seemed to be hesitating as to what they should do next. finally they came directly to the assommoir. "i know them," said coupeau, "or rather i know the tall one. it is mes-bottes, a comrade of mine." the assommoir was now crowded with boisterous men. two glasses rang with the energy with which they brought down their fists on the counter. they stood in rows, with their hands crossed over their stomachs or folded behind their backs, waiting their turn to be served by father colombe. "hallo!" cried mes-bottes, giving coupeau a rough slap on the shoulders. "how fine you have got to be with your cigarettes and your linen shirt bosom! who is your friend that pays for all this? i should like to make her acquaintance." "don't be so silly!" returned coupeau angrily. but the other gave a knowing wink. "ah, i understand. 'a word to the wise--'" and he turned round with a fearful lurch to look at gervaise, who shuddered and recoiled. the tobacco smoke, the odor of humanity added to this air heavy with alcohol, was oppressive, and she choked a little and coughed. "ah, what an awful thing it is to drink!" she said in a whisper to her friend, to whom she then went on to say how years before she had drunk anisette with her mother at plassans and how it had made her so very sick that ever since that day she had never been able to endure even the smell of liquors. "you see," she added as she held up her glass, "i have eaten, the fruit, but i left the brandy, for it would make me ill." coupeau also failed to understand how a man could swallow glasses of brandy and water, one after the other. brandied fruit, now and again, was not bad. as to absinthe and similar abominations, he never touched them--not he, indeed. his comrades might laugh at him as much as they pleased; he always remained on the other side of the door when they came in to swallow perdition like that. his father, who was a tinworker like himself, had fallen one day from the roof of no. , in la rue coquenaud, and this recollection had made him very prudent ever since. as for himself, when he passed through that street and saw the place he would sooner drink the water in the gutter than swallow a drop at the wineshop. he concluded with the sentence: "you see, in my trade a man needs a clear head and steady legs." gervaise had taken up her basket; she had not risen from her chair, however, but held it on her knees with a dreary look in her eyes, as if the words of the young mechanic had awakened in her mind strange thoughts of a possible future. she answered in a low, hesitating tone, without any apparent connection: "heaven knows i am not ambitious. i do not ask for much in this world. my idea would be to live a quiet life and always have enough to eat--a clean place to live in--with a comfortable bed, a table and a chair or two. yes, i would like to bring my children up in that way and see them good and industrious. i should not like to run the risk of being beaten--no, that would not please me at all!" she hesitated, as if to find something else to say, and then resumed: "yes, and at the end i should wish to die in my bed in my own home!" she pushed back her chair and rose. coupeau argued with her vehemently and then gave an uneasy glance at the clock. they did not, however, depart at once. she wished to look at the still and stood for some minutes gazing with curiosity at the great copper machine. the tinworker, who had followed her, explained to her how the thing worked, pointing out with his finger the various parts of the machine, and showed the enormous retort whence fell the clear stream of alcohol. the still, with its intricate and endless coils of wire and pipes, had a dreary aspect. not a breath escaped from it, and hardly a sound was heard. it was like some night task performed in daylight by a melancholy, silent workman. in the meantime mes-bottes, accompanied by his two comrades, had lounged to the oak railing and leaned there until there was a corner of the counter free. he laughed a tipsy laugh as he stood with his eyes fixed on the machine. "by thunder!" he muttered. "that is a jolly little thing!" he went on to say that it held enough to keep their throats fresh for a week. as for himself, he would like to hold the end of that pipe between his teeth, and he would like to feel that liquor run down his throat in a steady stream until it reached his heels. the still did its work slowly but surely. there was not a glimmer on its surface--no firelight reflected in its clean-colored sides. the liquor dropped steadily and suggested a persevering stream which would gradually invade the room, spread over the streets and boulevard and finally deluge and inundate paris itself. gervaise shuddered and drew back. she tried to smile, but her lips quivered as she murmured: "it frightens me--that machine! it makes me feel cold to see that constant drip." then returning to the idea which had struck her as the acme of human happiness, she said: "say, do you not think that would be very nice? to work and have plenty to eat, to have a little home all to oneself, to bring up children and then die in one's bed?" "and not be beaten," added coupeau gaily. "but i will promise never to beat you, madame gervaise, if you will agree to what i ask. i will promise also never to drink, because i love you too much! come now, say yes." he lowered his voice and spoke with his lips close to her throat, while she, holding her basket in front of her, was making a path through the crowd of men. but she did not say no or shake her head as she had done. she glanced up at him with a half-tender smile and seemed to rejoice in the assurance he gave that he did not drink. it was clear that she would have said yes if she had not sworn never to have anything more to do with men. finally they reached the door and went out of the place, leaving it crowded to overflowing. the fumes of alcohol and the tipsy voices of the men carousing went out into the street with them. mes-bottes was heard accusing father colombe of cheating by not filling his glasses more than half full, and he proposed to his comrades to go in future to another place, where they could do much better and get more for their money. "ah," said gervaise, drawing a long breath when they stood on the sidewalk, "here one can breathe again. good-by, monsieur coupeau, and many thanks for your politeness. i must hasten now!" she moved on, but he took her hand and held it fast. "go a little way with me. it will not be much farther for you. i must stop at my sister's before i go back to the shop." she yielded to his entreaties, and they walked slowly on together. he told her about his family. his mother, a tailoress, was the housekeeper. twice she had been obliged to give up her work on account of trouble with her eyes. she was sixty-two on the third of the last month. he was the youngest child. one of his sisters, mme lerat, a widow, thirty-six years old, was a flower maker and lived at batignolles, in la rue des moines. the other, who was thirty, had married a chainmaker--a man by the name of lorilleux. it was to their rooms that he was now going. they lived in that great house on the left. he ate his dinner every night with them; it was an economy for them all. but he wanted to tell them now not to expect him that night, as he was invited to dine with a friend. gervaise interrupted him suddenly: "did i hear your friend call you cadet-cassis?" "yes. that is a name they have given me, because when they drag me into a wineshop it is cassis i always take. i had as lief be called cadet-cassis as mes-bottes, any time." "i do not think cadet-cassis so very bad," answered gervaise, and she asked him about his work. how long should he be employed on the new hospital? "oh," he answered, "there was never any lack of work." he had always more than he could do. he should remain in that shop at least a year, for he had yards and yards of gutters to make. "do you know," he said, "when i am up there i can see the hotel boncoeur. yesterday you were at the window, and i waved my hand, but you did not see me." they by this time had turned into la rue de la goutte-d'or. he stopped and looked up. "there is the house," he said, "and i was born only a few doors farther off. it is an enormous place." gervaise looked up and down the façade. it was indeed enormous. the house was of five stories, with fifteen windows on each floor. the blinds were black and with many of the slats broken, which gave an indescribable air of ruin and desolation to the place. four shops occupied the _rez-de-chaussee_. on the right of the door was a large room, occupied as a cookshop. on the left was a charcoal vender, a thread-and-needle shop and an establishment for the manufacture of umbrellas. the house appeared all the higher for the reason that on either side were two low buildings, squeezed close to it, and stood square, like a block of granite roughly hewn, against the blue sky. totally without ornament, the house grimly suggested a prison. gervaise looked at the entrance, an immense doorway which rose to the height of the second story and made a deep passage, at the end of which was a large courtyard. in the center of this doorway, which was paved like the street, ran a gutter full of pale rose-colored water. "come up," said coupeau; "they won't eat you." gervaise preferred to wait for him in the street, but she consented to go as far as the room of the concierge, which was within the porch, on the left. when she had reached this place she again looked up. within there were six floors, instead of five, and four regular facades surrounded the vast square of the courtyard. the walls were gray, covered with patches of leprous yellow, stained by the dripping from the slate-covered roof. the wall had not even a molding to break its dull uniformity--only the gutters ran across it. the windows had neither shutters nor blinds but showed the panes of glass which were greenish and full of bubbles. some were open, and from them hung checked mattresses and sheets to air. lines were stretched in front of others, on which the family wash was hung to dry--men's shirts, women's chemises and children's breeches! there was a look as if the dwellers under that roof found their quarters too small and were oozing out at every crack and aperture. for the convenience of each facade there was a narrow, high doorway, from which a damp passage led to the rear, where were four staircases with iron railings. these each had one of the first four letters of the alphabet painted at the side. the _rez-de-chaussee_ was divided into enormous workshops and lit by windows black with dust. the forge of a locksmith blazed in one; from another came the sound of a carpenter's plane, while near the doorway a pink stream from a dyeing establishment poured into the gutter. pools of stagnant water stood in the courtyard, all littered with shavings and fragments of charcoal. a few pale tufts of grass struggled up between the flat stones, and the whole courtyard was lit but dimly. in the shade near the water faucet three small hens were pecking with the vain hope of finding a worm, and gervaise looked about her, amazed at the enormous place which seemed like a little world and as interested in the house as if it were a living creature. "are you looking for anyone?" asked the concierge, coming to her door considerably puzzled. but the young woman explained that she was waiting for a friend and then turned back toward the street. as coupeau still delayed, she returned to the courtyard, finding in it a strange fascination. the house did not strike her as especially ugly. at some of the windows were plants--a wallflower blooming in a pot--a caged canary, who uttered an occasional warble, and several shaving mirrors caught the light and shone like stars. a cabinetmaker sang, accompanied by the regular whistling sounds of his plane, while from the locksmith's quarters came a clatter of hammers struck in cadence. at almost all the open windows the laughing, dirty faces of merry children were seen, and women sat with their calm faces in profile, bending over their work. it was the quiet time--after the morning labors were over and the men were gone to their work and the house was comparatively quiet, disturbed only by the sounds of the various trades. the same refrain repeated hour after hour has a soothing effect, gervaise thought. to be sure, the courtyard was a little damp. were she to live there, she should certainly prefer a room on the sunny side. she went in several steps and breathed that heavy odor of the homes of the poor--an odor of old dust, of rancid dirt and grease--but as the acridity of the smells from the dyehouse predominated, she decided it to be far better than the hotel boncoeur. she selected a window--a window in the corner on the left, where there was a small box planted with scarlet beans, whose slender tendrils were beginning to wind round a little arbor of strings. "i have made you wait too long, i am afraid," said coupeau, whom she suddenly heard at her side. "they make a great fuss when i do not dine there, and she did not like it today, especially as my sister had bought veal. you are looking at this house," he continued. "think of it--it is always lit from top to bottom. there are a hundred lodgers in it. if i had any furniture i would have had a room in it long ago. it would be very nice here, wouldn't it?" "yes," murmured gervaise, "very nice indeed. at plassans there were not so many people in one whole street. look up at that window on the fifth floor--the window, i mean, where those beans are growing. see how pretty that is!" he, with his usual recklessness, declared he would hire that room for her, and they would live there together. she turned away with a laugh and begged him not to talk any more nonsense. the house might stand or fall--they would never have a room in it together. but coupeau, all the same, was not reproved when he held her hand longer than was necessary in bidding her farewell when they reached mme fauconnier's laundry. for another month the kindly intercourse between gervaise and coupeau continued on much the same footing. he thought her wonderfully courageous, declared she was killing herself with hard work all day and sitting up half the night to sew for the children. she was not like the women he had known; she took life too seriously, by far! she laughed and defended herself modestly. unfortunately, she said, she had not always been discreet. she alluded to her first confinement when she was not more than fourteen and to the bottles of anisette she had emptied with her mother, but she had learned much from experience, she said. he was mistaken, however, in thinking she was persevering and strong. she was, on the contrary, very weak and too easily influenced, as she had discovered to her cost. her dream had always been to live in a respectable way among respectable people, because bad company knocks the life out of a woman. she trembled when she thought of the future and said she was like a sou thrown up in the air, falling, heads up or down, according to chance, on the muddy pavement. all she had seen, the bad example spread before her childish eyes, had given her valuable lessons. but coupeau laughed at these gloomy notions and brought back her courage by attempting to put his arm around her waist. she slapped his hands, and he cried out that "for a weak woman, she managed to hurt a fellow considerably!" as for himself, he was always as merry as a grig, and no fool, either. he parted his hair carefully on one side, wore pretty cravats and patent-leather shoes on sunday and was as saucy as only a fine parisian workman can be. they were of mutual use to each other at the hotel boncoeur. coupeau went for her milk, did many little errands for her and carried home her linen to her customers and often took the children out to walk. gervaise, to return these courtesies, went up to the tiny room where he slept and in his absence looked over his clothes, sewed on buttons and mended his garments. they grew to be very good and cordial friends. he was to her a constant source of amusement. she listened to the songs he sang and to their slang and nonsense, which as yet had for her much of the charm of novelty. but he began to grow uneasy, and his smiles were less frequent. he asked her whenever they met the same question, "when shall it be?" she answered invariably with a jest but passed her days in a fire of indelicate allusions, however, which did not bring a flush to her cheek. so long as he was not rough and brutal, she objected to nothing, but one day she was very angry when he, in trying to steal a kiss, tore out a lock of her hair. about the last of june coupeau became absolutely morose, and gervaise was so much disturbed by certain glances he gave her that she fairly barricaded her door at night. finally one tuesday evening, when he had sulked from the previous sunday, he came to her door at eleven in the evening. at first she refused to open it, but his voice was so gentle, so sad even, that she pulled away the barrier she had pushed against the door for her better protection. when he came in she was startled and thought him ill; he was so deadly pale and his eyes were so bright. no, he was not ill, he said, but things could not go on like this; he could not sleep. "listen, madame gervaise," he exclaimed with tears in his eyes and a strange choking sensation in his throat. "we must be married at once. that is all there is to be said about it." gervaise was astonished and very grave. "oh, monsieur coupeau, i never dreamed of this, as you know very well, and you must not take such a step lightly." but he continued to insist; he was certainly fully determined. he had come down to her then, without waiting until morning, merely because he needed a good sleep. as soon as she said yes he would leave her. but he would not go until he heard that word. "i cannot say yes in such a hurry," remonstrated gervaise. "i do not choose to run the risk of your telling me at some future day that i led you into this. you are making a great mistake, i assure you. suppose you should not see me for a week--you would forget me entirely. men sometimes marry for a fancy and in twenty-four hours would gladly take it all back. sit down here and let us talk a little." they sat in that dingy room lit only by one candle, which they forgot to snuff, and discussed the expediency of their marriage until after midnight, speaking very low, lest they should disturb the children, who were asleep with weir heads on the same pillow. and gervaise pointed them out to coupeau. that was an odd sort of dowry to carry a man, surely! how could she venture to go to him with such encumbrances? then, too, she was troubled about another thing. people would laugh at him. her story was known; her lover had been seen, and there would be no end of talk if she should marry now. to all these good and excellent reasons coupeau answered with a shrug of his shoulders. what did he care for talk and gossip? he never meddled with the affairs of others; why should they meddle with his? yes, she had children, to be sure, and he would look out for them with her. he had never seen a woman in his life who was so good and so courageous and patient. besides, that had nothing to do with it! had she been ugly and lazy, with a dozen dirty children, he would have wanted her and only her. "yes," he continued, tapping her on the knee, "you are the woman i want, and none other. you have nothing to say against that, i suppose?" gervaise melted by degrees. her resolution forsook her, and a weakness of her heart and her senses overwhelmed her in the face of this brutal passion. she ventured only a timid objection or two. her hands lay loosely folded on her knees, while her face was very gentle and sweet. through the open window came the soft air of a fair june night; the candle flickered in the wind; from the street came the sobs of a child, the child of a drunken man who was lying just in front of the door in the street. from a long distance the breeze brought the notes of a violin playing at a restaurant for some late marriage festival--a delicate strain it was, too, clear and sweet as musical glasses. coupeau, seeing that the young woman had exhausted all her arguments, snatched her hands and drew her toward him. she was in one of those moods which she so much distrusted, when she could refuse no one anything. but the young man did not understand this, and he contented himself with simply holding her hands closely in his. "you say yes, do you not?" he asked. "how you tease," she replied. "you wish it--well then, yes. heaven grant that the day will not come when you will be sorry for it." he started up, lifting her from her feet, and kissed her loudly. he glanced at the children. "hush!" he said. "we must not wake the boys. good night." and he went out of the room. gervaise, trembling from head to foot, sat for a full hour on the side of her bed without undressing. she was profoundly touched and thought coupeau very honest and very kind. the tipsy man in the street uttered a groan like that of a wild beast, and the notes of the violin had ceased. the next evening coupeau urged gervaise to go with him to call on his sister. but the young woman shrank with ardent fear from this visit to the lorilleuxs'. she saw perfectly well that her lover stood in dread of these people. he was in no way dependent on this sister, who was not the eldest either. mother coupeau would gladly give her consent, for she had never been known to contradict her son. in the family, however, the lorilleuxs were supposed to earn ten francs per day, and this gave them great weight. coupeau would never venture to marry unless they agreed to accept his wife. "i have told them about you," he said. "gervaise--good heavens, what a baby you are! come there tonight with me; you will find my sister a little stiff, and lorilleux is none too amiable. the truth is they are much vexed, because, you see, if i marry i shall no longer dine with them--and that is their great economy. but that makes no odds; they won't put you out of doors. do what i ask, for it is absolutely necessary." these words frightened gervaise nearly out of her wits. one saturday evening, however, she consented. coupeau came for her at half-past eight. she was all ready, wearing a black dress, a shawl with printed palm leaves in yellow and a white cap with fluted ruffles. she had saved seven francs for the shawl and two francs fifty centimes for the cap; the dress was an old one, cleaned and made over. "they expect you," said coupeau as they walked along the street, "and they have become accustomed to the idea of seeing me married. they are really quite amiable tonight. then, too, if you have never seen a gold chain made you will be much amused in watching it. they have an order for monday." "and have they gold in these rooms?" asked gervaise. "i should say so! it is on the walls, on the floors--everywhere!" by this time they had reached the door and had entered the courtyard. the lorilleuxs lived on the sixth floor--staircase b. coupeau told her with a laugh to keep tight hold of the iron railing and not let it go. she looked up, half shutting her eyes, and gasped as she saw the height to which the staircase wound. the last gas burner, higher up, looked like a star trembling in a black sky, while two others on alternate floors cast long, slanting rays down the interminable stairs. "aha!" cried the young man as they stopped a moment on the second landing. "i smell onion soup; somebody has evidently been eating onion soup about here, and it smells good too." it is true. staircase b, dirty and greasy, both steps and railing with plastering knocked off and showing the laths beneath, was permeated with the smell of cooking. from each landing ran narrow corridors, and on either side were half-open doors painted yellow and black, with finger marks about the lock and handles, and through the open window came the damp, disgusting smell of sinks and sewers mingling with the odor of onions. up to the sixth floor came the noises from the _rez-de-chaussee_--the rattling of dishes being washed, the scraping of saucepans, and all that sort of thing. on one floor gervaise saw through an open door on which were the words designer and draughtsman in large letters two men seated at a table covered with a varnished cloth; they were disputing violently amid thick clouds of smoke from their pipes. the second and third floors were the quietest. here through the open doors came the sound of a cradle rocking, the wail of a baby, a woman's voice, the rattle of a spoon against a cup. on one door she read a placard, mme gaudron, carder; on the next, m. madinier, manufacturer of boxes. on the fourth there was a great quarrel going on--blows and oaths--which did not prevent the neighbors opposite from playing cards with their door wide open for the benefit of the air. when gervaise reached the fifth floor she was out of breath. such innumerable stairs were a novelty to her. these winding railings made her dizzy. one family had taken possession of the landing; the father was washing plates in a small earthen pan near the sink, while the mother was scrubbing the baby before putting it to sleep. coupeau laughingly bade gervaise keep up her courage, and at last they reached the top, and she looked around to see whence came the clear, shrill voice which she had heard above all other sounds ever since her foot touched the first stair. it was a little old woman who sang as she worked, and her work was dressing dolls at three cents apiece. gervaise clung to the railing, all out of breath, and looked down into the depths below--the gas burner now looked like a star at the bottom of a deep well. the smells, the turbulent life of this great house, seemed to rush over her in one tremendous gust. she gasped and turned pale. "we have not got there yet," said coupeau; "we have much farther to go." and he turned to the left and then to the right again. the corridor stretched out before them, faintly lit by an occasional gas burner; a succession of doors, like those of a prison or a convent, continued to appear, nearly all wide open, showing the sordid interiors. finally they reached a corridor that was entirely dark. "here we are," said the tinworker. "isn't it a journey? look out for three steps. hold onto the wall." and gervaise moved cautiously for ten paces or more. she counted the three steps, and then coupeau pushed open a door without knocking. a bright light streamed forth. they went in. it was a long, narrow apartment, almost like a prolongation of the corridor; a woolen curtain, faded and spotted, drawn on one side, divided the room in two. one compartment, the first, contained a bed pushed under the corner of the mansard roof; a stove, still warm from the cooking of the dinner; two chairs, a table and a wardrobe. to place this last piece of furniture where it stood, between the bed and the door, had necessitated sawing away a portion of the ceiling. the second compartment was the workshop. at the back, a tiny forge with bellows; on the right, a vice screwed against the wall under an _etagere_, where were iron tools piled up; on the left, in front of the window, was a small table covered with pincers, magnifying glasses, tiny scales and shears--all dirty and greasy. "we have come!" cried coupeau, going as far as the woolen curtain. but he was not answered immediately. gervaise, much agitated by the idea that she was entering a place filled with gold, stood behind her friend and did not know whether to speak or retreat. the bright light which came from a lamp and also from a brazier of charcoal in the forge added to her trouble. she saw mme lorilleux, a small, dark woman, agile and strong, drawing with all the vigor of her arms--assisted by a pair of pincers--a thread of black metal, which she passed through the holes of a drawplate held by the vice. before the desk or table in front of the window sat lorilleux, as short as his wife, but with broader shoulders. he was managing a tiny pair of pincers and doing some work so delicate that it was almost imperceptible. it was he who first looked up and lifted his head with its scanty yellow hair. his face was the color of old wax, was long and had an expression of physical suffering. "ah, it is you, is it? well! well! but we are in a hurry, you understand. we have an order to fill. don't come into the workroom. remain in the chamber." and he returned to his work; his face was reflected in a ball filled with water, through which the lamp sent on his work a circle of the brightest possible light. "find chairs for yourselves," cried mme lorilleux. "this is the lady, i suppose. very well! very well!" she rolled up her wire and carried it to the forge, and then she fanned the coals a little to quicken the heat. coupeau found two chairs and made gervaise seat herself near the curtain. the room was so narrow that he could not sit beside her, so he placed his chair a little behind and leaned over her to give her the information he deemed desirable. gervaise, astonished by the strange reception given her by these people and uncomfortable under their sidelong glances, had a buzzing in her ears which prevented her from hearing what was said. she thought the woman very old looking for her thirty years and also extremely untidy, with her hair tumbling over her shoulders and her dirty camisole. the husband, not more than a year older, seemed to gervaise really an old man with thin, compressed lips and bowed figure. he was in his shirt sleeves, and his naked feet were thrust into slippers down at the heel. she was infinitely astonished at the smallness of the atelier, at the blackened walls and at the terrible heat. tiny drops bedewed the waxed forehead of lorilleux himself, while mme lorilleux threw off her sack and stood in bare arms and chemise half slipped off. "and the gold?" asked gervaise softly. her eager eyes searched the corners, hoping to discover amid all the dirt something of the splendor of which she had dreamed. but coupeau laughed. "gold?" he said. "look! here it is--and here--and here again, at your feet." he pointed in succession to the fine thread with which his sister was busy and at another package of wire hung against the wall near the vice; then falling down on his hands and knees, he gathered up from the floor, on the tip of his moistened finger, several tiny specks which looked like needle points. gervaise cried out, "that surely is not gold! that black metal which looks precisely like iron!" her lover laughed and explained to her the details of the manufacture in which his brother-in-law was engaged. the wire was furnished them in coils, just as it hung against the wall, and then they were obliged to heat and reheat it half a dozen times during their manipulations, lest it should break. considerable strength and a vast deal of skill were needed, and his sister had both. he had seen her draw out the gold until it was like a hair. she would never let her husband do it because he always had a cough. all this time lorilleux was watching gervaise stealthily, and after a violent fit of coughing he said with an air as if he were speaking to himself: "i make columns." "yes," said coupeau in an explanatory voice, "there are four different kinds of chains, and his style is called a column." lorilleux uttered a little grunt of satisfaction, all the time at work, with the tiny pincers held between very dirty nails. "look here, cadet-cassis," he said. "this very morning i made a little calculation. i began my work when i was only twelve years old. how many yards do you think i have made up to this day?" he lifted his pale face. "eight thousand! do you understand? eight thousand! enough to twist around the necks of all the women in this _quartier_." gervaise returned to her chair, entirely disenchanted. she thought it was all very ugly and uninteresting. she smiled in order to gratify the lorilleuxs, but she was annoyed and troubled at the profound silence they preserved in regard to her marriage, on account of which she had called there that evening. these people treated her as if she were simply a spectator whose curiosity had induced coupeau to bring her to see their work. they began to talk; it was about the lodgers in the house. mme lorilleux asked her brother if he had not heard those benard people quarreling as he came upstairs. she said the husband always came home tipsy. then she spoke of the designer, who was overwhelmed with debts, always smoking and always quarreling. the landlord was going to turn out the coquets, who owed three quarters now and who would put their furnace out on the landing, which was very dangerous. mlle remanjon, as she was going downstairs with a bundle of dolls, was just in time to rescue one of the children from being burned alive. gervaise was beginning to find the place unendurable. the heat was suffocating; the door could not be opened, because the slightest draft gave lorilleux a cold. as they ignored the marriage question utterly, she pulled her lover's sleeve to signify her wish to depart. he understood and was himself annoyed at this affectation of silence. "we are going," he said coldly, "we do not care to interrupt your work any longer." he lingered a moment, hoping for a word or an allusion. suddenly he decided to begin the subject himself. "we rely on you, lorilleux. you will be my wife's witness," he said. the man lifted his head in affected surprise, while his wife stood still in the center of the workshop. "are you in earnest?" he murmured, and then continued as if soliloquizing, "it is hard to know when this confounded cadet-cassis is in earnest." "we have no advice to give," interrupted his wife. "it is a foolish notion, this marrying, and it never succeeds. never--no--never." she drawled out these last words, examining gervaise from head to foot as she spoke. "my brother is free to do as he pleases, of course," she continued. "of course his family would have liked--but then people always plan, and things turn out so different. of course it is none of my business. had he brought me the lowest of the low, i should have said, 'marry her and let us live in peace!' he was very comfortable with us, nevertheless. he has considerable flesh on his bones and does not look as if he had been starved. his soup was always ready to the minute. tell me, lorilleux, don't you think that my brother's friend looks like therese--you know whom i mean--that woman opposite, who died of consumption?" "she certainly does," answered the chainmaker contemplatively. "and you have two children, madame? i said to my brother i could not understand how he could marry a woman with two children. you must not be angry if i think of his interests; it is only natural. you do not look very strong. say, lorilleux, don't you think that madame looks delicate?" this courteous pair made no allusion to her lameness, but gervaise felt it to be in their minds. she sat stiff and still before them, her thin shawl with its yellow palm leaves wrapped closely about her, and answered in monosyllables, as if before her judges. coupeau, realizing her sufferings, cried out: "this is all nonsense you are talking! what i want to know is if the day will suit you, july twenty-ninth." "one day is the same as another to us," answered his sister severely. "lorilleux can do as he pleases in regard to being your witness. i only ask for peace." gervaise, in her embarrassment, had been pushing about with her feet some of the rubbish on the floor; then fearing she had done some harm, she stooped to ascertain. lorilleux hastily approached her with a lamp and looked at her fingers with evident suspicion. "take care," he said. "those small bits of gold stick to the shoes sometimes and are carried off without your knowing it." this was a matter of some importance, of course, for his employers weighed what they entrusted to him. he showed the hare's-foot with which he brushed the particles of gold from the table and the skin spread on his knees to receive them. twice each week the shop was carefully brushed; all the rubbish was kept and burned, and the ashes were examined, where were found each month twenty-five or thirty francs of gold. mme lorilleux did not take her eyes from the shoes of her guest. "if mademoiselle would be so kind," she murmured with an amiable smile, "and would just look at her soles herself. there is no cause for offense, i am sure!" gervaise, indignant and scarlet, reseated herself and held up her shoes for examination. coupeau opened the door with a gay good night, and she followed him into the corridor after a word or two of polite farewell. the lorilleuxs turned to their work at the end of their room where the tiny forge still glittered. the woman with her chemise slipped off her shoulder which was red with the reflection from the brazier, was drawing out another wire, the muscles in her throat swelling with her exertions. the husband, stooping under the green light of the ball of water, was again busy with his pincers, not stopping even to wipe the sweat from his brow. when gervaise emerged from the narrow corridors on the sixth landing she said with tears in her eyes: "this certainly does not promise very well!" coupeau shook his head angrily. lorilleux should pay for this evening! was there ever such a miser? to care if one carried off three grains of gold in the dust on one's shoes. all the stories his sister told were pure fictions and malice. his sister never meant him to marry; his eating with them saved her at least four sous daily. but he did not care whether they appeared on the twenty-ninth of july or not; he could get along without them perfectly well. but gervaise, as she descended the staircase, felt her heart swell with pain and fear. she did not like the strange shadows on the dimly lit stairs. from behind the doors, now closed, came the heavy breathing of sleepers who had gone to their beds on rising from the table. a faint laugh was heard from one room, while a slender thread of light filtered through the keyhole of the old lady who was still busy with her dolls, cutting out the gauze dresses with squeaking scissors. a child was crying on the next floor, and the smell from the sinks was worse than ever and seemed something tangible amid this silent darkness. then in the courtyard, while coupeau pulled the cord, gervaise turned and examined the house once more. it seemed enormous as it stood black against the moonless sky. the gray facades rose tall and spectral; the windows were all shut. no clothes fluttered in the breeze; there was literally not the smallest look of life, except in the few windows that were still lighted. from the damp corner of the courtyard came the drip-drip of the fountain. suddenly it seemed to gervaise as if the house were striding toward her and would crush her to the earth. a moment later she smiled at her foolish fancy. "take care!" cried coupeau. and as she passed out of the courtyard she was compelled to jump over a little sea which had run from the dyer's. this time the water was blue, as blue as the summer sky, and the reflection of the lamps carried by the concierge was like the stars themselves. chapter iii a marriage of the people gervaise did not care for any great wedding. why should they spend their money so foolishly? then, too, she felt a little ashamed and did not care to parade their marriage before the whole _quartier_. but coupeau objected. it would never do not to have some festivities--a little drive and a supper, perhaps, at a restaurant; he would ask for nothing more. he vowed that no one should drink too much and finally obtained the young woman's consent and organized a picnic at five francs per head at the moulin d'argent, boulevard de la chapelle. he was a small wine merchant who had a garden back of his restaurant. he made out a list. among others appeared the names of two of his comrades, bibi-la-grillade and mes-bottes. it was true that mes-bottes crooked his elbow, but he was so deliciously funny that he was always invited to picnics. gervaise said she, in her turn, would bring her employer, mme fauconnier--all told, there would be fifteen at the table. that was quite enough. now as coupeau was literally penniless, he borrowed fifty francs from his employer. he first bought his wedding ring; it cost twelve francs out of the shop, but his brother-in-law purchased it for him for nine at the factory. he then ordered an overcoat, pantaloons and vest from a tailor to whom he paid twenty-five francs on account. his patent-leather shoes and his bolivar could last awhile longer. then he put aside his ten francs for the picnic, which was what he and gervaise must pay, and they had precisely six francs remaining, the price of a mass at the altar of the poor. he had no liking for those black frocks, and it broke his heart to give these beloved francs to them. but a marriage without a mass, he had heard, was really no marriage at all. he went to the church to see if he could not drive a better bargain, and for an hour he fought with a stout little priest in a dirty soutane who, finally declaring that god could never bless such a union, agreed that the mass should cost only five francs. thus coupeau had twenty sous in hand with which to begin the world! gervaise, in her turn, had made her preparations, had worked late into the night and laid aside thirty francs. she had set her heart on a silk mantelet marked thirteen francs, which she had seen in a shopwindow. she paid for it and bought for ten francs from the husband of a laundress who had died in mme fauconnier's house a delaine dress of a deep blue, which she made over entirely. with the seven francs that remained she bought a rose for her cap, a pair of white cotton gloves and shoes for claude. fortunately both the boys had nice blouses. she worked for four days mending and making; there was not a hole or a rip in anything. at last the evening before the important day arrived; gervaise and coupeau sat together and talked, happy that matters were so nearly concluded. their arrangements were all made. they were to go to the mayor's office--the two sisters of coupeau declared they would remain at home, their presence not being necessary there. then mother coupeau began to weep, saying she wished to go early and hide in a corner, and they promised to take her. the hour fixed for the party to assemble at the moulin d'argent was one o'clock sharp. from then they were to seek an appetite on the plaine-st-denis and return by rail. saturday morning, as he dressed, coupeau thought with some anxiety of his scanty funds; he supposed he ought to offer a glass of wine and a slice of ham to his witnesses while waiting for dinner; unexpected expenses might arise; no, it was clear that twenty sous was not enough. he consequently, after taking claude and etienne to mlle boche, who promised to appear with them at dinner, ran to his brother-in-law and borrowed ten francs; he did it with reluctance, and the words stuck in his throat, for he half expected a refusal. lorilleux grumbled and growled but finally lent the money. but coupeau heard his sister mutter under her breath, "that is a good beginning." the civil marriage was fixed for half-past ten. the day was clear and the sun intensely hot. in order not to excite observation the bridal pair, the mother and the four witnesses, separated--gervaise walked in front, having the arm of lorilleux, while m. madinier gave his to mamma coupeau; on the opposite sidewalk were coupeau, boche and bibi-la-grillade. these three wore black frock coats and walked with their arms dangling from their rounded shoulders. boche wore yellow pantaloons. bibi-la-grillade's coat was buttoned to the chin, as he had no vest, and a wisp of a cravat was tied around his neck. m. madinier was the only one who wore a dress coat, a superb coat with square tails, and people stared as he passed with the stout mamma coupeau in a green shawl and black bonnet with black ribbons. gervaise was very sweet and gentle, wearing her blue dress and her trim little silk mantle. she listened graciously to lorilleux, who, in spite of the warmth of the day, was nearly lost in the ample folds of a loose overcoat. occasionally she would turn her head and glance across the street with a little smile at coupeau, who was none too comfortable in his new clothes. they reached the mayor's office a half-hour too early, and their turn was not reached until nearly eleven. they sat in the corner of the office, stiff and uneasy, pushing back their chairs a little out of politeness each time one of the clerks passed them, and when the magistrate appeared they all rose respectfully. they were bidden to sit down again, which they did, and were the spectators of three marriages--the brides in white and the bridesmaids in pink and blue, quite fine and stylish. when their own turn came bibi-la-grillade had disappeared, and boche hunted him up in the square, where he had gone to smoke a pipe. all the forms were so quickly completed that the party looked at each other in dismay, feeling as if they had been defrauded of half the ceremony. gervaise listened with tears in her eyes, and the old lady wept audibly. then they turned to the register and wrote their names in big, crooked letters--all but the newly made husband, who, not being able to write, contented himself with making a cross. then the clerk handed the certificate to coupeau. he, admonished by a touch of his wife's elbow, presented him with five sous. it was quite a long walk from the mayor's office to the church. the men stopped midway to take a glass of beer, and gervaise and mamma coupeau drank some cassis with water. there was not a particle of shade, for the sun was directly above their heads. the beadle awaited them in the empty church; he hurried them toward a small chapel, asking them indignantly if they were not ashamed to mock at religion by coming so late. a priest came toward them with an ashen face, faint with hunger, preceded by a boy in a dirty surplice. he hurried through the service, gabbling the latin phrases with sidelong glances at the bridal party. the bride and bridegroom knelt before the altar in considerable embarrassment, not knowing when it was necessary to kneel and when to stand and not always understanding the gestures made by the clerk. the witnesses thought it more convenient to stand all the time, while mamma coupeau, overcome by her tears again, shed them on a prayer book which she had borrowed from a neighbor. it was high noon. the last mass was said, and the church was noisy with the movements of the sacristans, who were putting the chairs in their places. the center altar was being prepared for some fete, for the hammers were heard as the decorations were being nailed up. and in the choking dust raised by the broom of the man who was sweeping the corner of the small altar the priest laid his cold and withered hand on the heads of gervaise and coupeau with a sulky air, as if he were uniting them as a mere matter of business or to occupy the time between the two masses. when the signatures were again affixed to the register in the vestry and the party stood outside in the sunshine, they had a sensation as if they had been driven at full speed and were glad to rest. "i feel as if i had been at the dentist's. we had no time to cry out before it was all over!" "yes," muttered lorilleux, "they take less than five minutes to do what can't be undone in all one's life! poor cadet-cassis!" gervaise kissed her new mother with tears in her eyes but with smiling lips. she answered the old woman gently: "do not be afraid. i will do my best to make him happy. if things turn out ill it shall not be my fault." the party went at once to the moulin d'argent. coupeau now walked with his wife some little distance in advance of the others. they whispered and laughed together and seemed to see neither the people nor the houses nor anything that was going on about them. at the restaurant coupeau ordered at once some bread and ham; then seeing that boche and bibi-la-grillade were really hungry, he ordered more wine and more meat. his mother could eat nothing, and gervaise, who was dying of thirst, drank glass after glass of water barely reddened with wine. "this is my affair," said coupeau, going to the counter where he paid four francs, five sous. the guests began to arrive. mme fauconnier, stout and handsome, was the first. she wore a percale gown, ecru ground with bright figures, a rose-colored cravat and a bonnet laden with flowers. then came mlle remanjon in her scanty black dress, which seemed so entirely a part of herself that it was doubtful if she laid it aside at night. the gaudron household followed. the husband, enormously stout, looked as if his vest would burst at the least movement, and his wife, who was nearly as huge as himself, was dressed in a delicate shade of violet which added to her apparent size. "ah," cried mme lerat as she entered, "we are going to have a tremendous shower!" and she bade them all look out the window to see how black the clouds were. mme lerat, coupeau's eldest sister, was a tall, thin woman, very masculine in appearance and talking through her nose, wearing a puce-colored dress that was much too loose for her. it was profusely trimmed with fringe, which made her look like a lean dog just coming out of the water. she brandished an umbrella as she talked, as if it had been a walking stick. as she kissed gervaise she said: "you have no idea how the wind blows, and it is as hot as a blast from a furnace!" everybody at once declared they had felt the storm coming all the morning. three days of extreme heat, someone said, always ended in a gust. "it will blow over," said coupeau with an air of confidence, "but i wish my sister would come, all the same." mme lorilleux, in fact, was very late. mme lerat had called for her, but she had not then begun to dress. "and," said the widow in her brother's ear, "you never saw anything like the temper she was in!" they waited another half-hour. the sky was growing blacker and blacker. clouds of dust were rising along the street, and down came the rain. and it was in the first shower that mme lorilleux arrived, out of temper and out of breath, struggling with her umbrella, which she could not close. "i had ten minds," she exclaimed, "to turn back. i wanted you to wait until next saturday. i knew it would rain today--i was certain of it!" coupeau tried to calm her, but she quickly snubbed him. was it he, she would like to know, who was to pay for her dress if it were spoiled? she wore black silk, so tight that the buttonholes were burst out, and it showed white on the shoulders,--while the skirt was so scant that she could not take a long step. the other women, however, looked at her silk with envy. she took no notice of gervaise, who sat by the side of her mother-in-law. she called to lorilleux and with his aid carefully wiped every drop of rain from her dress with her handkerchief. meanwhile the shower ceased abruptly, but the storm was evidently not over, for sharp flashes of lightning darted through the black clouds. suddenly the rain poured down again. the men stood in front of the door with their hands in their pockets, dismally contemplating the scene. the women crouched together with their hands over their eyes. they were in such terror they could not talk; when the thunder was heard farther off they all plucked up their spirits and became impatient, but a fine rain was falling that looked interminable. "what are we to do?" cried mme lorilleux crossly. then mlle remanjon timidly observed that the sun perhaps would soon be out, and they might yet go into the country; upon this there was one general shout of derision. "nice walking it would be! and how pleasant the grass would be to sit upon!" something must be done, however, to get rid of the time until dinner. bibi-la-grillade proposed cards; mme lerat suggested storytelling. to each proposition a thousand objections were offered. finally when lorilleux proposed that the party should visit the tomb of abelard and heloise his wife's indignation burst forth. she had dressed in her best only to be drenched in the rain and to spend the day in a wineshop, it seemed! she had had enough of the whole thing and she would go home. coupeau and lorilleux held the door, she exclaiming violently: "let me go; i tell you i will go!" her husband having induced her to listen to reason, coupeau went to gervaise, who was calmly conversing with her mother-in-law and mme fauconnier. "have you nothing to propose?" he asked, not venturing to add any term of endearment. "no," she said with a smile, "but i am ready to do anything you wish. i am very well suited as i am." her face was indeed as sunny as a morning in may. she spoke to everyone kindly and sympathetically. during the storm she had sat with her eyes riveted on the clouds, as if by the light of those lurid flashes she was reading the solemn book of the future. m. madinier had proposed nothing; he stood leaning against the counter with a pompous air; he spat upon the ground, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and rolled his eyes about. "we could go to the musee du louvre, i suppose," and he smoothed his chin while awaiting the effect of this proposition. "there are antiquities there--statues, pictures, lots of things. it is very instructive. have any of you been there?" he asked. they all looked at each other. gervaise had never even heard of the place, nor had mme fauconnier nor boche. coupeau thought he had been there one sunday, but he was not sure, but mme lorilleux, on whom madinier's air of importance had produced a profound impression, approved of the idea. the day was wasted anyway; therefore, if a little instruction could be got it would be well to try it. as the rain was still falling, they borrowed old umbrellas of every imaginable hue from the establishment and started forth for the musee du louvre. there were twelve of them, and they walked in couples, mme lorilleux with madinier, to whom she grumbled all the way. "we know nothing about her," she said, "not even where he picked her up. my husband has already lent them ten francs, and whoever heard of a bride without a single relation? she said she had a sister in paris. where is she today, i should like to know!" she checked herself and pointed to gervaise, whose lameness was very perceptible as she descended the hill. "just look at her!" she muttered. "wooden legs!" this epithet was heard by mme fauconnier, who took up the cudgels for gervaise who, she said, was as neat as a pin and worked like a tiger. the wedding party, coming out of la rue st-denis, crossed the boulevard under their umbrellas amid the pouring rain, driving here and there among the carriages. the drivers, as they pulled up their horses, shouted to them to look out, with an oath. on the gray and muddy sidewalk the procession was very conspicuous--the blue dress of the bride, the canary-colored breeches of one of the men, madinier's square-tailed coat--all gave a carnivallike air to the group. but it was the hats of the party that were the most amusing, for they were of all heights, sizes and styles. the shopkeepers on the boulevard crowded to their windows to enjoy the drollery of the sight. the wedding procession, quite undisturbed by the observation it excited, went gaily on. they stopped for a moment on the place des victoire--the bride's shoestring was untied--she fastened it at the foot of the statue of louis xiv, her friends waiting as she did so. finally they reached the louvre. here madinier politely asked permission to take the head of the party; the place was so large, he said, that it was a very easy thing to lose oneself; he knew the prettiest rooms and the things best worth seeing, because he had often been there with an artist, a very intelligent fellow, from whom a great manufacturer of pasteboard boxes bought pictures. the party entered the museum of assyrian antiquities. they shivered and walked about, examining the colossal statues, the gods in black marble, strange beasts and monstrosities, half cats and half women. this was not amusing, and an inscription in phoenician characters appalled them. who on earth had ever read such stuff as that? it was meaningless nonsense! but madinier shouted to them from the stairs, "come on! that is nothing! much more interesting things up here, i assure you!" the severe nudity of the great staircase cast a gloom over their spirits; an usher in livery added to their awe, and it was with great respect and on the tips of their toes they entered the french gallery. how many statues! how many pictures! they wished they had all the money they had cost. in the gallerie d'apollon the floor excited their admiration; it was smooth as glass; even the feet of the sofas were reflected in it. madinier bade them look at the ceiling and at its many beauties of decoration, but they said they dared not look up. then before entering the salon carre he pointed to the window and said: "that is the balcony where charles ix fired on the people!" with a magnificent gesture he ordered his party to stand still in the center of the salon carre. "there are only chefs-d'oeuvres here," he whispered as solemnly as if he had been in a church. they walked around the salon. gervaise asked the meaning of one of the pictures, the _noces de cana_; coupeau stopped before _la joconde_, declaring that it was like one of his aunts. boche and bibi-la-grillade snickered and pushed each other at the sight of the nude female figures, and the gaudrons, husband and wife, stood open-mouthed and deeply touched before murillo's virgin. when they had been once around the room madinier, who was quite attentive to mme lorilleux on account of her silk gown, proposed they should do it over again; it was well worth it, he said. he never hesitated in replying to any question which she addressed to him in her thirst for information, and when she stopped before titian's mistress, whose yellow hair struck her as like her own, he told her it was a mistress of henri iv, who was the heroine of a play then running at the ambigu. the wedding party finally entered the long gallery devoted to the italian and flemish schools of art. the pictures were all meaningless to them, and their heads were beginning to ache. they felt a thrill of interest, however, in the copyists with their easels, who painted without being disturbed by spectators. the artists scattered through the rooms had heard that a primitive wedding party was making a tour of the louvre and hurried with laughing faces to enjoy the scene, while the weary bride and bridegroom, accompanied by their friends, clumsily moved about over the shining, resounding floors much like cattle let loose and with quite as keen an appreciation of the marvelous beauties about them. the women vowed their backs were broken standing so long, and madinier, declaring he knew the way, said they would leave after he had shown them a certain room to which he could go with his eyes shut. but he was very much mistaken. salon succeeded to salon, and finally the party went up a flight of stairs and found themselves among cannons and other instruments of war. madinier, unwilling to confess that he had lost himself, wandered distractedly about, declaring that the doors had been changed. the party began to feel that they were there for life, when suddenly to their great joy they heard the cry of the janitors resounding from room to room. "time to close the doors!" they meekly followed one of them, and when they were outside they uttered a sigh of relief as they put up their umbrellas once more, but one and all affected great pleasure at having been to the louvre. the clock struck four. there were two hours to dispose of before dinner. the women would have liked to rest, but the men were more energetic and proposed another walk, during which so tremendous a shower fell that umbrellas were useless and dresses were irretrievably ruined. then m. madinier suggested that they should ascend the column on the place vendome. "it is not a bad idea," cried the men. and the procession began the ascent of the spiral staircase, which boche said was so old that he could feel it shake. this terrified the ladies, who uttered little shrieks, but coupeau said nothing; his arm was around his wife's waist, and just as they emerged upon the platform he kissed her. "upon my word!" cried mme lorilleux, much scandalized. madinier again constituted himself master of ceremonies and pointed out all the monuments, but mme fauconnier would not put her foot outside the little door; she would not look down on that pavement for all the world, she said, and the party soon tired of this amusement and descended the stairs. at the foot madinier wished to pay, but coupeau interfered and put into the hand of the guard twenty-four sous--two for each person. it was now half-past five; they had just time to get to the restaurant, but coupeau proposed a glass of vermouth first, and they entered a cabaret for that purpose. when they returned to the moulin d'argent they found mme boche with the two children, talking to mamma coupeau near the table, already spread and waiting. when gervaise saw claude and etienne she took them both on her knees and kissed them lovingly. "have they been good?" she asked. "i should think coupeau would feel rather queer!" said mme lorilleux as she looked on grimly. gervaise had been calm and smiling all day, but she had quietly watched her husband with the lorilleuxs. she thought coupeau was afraid of his sister--cowardly, in fact. the evening previous he had said he did not care a sou for their opinion on any subject and that they had the tongues of vipers, but now he was with them, he was like a whipped hound, hung on their words and anticipated their wishes. this troubled his wife, for it augured ill, she thought, for their future happiness. "we won't wait any longer for mes-bottes," cried coupeau. "we are all here but him, and his scent is good! surely he can't be waiting for us still at st-denis!" the guests, in good spirits once more, took their seats with a great clatter of chairs. gervaise was between lorilleux and madinier, and coupeau between mme fauconnier and his sister mme lorilleux. the others seated themselves. "no one has asked a blessing," said boche as the ladies pulled the tablecloth well over their skirts to protect them from spots. but mme lorilleux frowned at this poor jest. the vermicelli soup, which was cold and greasy, was eaten with noisy haste. two _garcons_ served them, wearing aprons of a very doubtful white and greasy vests. through the four windows, open on the courtyard and its acacias, streamed the light, soft and warm, after the storm. the trees, bathed in the setting sun, imparted a cool, green tinge to the dingy room, and the shadows of the waving branches and quivering leaves danced over the cloth. there were two fly-specked mirrors at either end of the room, which indefinitely lengthened the table spread with thick china. every time the _garcons_ opened the door into the kitchen there came a strong smell of burning fat. "don't let us all talk at once!" said boche as a dead silence fell on the room, broken by the abrupt entrance of mes-bottes. "you are nice people!" he exclaimed. "i have been waiting for you until i am wet through and have a fishpond in each pocket." this struck the circle as the height of wit, and they all laughed while he ordered the _garcon_ to and fro. he devoured three plates of soup and enormous slices of bread. the head of the establishment came and looked in in considerable anxiety; a laugh ran around the room. mes-bottes recalled to their memories a day when he had eaten twelve hard-boiled eggs and drunk twelve glasses of wine while the clock was striking twelve. there was a brief silence. a waiter placed on the table a rabbit stew in a deep dish. coupeau turned round. "say, boy, is that a gutter rabbit? it mews still." and the low mewing of a cat seemed, indeed, to come from the dish. this delicate joke was perpetrated by coupeau in the throat, without the smallest movement of his lips. this feat always met with such success that he never ordered a meal anywhere without a rabbit stew. the ladies wiped their eyes with their napkins because they laughed so much. mme fauconnier begged for the head--she adored the head--and boche asked especially for onions. mme lerat compressed her lips and said morosely: "of course. i might have known that!" mme lerat was a hard-working woman. no man had ever put his nose within her door since her widowhood, and yet her instincts were thoroughly bad; every word uttered by others bore to her ears a double meaning, a coarse allusion sometimes so deeply veiled that no one but herself could grasp its meaning. boche leaned over her with a sensual smile and entreated an explanation. she shook her head. "of course," she repeated. "onions! i knew it!" everybody was talking now, each of his own trade. madinier declared that boxmaking was an art, and he cited the new year bonbon boxes as wonders of luxury. lorilleux talked of his chains, of their delicacy and beauty. he said that in former times jewelers wore swords at their sides. coupeau described a weathercock made by one of his comrades out of tin. mme lerat showed bibi-la-grillade how a rose stem was made by rolling the handle of her knife between her bony fingers, and mme fauconnier complained loudly of one of her apprentices who the night before had badly scorched a pair of linen sheets. "it is no use to talk!" cried lorilleux, striking his fist on the table. "gold is gold!" a profound silence followed the utterance of this truism, amid which arose from the other end of the table the piping tones of mlle remanjon's voice as she said: "and then i sew on the skirt. i stick a pin in the head to hold on the cap, and it is done. they sell for three cents." she was describing her dolls to mes-bottes, whose jaws worked steadily, like machinery. he did not listen, but he nodded at intervals, with his eyes fixed on the _garcons_ to see that they carried away no dishes that were not emptied. there had been veal cutlets and string beans served. as a _roti,_ two lean chickens on a bed of water cresses were brought in. the room was growing very warm; the sun was lingering on the tops of the acacias, but the room was growing dark. the men threw off their coats and ate in their shirt sleeves. "mme boche," cried gervaise, "please don't let those children eat so much." but mme coupeau interposed and declared that for once in a while a little fit of indigestion would do them no harm. mme boche accused her husband of holding mme lerat's hand under the table. madinier talked politics. he was a republican, and bibi-la-grillade and himself were soon in a hot discussion. "who cares," cried coupeau, "whether we have a king, an emperor or a president, so long as we earn our five francs per day!" lorilleux shook his head. he was born on the same day as the comte de chambord, september , , and this coincidence dwelt in his mind. he seemed to feel that there was a certain connection between the return of the king to france and his own personal fortunes. he did not say distinctly what he expected, but it was clear that it was something very agreeable. the dessert was now on the table--a floating island flanked by two plates of cheese and two of fruit. the floating island was a great success. mes-bottes ate all the cheese and called for more bread. and then as some of the custard was left in the dish, he pulled it toward him and ate it as if it had been soup. "how extraordinary!" said madinier, filled with admiration. the men rose to light their pipes and, as they passed mes-bottes, asked him how he felt. bibi-la-grillade lifted him from the floor, chair and all. "zounds!" he cried. "the fellow's weight has doubled!" coupeau declared his friend had only just begun his night's work, that he would eat bread until dawn. the waiters, pale with fright, disappeared. boche went downstairs on a tour of inspection and stated that the establishment was in a state of confusion, that the proprietor, in consternation, had sent out to all the bakers in the neighborhood, that the house, in fact, had an utterly ruined aspect. "i should not like to take you to board," said mme gaudron. "let us have a punch," cried mes-bottes. but coupeau, seeing his wife's troubled face, interfered and said no one should drink anything more. they had all had enough. this declaration met with the approval of some of the party, but the others sided with mes-bottes. "those who are thirsty are thirsty," he said. "no one need drink that does not wish to do so, i am sure." and he added with a wink, "there will be all the more for those who do!" then coupeau said they would settle the account, and his friend could do as he pleased afterward. alas! mes-bottes could produce only three francs; he had changed his five-franc piece, and the remainder had melted away somehow on the road from st-denis. he handed over the three francs, and coupeau, greatly indignant, borrowed the other two from his brother-in-law, who gave the money secretly, being afraid of his wife. m. madinier had taken a plate. the ladies each laid down their five francs quietly and timidly, and then the men retreated to the other end of the room and counted up the amount, and each man added to his subscription five sous for the _garcon_. but when m. madinier sent for the proprietor the little assembly were shocked at hearing him say that this was not all; there were "extras." as this was received with exclamations of rage, he went into explanations. he had furnished twenty-five liters of wine instead of twenty, as he agreed. the floating island was an addition, on seeing that the dessert was somewhat scanty, whereupon ensued a formidable quarrel. coupeau declared he would not pay a sou of the extras. "there is your money," he said; "take it, and never again will one of us step a foot under your roof!" "i want six francs more," muttered the man. the women gathered about in great indignation; not a centime would they give, they declared. mme fauconnier had had a wretched dinner; she said she could have had a better one at home for forty sous. such arrangements always turned out badly, and mme gaudron declared aloud that if people wanted their friends at their weddings they usually invited them out and out. gervaise took refuge with her mother-in-law in a distant window, feeling heartily ashamed of the whole scene. m. madinier went downstairs with the man, and low mutterings of the storm reached the party. at the end of a half-hour he reappeared, having yielded to the extent of paying three francs, but no one was satisfied, and they all began a discussion in regard to the extras. the evening was spoiled, as was mme lerat's dress; there was no end to the chapter of accidents. "i know," cried mme lorilleux, "that the _garcon_ spilled gravy from the chickens down my back." she twisted and turned herself before the mirror until she succeeded in finding the spot. "yes, i knew it," she cried, "and he shall pay for it, as true as i live. i wish i had remained at home!" she left in a rage, and lorilleux at her heels. when coupeau saw her go he was in actual consternation, and gervaise saw that it was best to make a move at once. mme boche had agreed to keep the children with her for a day or two. coupeau and his wife hurried out in the hope of overtaking mme lorilleux which they soon did. lorilleux, with the kindly desire of making all smooth said: "we will go to your door with you." "your door, indeed!" cried his wife, and then pleasantly went on to express her surprise that they did not postpone their marriage until they had saved enough to buy a little furniture and move away from that hole up under the roof. "but i have given up that room," said her brother. "we shall have the one gervaise occupies; it is larger." mme lorilleux forgot herself; she wheeled around suddenly. "what!" she exclaimed. "you are going to live in wooden legs' room?" gervaise turned pale. this name she now heard for the first time, and it was like a slap in the face. she heard much more in her sister-in-law's exclamation than met the ear. that room to which allusion was made was the one where she had lived with lantier for a whole month, where she had wept such bitter tears, but coupeau did not understand that; he was only wounded by the name applied to his wife. "it is hardly wise of you," he said sullenly, "to nickname people after that fashion, as perhaps you are not aware of what you are called in your _quartier_. cow's-tail is not a very nice name, but they have given it to you on account of your hair. why should we not keep that room? it is a very good one." mme lorilleux would not answer. her dignity was sadly disturbed at being called cow's-tail. they walked on in silence until they reached the hotel boncoeur, and just as coupeau gave the two women a push toward each other and bade them kiss and be friends, a man who wished to pass them on the right gave a violent lurch to the left and came between them. "look out!" cried lorilleux. "it is father bazonge. he is pretty full tonight." gervaise, in great terror, flew toward the door. father bazonge was a man of fifty; his clothes were covered with mud where he had fallen in the street. "you need not be afraid," continued lorilleux; "he will do you no harm. he is a neighbor of ours--the third room on the left in our corridor." but father bazonge was talking to gervaise. "i am not going to eat you, little one," he said. "i have drunk too much, i know very well, but when the work is done the machinery should be greased a little now and then." gervaise retreated farther into the doorway and with difficulty kept back a sob. she nervously entreated coupeau to take the man away. bazonge staggered off, muttering as he did so: "you won't mind it so much one of these days, my dear. i know something about women. they make a great fuss, but they get used to it all the same." chapter iv a happy home four years of hard and incessant toil followed this day. gervaise and coupeau were wise and prudent. they worked hard and took a little relaxation on sundays. the wife worked twelve hours of the twenty-four with mme fauconnier and yet found time to keep her own home like waxwork. the husband was never known to be tipsy but brought home his wages and smoked his pipe at his own window at night before going to bed. they were the bright and shining lights, the good example of the whole _quartier_, and as they made jointly about nine francs per day, it was easy to see they were putting by money. but in the first few months of their married life they were obliged to trim their sails closely and had some trouble to make both ends meet. they took a great dislike to the hotel boncoeur. they longed for a home of their own with their own furniture. they estimated the cost over and over again and decided that for three hundred and fifty francs they could venture, but they had little hope of saving such a sum in less than two years, when a stroke of good luck befell them. an old gentleman in plassans sent for claude to place him at school. he was a very eccentric old gentleman, fond of pictures and art. claude was a great expense to his mother, and when etienne alone was at home they saved the three hundred and fifty francs in seven months. the day they purchased their furniture they took a long and happy walk together, for it was an important step they had taken--important not only in their own eyes but in those of the people around them. for two months they had been looking for an apartment. they wished, of all things, to take one in the old house where mme lorilleux lived, but there was not one single room to be rented, and they were compelled to relinquish the idea. gervaise was reconciled to this more easily, since she did not care to be thrown in any closer contact with the lorilleuxs. they looked further. it was essential that gervaise should be near her friend and employer mme fauconnier, and they finally succeeded in their search and were indeed in wonderful luck, for they obtained a large room with a kitchen and tiny bedroom just opposite the establishment of the laundress. it was a small house, two stories, with one steep staircase, and was divided into two lodgings--the one on the right, the other on the left, while the lower floor was occupied by a carriage maker. gervaise was delighted. it seemed to her that she was once more in the country--no neighbors, no gossip, no interference--and from the place where she stood and ironed all day at mme fauconnier's she could see the windows of her own room. they moved in the month of april. gervaise was then near her confinement, but it was she who cleaned and put in order her new home. every penny as of consequence, she said with pride, now that they would soon have another other mouth to feed. she rubbed her furniture, which was of old mahogany, good, but secondhand, until it shone like glass and was quite brokenhearted when she discovered a scratch. she held her breath if she knocked it when sweeping. the commode was her especial pride; it was so dignified and stately. her pet dream, which, however, she kept to herself, was someday to have a clock to put in the center of the marble slab. if there had not been a baby in prospect she would have purchased this much-coveted article at once, but she sighed and dismissed the thought. etienne's bed was placed in the tiny room, almost a closet, and there was room for the cradle by its side. the kitchen was about as big as one's hand and very dark, but by leaving the door open one could see pretty well, and as gervaise had no big dinners to get she managed comfortably. the large room was her pride. in the morning the white curtains of the alcove were drawn, and the bedroom was transformed into a lovely dining room, with its table in the middle, the commode and a wardrobe opposite each other. a tiny stove kept them warm in cold weather for seven sous per day. coupeau ornamented the walls with several engravings--one of a marshal of france on a spirited steed, with his baton in his hand. above the commode were the photographs of the family, arranged in two lines, with an antique china _benitier_ between. on the corners of the commode a bust of pascal faced another of beranger--one grave, the other smiling. it was, indeed, a fair and pleasant home. "how much do you think we pay here?" gervaise would ask of each new visitor. and when too high an estimate was given she was charmed. "one hundred and fifty francs--not a penny more," she would exclaim. "is it not wonderful?" no small portion of the woman's satisfaction arose from an acacia which grew in her courtyard, one of whose branches crossed her window, and the scanty foliage was a whole wilderness to her. her baby was born one afternoon. she would not allow her husband to be sent for, and when he came gaily into the room he was welcomed by his pale wife, who whispered to him as he stooped over her: "my dear, it is a girl." "all right!" said the tinworker, jesting to hide his real emotion. "i ordered a girl. you always do just what i want!" he took up the child. "let us have a good look at you, young lady! the down on the top of your head is pretty black, i think. now you must never squall but be as good and reasonable always as your papa and mamma." gervaise, with a faint smile and sad eyes, looked at her daughter. she shook her head. she would have preferred a boy, because boys run less risks in a place like paris. the nurse took the baby from the father's hands and told gervaise she must not talk. coupeau said he must go and tell his mother and sister the news, but he was famished and must eat something first. his wife was greatly disturbed at seeing him wait upon himself, and she tossed about a little and complained that she could not make him comfortable. "you must be quiet," said the nurse again. "it is lucky you are here, or she would be up and cutting my bread for me," said coupeau. he finally set forth to announce the news to his family and returned in an hour with them all. the lorilleuxs, under the influence of the prosperity of their brother and his wife, had become extremely amiable toward them and only lifted their eyebrows in a significant sort of way, as much as to say that they could tell something if they pleased. "you must not talk, you understand," said coupeau, "but they would come and take a peep at you, and i am going to make them some coffee." he disappeared into the kitchen, and the women discussed the size of the baby and whom it resembled. meanwhile coupeau was heard banging round in the kitchen, and his wife nervously called out to him and told him where the things were that he wanted, but her husband rose superior to all difficulties and soon appeared with the smoking coffeepot, and they all seated themselves around the table, except the nurse, who drank a cup standing and then departed; all was going well, and she was not needed. if she was wanted in the morning they could send for her. gervaise lay with a faint smile on her lips. she only half heard what was said by those about her. she had no strength to speak; it seemed to her that she was dead. she heard the word baptism. coupeau saw no necessity for the ceremony and was quite sure, too, that the child would take cold. in his opinion, the less one had to do with priests, the better. his mother was horrified and called him a heathen, while the lorilleuxs claimed to be religious people also. "it had better be on sunday," said his sister in a decided tone, and gervaise consented with a little nod. everybody kissed her and then the baby, addressing it with tender epithets, as if it could understand, and departed. when coupeau was alone with his wife he took her hand and held it while he finished his pipe. "i could not help their coming," he said, "but i am sure they have given you the headache." and the rough, clumsy man kissed his wife tenderly, moved by a great pity for all she had borne for his sake. and gervaise was very happy. she told him so and said her only anxiety now was to be on her feet again as soon as possible, for they had another mouth to feed. he soothed her and asked if she could not trust him to look out for their little one. in the morning when he went to his work he sent mme boche to spend the day with his wife, who at night told him she never could consent to lie still any longer and see a stranger going about her room, and the next day she was up and would not be taken care of again. she had no time for such nonsense! she said it would do for rich women but not for her, and in another week she was at mme fauconnier's again at work. mme lorilleux, who was the baby's godmother, appeared on saturday evening with a cap and baptismal robe, which she had bought cheap because they had lost their first freshness. the next day lorilleux, as godfather, gave gervaise six pounds of sugar. they flattered themselves they knew how to do things properly and that evening, at the supper given by coupeau, did not appear empty-handed. lorilleux came with a couple of bottles of wine under each arm, and his wife brought a large custard which was a specialty of a certain restaurant. yes, they knew how to do things, these people, but they also liked to tell of what they did, and they told everyone they saw in the next month that they had spent twenty francs, which came to the ears of gervaise, who was none too well pleased. it was at this supper that gervaise became acquainted with her neighbors on the other side of the house. these were mme goujet, a widow, and her son. up to this time they had exchanged a good morning when they met on the stairs or in the street, but as mme goujet had rendered some small services on the first day of her illness, gervaise invited them on the occasion of the baptism. these people were from the _department du nond_. the mother repaired laces, while the son, a blacksmith by trade, worked in a factory. they had lived in their present apartment for five years. beneath the peaceful calm of their lives lay a great sorrow. goujet, the husband and father, had killed a man in a fit of furious intoxication and then, while in prison, had choked himself with his pocket handkerchief. his widow and child left lille after this and came to paris, with the weight of this tragedy on their hearts and heads, and faced the future with indomitable courage and sweet patience. perhaps they were overproud and reserved, for they held themselves aloof from those about them. mme goujet always wore mourning, and her pale, serene face was encircled with nunlike bands of white. goujet was a colossus of twenty-three with a clear, fresh complexion and honest eyes. at the manufactory he went by the name of the gueule-d'or on account of his beautiful blond beard. gervaise took a great fancy to these people and when she first entered their apartment and was charmed with the exquisite cleanliness of all she saw. mme goujet opened the door into her son's room to show it to her. it was as pretty and white as the chamber of a young girl. a narrow iron bed, white curtains and quilt, a dressing table and bookshelves made up the furniture. a few colored engravings were pinned against the wall, and mme goujet said that her son was a good deal of a boy still--he liked to look at pictures rather than read. gervaise sat for an hour with her neighbor, watching her at work with her cushion, its numberless pins and the pretty lace. the more she saw of her new friends the better gervaise liked them. they were frugal but not parsimonious. they were the admiration of the neighborhood. goujet was never seen with a hole or a spot on his garments. he was very polite to all but a little diffident, in spite of his height and broad shoulders. the girls in the street were much amused to see him look away when they met him; he did not fancy their ways--their forward boldness and loud laughs. one day he came home tipsy. his mother uttered no word of reproach but brought out a picture of his father which was piously preserved in her wardrobe. and after that lesson goujet drank no more liquor, though he conceived no hatred for wine. on sunday he went out with his mother, who was his idol. he went to her with all his troubles and with all his joys, as he had done when little. at first he took no interest in gervaise, but after a while he began to like her and treated her like a sister, with abrupt familiarity. cadet-cassis, who was a thorough parisian, thought gueule-d'or very stupid. what was the sense of turning away from all the pretty girls he met in the street? but this did not prevent the two young fellows from liking each other very heartily. for three years the lives of these people flowed tranquilly on without an event. gervaise had been elevated in the laundry where she worked, had higher wages and decided to place etienne at school. notwithstanding all her expenses of the household, they were able to save twenty and thirty francs each month. when these savings amounted to six hundred francs gervaise could not rest, so tormented was she by ambitious dreams. she wished to open a small establishment herself and hire apprentices in her turn. she hesitated, naturally, to take the definite steps and said they would look around for a shop that would answer their purpose; their money in the savings bank was quietly rolling up. she had bought her clock, the object of her ambition; it was to be paid for in a year--so much each month. it was a wonderful clock, rosewood with fluted columns and gilt moldings and pendulum. she kept her bankbook under the glass shade, and often when she was thinking of her shop she stood with her eyes fixed on the clock, as if she were waiting for some especial and solemn moment. the coupeaus and the goujets now went out on sundays together. it was an orderly party with a dinner at some quiet restaurant. the men drank a glass or two of wine and came home with the ladies and counted up and settled the expenditures of the day before they separated. the lorilleuxs were bitterly jealous of these new friends of their brother's. they declared it had a very queer look to see him and his wife always with strangers rather than with his own family, and mme lorilleux began to say hateful things again of gervaise. mme lerat, on the contrary, took her part, while mamma coupeau tried to please everyone. the day that nana--which was the pet name given to the little girl--was three years old coupeau, on coming in, found his wife in a state of great excitement. she refused to give any explanation, saying, in fact, there really was nothing the matter, but she finally became so abstracted that she stood still with the plates in her hand as she laid the table for dinner, and her husband insisted on an explanation. "if you must know," she said, "that little shop in la rue de la goutte-d'or is vacant. i heard so only an hour ago, and it struck me all of a heap!" it was a very nice shop in the very house of which they had so often thought. there was the shop itself--a back room--and two others. they were small, to be sure, but convenient and well arranged; only she thought it dear--five hundred francs. "you asked the price then?" "yes, i asked it just out of curiosity," she answered with an air of indifference, "but it is too dear, decidedly too dear. it would be unwise, i think, to take it." but she could talk of nothing else the whole evening. she drew the plan of the rooms on the margin of a newspaper, and as she talked she measured the furniture, as if they were to move the next day. then coupeau, seeing her great desire to have the place, declared he would see the owner the next morning, for it was possible he would take less than five hundred francs, but how would she like to live so near his sister, whom she detested? gervaise was displeased at this and said she detested no one and even defended the lorilleuxs, declaring they were not so bad, after all. and when coupeau was asleep her busy brain was at work arranging the rooms which as yet they had not decided to hire. the next day when she was alone she lifted the shade from the clock and opened her bankbook. just to think that her shop and future prosperity lay between those dirty leaves! before going to her work she consulted mme goujet, who approved of the plan. with a husband like hers, who never drank, she could not fail of success. at noon she called on her sister-in-law to ask her advice, for she did not wish to have the air of concealing anything from the family. mme lorilleux was confounded. what, did wooden legs think of having an establishment of her own? and with an envious heart she stammered out that it would be very well, certainly, but when she had recovered herself a little she began to talk of the dampness of the courtyard and of the darkness of the _rez-de-chaussee_. oh yes, it was a capital place for rheumatism, but of course if her mind was made up anything she could say would make no difference. that night gervaise told her husband that if he had thrown any obstacles in the way of her taking the shop she believed she should have fallen sick and died, so great was her longing. but before they came to any decision they must see if a diminution of the rent could be obtained. "we can go tomorrow if you say so," was her husband's reply; "you can call for me at six o'clock." coupeau was then completing the roof of a three-storied house and was laying the very last sheets of zinc. it was may and a cloudless evening. the sun was low in the horizon, and against the blue sky the figure of coupeau was clearly defined as he cut his zinc as quietly as a tailor might have cut out a pair of breeches in his workshop. his assistant, a lad of seventeen, was blowing up the furnace with a pair of bellows, and at each puff a great cloud of sparks arose. "put in the irons, zidore!" shouted coupeau. the boy thrust the irons among the coals which showed only a dull pink in the sunlight and then went to work again with his bellows. coupeau took up his last sheet of zinc. it was to be placed on the edge of the roof, near the gutter. just at that spot the roof was very steep. the man walked along in his list slippers much as if he had been at home, whistling a popular melody. he allowed himself to slip a little and caught at the chimney, calling to zidore as he did so: "why in thunder don't you bring the irons? what are you staring at?" but zidore, quite undisturbed, continued to stare at a cloud of heavy black smoke that was rising in the direction of grenelle. he wondered if it were a fire, but he crawled with the irons toward coupeau, who began to solder the zinc, supporting himself on the point of one foot or by one finger, not rashly, but with calm deliberation and perfect coolness. he knew what he could do and never lost his head. his pipe was in his mouth, and he would occasionally turn to spit down into the street below. "hallo, madame boche!" he cried as he suddenly caught sight of his old friend crossing the street. "how are you today?" she looked up, laughed, and a brisk conversation ensued between the roof and the street. she stood with her hands under her apron and her face turned up, while he, with one arm round a flue, leaned over the side of the house. "have you seen my wife?" he asked. "no indeed; is she anywhere round?" "she is coming for me. is everyone well with you?" "yes, all well, thanks. i am going to a butcher near here who sells cheaper than up our way." they raised their voices because a carriage was passing, and this brought to a neighboring window a little old woman, who stood in breathless horror, expecting to see the man fall from the roof in another minute. "well, good night," cried mme boche. "i must not detain you from your work." coupeau turned and took the iron zidore held out to him. at the same moment mme boche saw gervaise coming toward her with little nana trotting at her side. she looked up to the roof to tell coupeau, but gervaise closed her lips with an energetic signal, and then as she reached the old concierge she said in a low voice that she was always in deadly terror that her husband would fall. she never dared look at him when he was in such places. "it is not very agreeable, i admit," answered mme boche. "my man is a tailor, and i am spared all this." "at first," continued gervaise, "i had not a moment's peace. i saw him in my dreams on a litter, but now i have got accustomed to it somewhat." she looked up, keeping nana behind her skirts, lest the child should call out and startle her father, who was at that moment on the extreme edge. she saw the soldering iron and the tiny flame that rose as he carefully passed it along the edges of the zinc. gervaise, pale with suspense and fear, raised her hands mechanically with a gesture of supplication. coupeau ascended the steep roof with a slow step, then glancing down, he beheld his wife. "you are watching me, are you?" he cried gaily. "ah, madame boche, is she not a silly one? she was afraid to speak to me. wait ten minutes, will you?" the two women stood on the sidewalk, having as much as they could do to restrain nana, who insisted on fishing in the gutter. the old woman still stood at the window, looking up at the roof and waiting. "just see her," said mme boche. "what is she looking at?" coupeau was heard lustily singing; with the aid of a pair of compasses he had drawn some lines and now proceeded to cut a large fan; this he adroitly, with his tools, folded into the shape of a pointed mushroom. zidore was again heating the irons. the sun was setting just behind the house, and the whole western sky was flushed with rose, fading to a soft violet, and against this sky the figures of the two men, immeasurably exaggerated, stood clearly out, as well as the strange form of the zinc which coupeau was then manipulating. "zidore! the irons!" but zidore was not to be seen. his master, with an oath, shouted down the scuttle window which was open near by and finally discovered him two houses off. the boy was taking a walk, apparently, with his scanty blond hair blowing all about his head. "do you think you are in the country?" cried coupeau in a fury. "you are another beranger, perhaps--composing verses! will you have the kindness to give me my irons? whoever heard the like? give me my irons, i say!" the irons hissed as he applied them, and he called to gervaise: "i am coming!" the chimney to which he had fitted this cap was in the center of the roof. gervaise stood watching him, soothed by his calm self-possession. nana clapped her little hands. "papa! papa!" she cried. "look!" the father turned; his foot slipped; he rolled down the roof slowly, unable to catch at anything. "good god!" he said in a choked voice, and he fell; his body turned over twice and crashed into the middle of the street with the dull thud of a bundle of wet linen. gervaise stood still. a shriek was frozen on her lips. mme boche snatched nana in her arms and hid her head that she might not see, and the little old woman opposite, who seemed to have waited for this scene in the drama, quietly closed her windows. four men bore coupeau to a druggist's at the corner, where he lay for an hour while a litter was sent for from the hospital lariboisiere. he was breathing still, but that was all. gervaise knelt at his side, hysterically sobbing. every minute or two, in spite of the prohibition of the druggist, she touched him to see if he were still warm. when the litter arrived and they spoke of the hospital, she started up, saying violently: "no--no! not to the hospital--to our own home." in vain did they tell her that the expenses would be very great if she nursed him at home. "no--no!" she said. "i will show them the way. he is my husband, is he not? and i will take care of him myself." and coupeau was carried home, and as the litter was borne through the _quartier_ the women crowded together and extolled gervaise. she was a little lame, to be sure, but she was very energetic, and she would save her man. mme boche took nana home and then went about among her friends to tell the story with interminable details. "i saw him fall," she said. "it was all because of the child; he was going to speak to her, when down he went. good lord! i trust i may never see such another sight." for a week coupeau's life hung on a thread. his family and his friends expected to see him die from one hour to another. the physician, an experienced physician whose every visit cost five francs, talked of a lesion, and that word was in itself very terrifying to all but gervaise, who, pale from her vigils but calm and resolute, shrugged her shoulders and would not allow herself to be discouraged. her man's leg was broken; that she knew very well, "but he need not die for that!" and she watched at his side night and day, forgetting her children and her home and everything but him. on the ninth day, when the physician told her he would recover, she dropped, half fainting, on a chair, and at night she slept for a couple of hours with her head on the foot of his bed. this accident to coupeau brought all his family about him. his mother spent the nights there, but she slept in her chair quite comfortably. mme lerat came in every evening after work was over to make inquiries. the lorilleuxs at first came three or four times each day and brought an armchair for gervaise, but soon quarrels and discussions arose as to the proper way of nursing the invalid, and mme lorilleux lost her temper and declared that had gervaise stayed at home and not gone to pester her husband when he was at work the accident would not have happened. when she saw coupeau out of danger gervaise allowed his family to approach him as they saw fit. his convalescence would be a matter of months. this again was a ground of indignation for mme lorilleux. "what nonsense it was," she said, "for gervaise to take him home! had he gone to the hospital he would have recovered as quickly again." and then she made a calculation of what these four months would cost: first, there was the time lost, then the physician, the medicines, the wines and finally the meat for beef tea. yes, it would be a pretty sum, to be sure! if they got through it on their savings they would do well, but she believed that the end would be that they would find themselves head over heels in debt, and they need expect no assistance from his family, for none of them was rich enough to pay for sickness at home! one evening mme lorilleux was malicious enough to say: "and your shop, when do you take it? the concierge is waiting to know what you mean to do." gervaise gasped. she had utterly forgotten the shop. she saw the delight of these people when they believed that this plan was given up, and from that day they never lost an occasion of twitting her on her dream that had toppled over like a house of cards, and she grew morbid and fancied they were pleased at the accident to their brother which had prevented the realization of their plans. she tried to laugh and to show them she did not grudge the money that had been expended in the restoration of her husband's health. she did not withdraw all her savings from the bank at once, for she had a vague hope that some miracle would intervene which would render the sacrifice unnecessary. was it not a great comfort, she said to herself and to her enemies, for as such she had begun to regard the lorilleuxs, that she had this money now to turn to in this emergency? her neighbors next door had been very kind and thoughtful to gervaise all through her trouble and the illness of her husband. mme goujet never went out without coming to inquire if there was anything she could do, any commission she could execute. she brought innumerable bowls of soup and, even when gervaise was particularly busy, washed her dishes for her. goujet filled her buckets every morning with fresh water, and this was an economy of at least two sous, and in the evening came to sit with coupeau. he did not say much, but his companionship cheered and comforted the invalid. he was tender and compassionate and was thrilled by the sweetness of gervaise's voice when she spoke to her husband. never had he seen such a brave, good woman; he did not believe she sat in her chair fifteen minutes in the whole day. she was never tired, never out of temper, and the young man grew very fond of the poor woman as he watched her. his mother had found a wife for him. a girl whose trade was the same as her own, a lace mender, and as he did not wish to go contrary to her desires he consented that the marriage should take place in september. but when gervaise spoke of his future he shook his head. "all women are not like you, madame coupeau," he said. "if they were i should like ten wives." at the end of two months coupeau was on his feet again and could move--with difficulty, of course--as far as the window, where he sat with his leg on a chair. the poor fellow was sadly shaken by his accident. he was no philosopher, and he swore from morning until night. he said he knew every crack in the ceiling. when he was installed in his armchair it was little better. how long, he asked impatiently, was he expected to sit there swathed like a mummy? and he cursed his ill luck. his accident was a cursed shame. if his head had been disturbed by drink it would have been different, but he was always sober, and this was the result. he saw no sense in the whole thing! "my father," he said, "broke his neck. i don't say he deserved it, but i do say there was a reason for it. but i had not drunk a drop, and yet over i went, just because i spoke to my child! if there be a father in heaven, as they say, who watches over us all, i must say he manages things strangely enough sometimes!" and as his strength returned his trade grew strangely distasteful to him. it was a miserable business, he said, roaming along gutters like a cat. in his opinion there should be a law which should compel every houseowner to tin his own roof. he wished he knew some other trade he could follow, something that was less dangerous. for two months more coupeau walked with a crutch and after a while was able to get into the street and then to the outer boulevard, where he sat on a bench in the sun. his gaiety returned; he laughed again and enjoyed doing nothing. for the first time in his life he felt thoroughly lazy, and indolence seemed to have taken possession of his whole being. when he got rid of his crutches he sauntered about and watched the buildings which were in the process of construction in the vicinity, and he jested with the men and indulged himself in a general abuse of work. of course he intended to begin again as soon as he was quite well, but at present the mere thought made him feel ill, he said. in the afternoons coupeau often went to his sister's apartment; she expressed a great deal of compassion for him and showed every attention. when he was first married he had escaped from her influence, thanks to his affection for his wife and hers for him. now he fell under her thumb again; they brought him back by declaring that he lived in mortal terror of his wife. but the lorilleuxs were too wise to disparage her openly; on the contrary, they praised her extravagantly, and he told his wife that they adored her and begged her, in her turn, to be just to them. the first quarrel in their home arose on the subject of etienne. coupeau had been with his sister. he came in late and found the children fretting for their dinner. he cuffed etienne's ears, bade him hold his tongue and scolded for an hour. he was sure he did not know why he let that boy stay in the house; he was none of his; until that day he had accepted the child as a matter of course. three days after this he gave the boy a kick, and it was not long before the child, when he heard him coming, ran into the goujets', where there was always a corner at the table for him. gervaise had long since resumed her work. she no longer lifted the globe of her clock to take out her bankbook; her savings were all gone, and it was necessary to count the sous pretty closely, for there were four mouths to feed, and they were all dependent on the work of her two hands. when anyone found fault with coupeau and blamed him she always took his part. "think how much he has suffered," she said with tears in her eyes. "think of the shock to his nerves! who can wonder that he is a little sour? wait awhile, though, until he is perfectly well, and you will see that his temper will be as sweet as it ever was." and if anyone ventured to observe that he seemed quite well and that he ought to go to work she would exclaim: "no indeed, not yet. it would never do." she did not want him down in his bed again. she knew what the doctor had said, and she every day begged him to take his own time. she even slipped a little silver, into his vest pocket. all this coupeau accepted as a matter of course. he complained of all sorts of pains and aches to gain a little longer period of indolence and at the end of six months had begun to look upon himself as a confirmed invalid. he almost daily dropped into a wineshop with a friend; it was a place where he could chat a little, and where was the harm? besides, whoever heard of a glass of wine killing a man? but he swore to himself that he would never touch anything but wine--not a drop of brandy should pass his lips. wine was good for one--prolonged one's life, aided digestion--but brandy was a very different matter. notwithstanding all these wise resolutions, it came to pass more than once that he came in, after visiting a dozen different cabarets, decidedly tipsy. on these occasions gervaise locked her doors and declared she was ill, to prevent the goujets from seeing her husband. the poor woman was growing very sad. every night and morning she passed the shop for which she had so ardently longed. she made her calculations over and over again until her brain was dizzy. two hundred and fifty francs for rent, one hundred and fifty for moving and the apparatus she needed, one hundred francs to keep things going until business began to come in. no, it could not be done under five hundred francs. she said nothing of this to anyone, deterred only by the fear of seeming to regret the money she had spent for her husband during his illness. she was pale and dispirited at the thought that she must work five years at least before she could save that much money. one evening gervaise was alone. goujet entered, took a chair in silence and looked at her as he smoked his pipe. he seemed to be revolving something in his mind. suddenly he took his pipe from his mouth. "madame gervaise," he said, "will you allow me to lend you the money you require?" she was kneeling at a drawer, laying some towels in a neat pile. she started up, red with surprise. he had seen her standing that very morning for a good ten minutes, looking at the shop, so absorbed that she had not seen him pass. she refused his offer, however. no, she could never borrow money when she did not know how she could return it, and when he insisted she replied: "but your marriage? this is the money you have saved for that." "don't worry on that account," he said with a heightened color. "i shall not marry. it was an idea of my mother's, and i prefer to lend you the money." they looked away from each other. their friendship had a certain element of tenderness which each silently recognized. gervaise accepted finally and went with goujet to see his mother, whom he had informed of his intentions. they found her somewhat sad, with her serene, pale face bent over her work. she did not wish to thwart her son, but she no longer approved of the plan, and she told gervaise why. with kind frankness she pointed out to her that coupeau had fallen into evil habits and was living on her labors and would in all probability continue to do so. the truth was that mme goujet had not forgiven coupeau for refusing to read during all his long convalescence; this and many other things had alienated her and her son from him, but they had in no degree lost their interest in gervaise. finally it was agreed she should have five hundred francs and should return the money by paying each month twenty francs on account. "well, well!" cried coupeau as he heard of this financial transaction. "we are in luck. there is no danger with us, to be sure, but if he were dealing with knaves he might never see hide or hair of his cash again!" the next day the shop was taken, and gervaise ran about with such a light heart that there was a rumor that she had been cured of her lameness by an operation. chapter v ambitious dreams the boche couple, on the first of april, moved also and took the loge of the great house in the rue de la goutte-d'or. things had turned out very nicely for gervaise who, having always got on very comfortably with the concierge in the house in rue neuve, dreaded lest she should fall into the power of some tyrant who would quarrel over every drop of water that was spilled and a thousand other trifles like that. but with mme boche all would go smoothly. the day the lease was to be signed and gervaise stood in her new home her heart swelled with joy. she was finally to live in that house like a small town, with its intersecting corridors instead of streets. she felt a strange timidity--a dread of failure--when she found herself face to face with her enterprise. the struggle for bread was a terrible and an increasing one, and it seemed to her for a moment that she had been guilty of a wild, foolhardy act, like throwing herself into the jaws of a machine, for the planes in the cabinetmaker's shop and the hammers in the locksmith's were dimly grasped by her as a part of a great whole. the water that ran past the door that day from the dyer's was pale green. she smiled as she stepped over it, accepting this color as a happy augury. she, with her husband, entered the loge, where mme boche and the owner of the building, m. marescot, were talking on business. gervaise, with a thrill of pain, heard boche advise the landlord to turn out the dressmaker on the third floor who was behindhand with her rent. she wondered if she would ever be turned out and then wondered again at the attitude assumed by these boche people, who did not seem to have ever seen her before. they had eyes and ears only for the landlord, who shook hands with his new tenants but, when they spoke of repairs, professed to be in such haste that morning that it would be necessary to postpone the discussion. they reminded him of certain verbal promises he had made, and finally he consented to examine the premises. the shop stood with its four bare walls and blackened ceiling. the tenant who had been there had taken away his own counters and cases. a furious discussion took place. m. marescot said it was for them to embellish the shop. "that may be," said gervaise gently, "but surely you cannot call putting on a fresh paper, instead of this that hangs in strips, an embellishment. whitening the curbing, too, comes under, the head of necessary repairs." she only required these two things. finally marescot, with a desperate air, plunged his hands deep in his pockets, shrugged his shoulders and gave his consent to the repairs on the ceiling and to the paper, on condition that she would pay for half the paper, and then he hurried away. when he had departed boche clapped coupeau on the shoulder. "you may thank me for that!" he cried and then went on to say that he was the real master of the house, that he settled the whole business of the establishment, and it was a nod and look from him that had influenced m. marescot. that evening gervaise, considering themselves in debt to boche, sent him some wine. in four days the shop should have been ready for them, but the repairs hung on for three weeks. at first they intended simply to have the paint scrubbed, but it was so shabby and worn that gervaise repainted at her own expense. coupeau went every morning, not to work, but to inspect operations, and boche dropped the vest or pantaloons on which he was working and gave the benefit of his advice, and the two men spent the whole day smoking and spitting and arguing over each stroke of the brush. some days the painters did not appear at all; on others they came and walked off in an hour's time, not to return again. poor gervaise wrung her hands in despair. but finally, after two days of energetic labor, the whole thing was done, and the men walked off with their ladders, singing lustily. then came the moving, and finally gervaise called herself settled in her new home and was pleased as a child. as she came up the street she could see her sign afar off: clearstarcher laces and embroideries done up with especial care the first word was painted in large yellow letters on a pale blue ground. in the recessed window shut in at the back by muslin curtains lay men's shirts, delicate handkerchiefs and cuffs; all these were on blue paper, and gervaise was charmed. when she entered the door all was blue there; the paper represented a golden trellis and blue morning-glories. in the center was a huge table draped with blue-bordered cretonne to hide the trestles. gervaise seated herself and looked round, happy in the cleanliness of all about her. her first glance, however, was directed to her stove, a sort of furnace whereon ten irons could be heated at once. it was a source of constant anxiety lest her little apprentice should fill it too full of coal and so injure it. behind the shop was her bedroom and her kitchen, from which a door opened into the court. nana's bed stood in a little room at the right, and etienne was compelled to share his with the baskets of soiled clothes. it was all very well, except that the place was very damp and that it was dark by three o'clock in the afternoon in winter. the new shop created a great excitement in the neighborhood. some people declared that the coupeaus were on the road to ruin; they had, in fact, spent the whole five hundred francs and were penniless, contrary to their intentions. the morning that gervaise first took down her shutters she had only six francs in the world, but she was not troubled, and at the end of a week she told her husband after two hours of abstruse calculations that they had taken in enough to cover their expenses. the lorilleuxs were in a state of rage, and one morning when the apprentice was emptying, on the sly, a bowl of starch which she had burned in making, just as mme lorilleux was passing, she rushed in and accused her sister-in-law of insulting her. after this all friendly relations were at an end. "it all looks very strange to me," sniffed mme lorilleux. "i can't tell where the money comes from, but i have my suspicions." and she went on to intimate that gervaise and goujet were altogether too intimate. this was the groundwork of many fables; she said wooden legs was so mild and sweet that she had deceived her to the extent that she had consented to become nana's godmother, which had been no small expense, but now things were very different. if gervaise were dying and asked her for a glass of water she would not give it. she could not stand such people. as to nana, it was different; they would always receive her. the child, of course, was not responsible for her mother's crimes. coupeau should take a more decided stand and not put up with his wife's vile conduct. boche and his wife sat in judgment on the quarrel and gave as their opinion that the lorilleuxs were much to blame. they were good tenants, of course. they paid regularly. "but," added mme boche, "i never could abide jealousy. they are mean people and were never known to offer a glass of wine to a friend." mother coupeau visited her son and daughter successive days, listened to the tales of each and said never a word in reply. gervaise lived a busy life and took no notice of all this foolish gossip and strife. she greeted her friends with a smile from the door of her shop, where she went for a breath of fresh air. all the people in the neighborhood liked her and would have called her a great beauty but for her lameness. she was twenty-eight and had grown plump. she moved more slowly, and when she took a chair to wait for her irons to heat she rose with reluctance. she was growing fond of good living--that she herself admitted--but she did not regard it as a fault. she worked hard and had a right to good food. why should she live on potato parings? sometimes she worked all night when she had a great deal of work on hand. she did the washing for the whole house and for some parisian ladies and had several apprentices, besides two laundresses. she was making money hand over fist, and her good luck would have turned a wiser head than her own. but hers was not turned; she was gentle and sweet and hated no one except her sister-in-law. she judged everybody kindly, particularly after she had eaten a good breakfast. when people called her good she laughed. why should she not be good? she had seen all her dreams realized. she remembered what she once said--that she wanted to work hard, have plenty to eat, a home to herself, where she could bring up her children, not be beaten and die in her bed! as to dying in her bed, she added she wanted that still, but she would put it off as long as possible, "if you please!" it was to coupeau himself that gervaise was especially sweet. never a cross or an impatient word had he heard from her lips, and no one had ever known her complain of him behind his back. he had finally resumed his trade, and as the shop where he worked was at the other end of paris, she gave him every morning forty sous for his breakfast, his wine and tobacco. two days out of six, however, coupeau would meet a friend, drink up his forty sous and return to breakfast. once, indeed, he sent a note, saying that his account at the cabaret exceeded his forty sous. he was in pledge, as it were; would his wife send the money? she laughed and shrugged her shoulders. where was the harm in her husband's amusing himself a little? a woman must give a man a long rope if she wished to live in peace and comfort. it was not far from words to blows--she knew that very well. the hot weather had come. one afternoon in june the ten irons were heating on the stove; the door was open into the street, but not a breath of air came in. "what a melting day!" said gervaise, who was stooping over a great bowl of starch. she had rolled up her sleeves and taken off her sack and stood in her chemise and white skirt; the soft hair in her neck was curling on her white throat. she dipped each cuff in the starch, the fronts of the shirts and the whole of the skirts. then she rolled up the pieces tightly and placed them neatly in a square basket after having sprinkled with clear water all those portions which were not starched. "this basket is for you, madame putois," she said, "and you will have to hurry, for they dry so fast in this weather." mine putois was a thin little woman who looked cool and comfortable in her tightly buttoned dress. she had not taken her cap off but stood at the table, moving her irons to and fro with the regularity of an automaton. suddenly she exclaimed: "put on your sack, clemence; there are three men looking in, and i don't like such things." clemence grumbled and growled. what did she care what she liked? she could not and would not roast to suit anybody. "clemence, put on your sack," said gervaise. "madame putois is right--it is not proper." clemence muttered but obeyed and consoled herself by giving the apprentice, who was ironing hose and towels by her side, a little push. gervaise had a cap belonging to mme boche in her hand and was ironing the crown with a round ball, when a tall, bony woman came in. she was a laundress. "you have come too soon, madame bijard!" cried gervaise. "i said tonight. it is very inconvenient for me to attend to you at this hour." at the same time, however, gervaise amiably laid down her work and went for the dirty clothes, which she piled up in the back shop. it took the two women nearly an hour to sort them and mark them with a stitch of colored cotton. at this moment coupeau entered. "by jove!" he said. "the sun beats down on one's head like a hammer." he caught at the table to sustain himself; he had been drinking; a spider web had caught in his dark hair, where many a white thread was apparent. his under jaw dropped a little, and his smile was good natured but silly. gervaise asked her husband if he had seen the lorilleuxs in rather a severe tone; when he said no she smiled at him without a word of reproach. "you had best go and lie down," she said pleasantly. "we are very busy, and you are in our way. did i say thirty-two handkerchiefs, madame bijard? here are two more; that makes thirty-four." but coupeau was not sleepy, and he preferred to remain where he was. gervaise called clemence and bade her to count the linen while she made out the list. she glanced at each piece as she wrote. she knew many of them by the color. that pillow slip belonged to mme boche because it was stained with the pomade she always used, and so on through the whole. gervaise was seated with these piles of soiled linen about her. augustine, whose great delight was to fill up the stove, had done so now, and it was red hot. coupeau leaned toward gervaise. "kiss me," he said. "you are a good woman." as he spoke he gave a sudden lurch and fell among the skirts. "do take care," said gervaise impatiently. "you will get them all mixed again." and she gave him a little push with her foot, whereat all the other women cried out. "he is not like most men," said mme putois; "they generally wish to beat you when they come in like this." gervaise already regretted her momentary vexation and assisted her husband to his feet and then turned her cheek to him with a smile, but he put his arm round her and kissed her neck. she pushed him aside with a laugh. "you ought to be ashamed!" she said but yielded to his embrace, and the long kiss they exchanged before these people, amid the sickening odor of the soiled linen and the alcoholic fumes of his breath, was the first downward step in the slow descent of their degradation. mme bijard tied up the linen and staggered off under their weight while gervaise turned back to finish her cap. alas! the stove and the irons were alike red hot; she must wait a quarter of an hour before she could touch the irons, and gervaise covered the fire with a couple of shovelfuls of cinders. she then hung a sheet before the window to keep out the sun. coupeau took a place in the corner, refusing to budge an inch, and his wife and all her assistants went to work on each side of the square table. each woman had at her right a flat brick on which to set her iron. in the center of the table a dish of water with a rag and a brush in it and also a bunch of tall lilies in a broken jar. mme putois had attacked the basket of linen prepared by gervaise, and augustine was ironing her towels, with her nose in the air, deeply interested in a fly that was buzzing about. as to clemence, she was polishing off her thirty-fifth shirt; as she boasted of this great feat coupeau staggered toward her. "madame," she called, "please keep him away; he will bother me, and i shall scorch my shirt." "let her be," said gervaise without any especial energy. "we are in a great hurry today!" well, that was not his fault; he did not mean to touch the girl; he only wanted to see what she was about. "really," said his wife, looking up from her fluting iron, "i think you had best go to bed." he began to talk again. "you need not make such a fuss, clemence; it is only because these women are here, and--" but he could say no more; gervaise quietly laid one hand on his mouth and the other on his shoulder and pushed him toward his room. he struggled a little and with a silly laugh asked if clemence was not coming too. gervaise undressed her husband and tucked him up in bed as if he had been a child and then returned to her fluting irons in time to still a grand dispute that was going on about an iron that had not been properly cleaned. in the profound silence that followed her appearance she could hear her husband's thick voice: "what a silly wife i've got! the idea of putting me to bed in broad daylight!" suddenly he began to snore, and gervaise uttered a sigh of relief. she used her fluting iron for a minute and then said quietly: "there is no need of being offended by anything a man does when he is in this state. he is not an accountable being. he did not intend to insult you. clemence, you know what a tipsy man is--he respects neither father nor mother." she uttered these words in an indifferent, matter-of-fact way, not in the least disturbed that he had forgotten the respect due to her and to her roof and really seeing no harm in his conduct. the work now went steadily on, and gervaise calculated they would be finished by eleven o'clock. the heat was intense; the smell of charcoal deadened the air, while the branch of white lilies slowly faded and filled the room with their sweetness. the day after all this coupeau had a frightful headache and did not rise until late, too late to go to his work. about noon he began to feel better, and toward evening was quite himself. his wife gave him some silver and told him to go out and take the air, which meant with him taking some wine. one glass washed down another, but he came home as gay as a lark and quite disgusted with the men he had seen who were drinking themselves to death. "where is your lover?" he said to his wife as he entered the shop. this was his favorite joke. "i never see him nowadays and must hunt him up." he meant goujet, who came but rarely, lest the gossips in the neighborhood should take it upon themselves to gabble. once in about ten days he made his appearance in the evening and installed himself in a corner in the back shop with his pipe. he rarely spoke but laughed at all gervaise said. on saturday evenings the establishment was kept open half the night. a lamp hung from the ceiling with the light thrown down by a shade. the shutters were put up at the usual time, but as the nights were very warm the door was left open, and as the hours wore on the women pulled their jackets open a little more at the throat, and he sat in his corner and looked on as if he were at a theater. the silence of the street was broken by a passing carriage. two o'clock struck--no longer a sound from outside. at half-past two a man hurried past the door, carrying with him a vision of flying arms, piles of white linen and a glow of yellow light. goujet, wishing to save etienne from coupeau's rough treatment, had taken him to the place where he was employed to blow the bellows, with the prospect of becoming an apprentice as soon as he was old enough, and etienne thus became another tie between the clearstarcher and the blacksmith. all their little world laughed and told gervaise that her friend worshiped the very ground she trod upon. she colored and looked like a girl of sixteen. "dear boy," she said to herself, "i know he loves me, but never has he said or will he say a word of the kind to me!" and she was proud of being loved in this way. when she was disturbed about anything her first thought was to go to him. when by chance they were left alone together they were never disturbed by wondering if their friendship verged on love. there was no harm in such affection. nana was now six years old and a most troublesome little sprite. her mother took her every morning to a school in the rue polonceau, to a certain mlle josse. here she did all manner of mischief. she put ashes into the teacher's snuffbox, pinned the skirts of her companions together. twice the young lady was sent home in disgrace and then taken back again for the sake of the six francs each month. as soon as school hours were over nana revenged herself for the hours of enforced quiet she had passed by making the most frightful din in the courtyard and the shop. she found able allies in pauline and victor boche. the whole great house resounded with the most extraordinary noises--the thumps of children falling downstairs, little feet tearing up one staircase and down another and bursting out on the sidewalk like a band of pilfering, impudent sparrows. mme gaudron alone had nine--dirty, unwashed and unkempt, their stockings hanging over their shoes and the slits in their garments showing the white skin beneath. another woman on the fifth floor had seven, and they came out in twos and threes from all the rooms. nana reigned over this band, among which there were some half grown and others mere infants. her prime ministers were pauline and victor; to them she delegated a little of her authority while she played mamma, undressed the youngest only to dress them again, cuffed them and punished them at her own sweet will and with the most fantastic disposition. the band pranced and waded through the gutter that ran from the dyehouse and emerged with blue or green legs. nana decorated herself and the others with shavings from the cabinetmaker's, which they stole from under the very noses of the workmen. the courtyard belonged to all of these children, apparently, and resounded with the clatter of their heels. sometimes this courtyard, however, was not enough for them, and they spread in every direction to the infinite disgust of mme boche, who grumbled all in vain. boche declared that the children of the poor were as plentiful as mushrooms on a dung heap, and his wife threatened them with her broom. one day there was a terrible scene. nana had invented a beautiful game. she had stolen a wooden shoe belonging to mme boche; she bored a hole in it and put in a string, by which she could draw it like a cart. victor filled it with apple parings, and they started forth in a procession, nana drawing the shoe in front, followed by the whole flock, little and big, an imp about the height of a cigar box at the end. they all sang a melancholy ditty full of "ahs" and "ohs." nana declared this to be always the custom at funerals. "what on earth are they doing now?" murmured mme boche suspiciously, and then she came to the door and peered out. "good heavens!" she cried. "it is my shoe they have got." she slapped nana, cuffed pauline and shook victor. gervaise was filling a bucket at the fountain, and when she saw nana with her nose bleeding she rushed toward the concierge and asked how she dared strike her child. the concierge replied that anyone who had a child like that had best keep her under lock and key. the end of this was, of course, a complete break between the old friends. but, in fact, the quarrel had been growing for a month. gervaise, generous by nature and knowing the tastes of the boche people, was in the habit of making them constant presents--oranges, a little hot soup, a cake or something of the kind. one evening, knowing that the concierge would sell her soul for a good salad, she took her the remains of a dish of beets and chicory. the next day she was dumfounded at hearing from mlle remanjon how mme boche had thrown the salad away, saying that she was not yet reduced to eating the leavings of other people! from that day forth gervaise sent her nothing more. the boches had learned to look on her little offerings as their right, and they now felt themselves to be robbed by the coupeaus. it was not long before gervaise realized she had made a mistake, for when she was one day late with her october rent mme boche complained to the proprietor, who came blustering to her shop with his hat on. of course, too, the lorilleuxs extended the right hand of fellowship at once to the boche people. there came a day, however, when gervaise found it necessary to call on the lorilleuxs. it was on mamma coupeau's account, who was sixty-seven years old, nearly blind and helpless. they must all unite in doing something for her now. gervaise thought it a burning shame that a woman of her age, with three well-to-do children, should be allowed for a moment to regard herself as friendless and forsaken. and as her husband refused to speak to his sister, gervaise said she would. she entered the room like a whirlwind, without knocking. everything was just as it was on that night when she had been received by them in a fashion which she had never forgotten or forgiven. "i have come," cried gervaise, "and i dare say you wish to know why, particularly as we are at daggers drawn. well then, i have come on mamma coupeau's account. i have come to ask if we are to allow her to beg her bread from door to door----" "indeed!" said mme lorilleux with a sneer, and she turned away. but lorilleux lifted his pale face. "what do you mean?" he asked, and as he had understood perfectly, he went on: "what is this cry of poverty about? the old lady ate her dinner with us yesterday. we do all we can for her, i am sure. we have not the mines of peru within our reach, but if she thinks she is to run to and fro between our houses she is much mistaken. i, for one, have no liking for spies." he then added as he took up his microscope, "when the rest of you agree to give five francs per month toward her support we will do the same." gervaise was calmer now; these people always chilled the very marrow in her bones, and she went on to explain her views. five francs were not enough for each of the old lady's children to pay. she could not live on fifteen francs per month. "and why not?" cried lorilleux. "she ought to do so. she can see well enough to find the best bits in a dish before her, and she can do something toward her own maintenance." if he had the means to indulge such laziness he should not consider it his duty to do so, he added. then gervaise grew angry again. she looked at her sister-in-law and saw her face set in vindictive firmness. "keep your money," she cried. "i will take care of your mother. i found a starving cat in the street the other night and took it in. i can take in your mother too. she shall want for nothing. good heavens, what people!" mme lorilleux snatched up a saucepan. "clear out," she said hoarsely. "i will never give one sou--no, not one sou--toward her keep. i understand you! you will make my mother work for you like a slave and put my five francs in your pocket! not if i know it, madame! and if she goes to live under your roof i will never see her again. be off with you, i say!" "what a monster!" cried gervaise as she shut the door with a bang. on the very next day mme coupeau came to her. a large bed was put in the room where nana slept. the moving did not take long, for the old lady had only this bed, a wardrobe, table and two chairs. the table was sold and the chairs new-seated, and the old lady the evening of her arrival washed the dishes and swept up the room, glad to make herself useful. mme lerat had amused herself by quarreling with her sister, to whom she had expressed her admiration of the generosity evinced by gervaise, and when she saw that mme lorilleux was intensely exasperated she declared she had never seen such eyes in anybody's head as those of the clearstarcher. she really believed one might light paper at them. this declaration naturally led to bitter words, and the sisters parted, swearing they would never see each other again, and since then mme lerat had spent most of her evenings at her brother's. three years passed away. there were reconciliations and new quarrels. gervaise continued to be liked by her neighbors; she paid her bills regularly and was a good customer. when she went out she received cordial greetings on all sides, and she was more fond of going out in these days than of yore. she liked to stand at the corners and chat. she liked to loiter with her arms full of bundles at a neighbor's window and hear a little gossip. chapter vi goujet at his forge one autumnal afternoon gervaise, who had been to carry a basket of clothes home to a customer who lived a good way off, found herself in la rue des poissonniers just as it was growing dark. it had rained in the morning, and the air was close and warm. she was tired with her walk and felt a great desire for something good to eat. just then she lifted her eyes and, seeing the name of the street, she took it into her head that she would call on goujet at his forge. but she would ask for etienne, she said to herself. she did not know the number, but she could find it, she thought. she wandered along and stood bewildered, looking toward montmartre; all at once she heard the measured click of hammers and concluded that she had stumbled on the place at last. she did not know where the entrance to the building was, but she caught a gleam of a red light in the distance; she walked toward it and was met by a workman. "is it here, sir," she said timidly, "that my child--a little boy, that is to say--works? a little boy by the name of etienne?" "etienne! etienne!" repeated the man, swaying from side to side. the wind brought from him to her an intolerable smell of brandy, which caused gervaise to draw back and say timidly: "is it here that monsieur goujet works?" "ah, goujet, yes. if it is goujet you wish to see go to the left." gervaise obeyed his instructions and found herself in a large room with the forge at the farther end. she spoke to the first man she saw, when suddenly the whole room was one blaze of light. the bellows had sent up leaping flames which lit every crevice and corner of the dusty old building, and gervaise recognized goujet before the forge with two other men. she went toward him. "madame gervaise!" he exclaimed in surprise, his face radiant with joy, and then seeing his companions laugh and wink, he pushed etienne toward his mother. "you came to see your boy," he said; "he does his duty like a hero. "i am glad of it," she answered, "but what an awful place this is to get at!" and she described her journey, as she called it, and then asked why no one seemed to know etienne there. "because," said the blacksmith, "he is called zou zou here, as his hair is cut short as a zouave's." this visit paid by gervaise to the forge was only the first of many others. she often went on saturdays when she carried the clean linen to mme goujet, who still resided in the same house as before. the first year gervaise had paid them twenty francs each month, or rather the difference between the amount of their washing, seven or eight francs, and the twenty which she agreed upon. in this way she had paid half the money she had borrowed, when one quarter day, not knowing to whom to turn, as she had not been able to collect her bills punctually, she ran to the goujets' and borrowed the amount of her rent from them. twice since she had asked a similar favor, so that the amount of her indebtedness now stood at four hundred and twenty-five francs. now she no longer paid any cash but did their washing. it was not that she worked less hard or that her business was falling off. quite the contrary; but money had a way of melting away in her hands, and she was content nowadays if she could only make both ends meet. what was the use of fussing, she thought? if she could manage to live that was all that was necessary. she was growing quite stout withal. mme goujet was always kind to gervaise, not because of any fear of losing her money, but because she really loved her and was afraid of her going wrong in some way. the saturday after the first visit paid by gervaise to the forge was also the first of the month. when she reached mme goujet's her basket was so heavy that she panted for two good minutes before she could speak. every one knows how heavy shirts and such things are. "have you brought everything?" asked mme goujet, who was very exacting on this point. she insisted on every piece being returned each week. another thing she exacted was that the clothes should be brought back always on the same day and hour. "everything is here," answered gervaise with a smile. "you know i never leave anything behind." "that is true," replied the elder woman. "you have many faults, my dear, but not that one yet." and while the laundress emptied her basket, laying the linen on the bed, mme goujet paid her many compliments. she never burned her clothes or ironed off the buttons or tore them, but she did use a trifle too much bluing and made her shirts too stiff. "feel," she said; "it is like pasteboard. my son never complains, but i know he does not like them so." "and they shall not be so again," said gervaise. "no one ever touches any of your things but myself, and i would do them over ten times rather than see you dissatisfied." she colored as she spoke. "i have no intention of disparaging your work," answered mme goujet. "i never saw anyone who did up laces and embroideries as you do, and the fluting is simply perfect; the only trouble is a little too much starch, my dear. goujet does not care to look like a fine gentleman." she took up her book and drew a pen through the pieces as she spoke. everything was there. she brought out the bundle of soiled clothes. gervaise put them in her basket and hesitated. "madame goujet," she said at last, "if you do not mind i should like to have the money for this week's wash." the account this month was larger than usual, ten francs and over. mme goujet looked at her gravely. "my child," she said slowly, "it shall be as you wish. i do not refuse to give you the money if you desire it; only this is not the way to get out of debt. i say this with no unkindness, you understand. only you must take care." gervaise, with downcast eyes, received the lesson meekly. she needed the ten francs to complete the amount due the coal merchant, she said. but her friend heard this with a stern countenance and told her she should reduce her expenses, but she did not add that she, too, intended to do the same and that in future she should do her washing herself, as she had formerly done, if she were to be out of pocket thus. when gervaise was on the staircase her heart was light, for she cared little for the reproof now that she had the ten francs in her hand; she was becoming accustomed to paying one debt by contracting another. midway on the stairs she met a tall woman coming up with a fresh mackerel in her hand, and behold! it was virginie, the girl whom she had whipped in the lavatory. the two looked each other full in the face. gervaise instinctively closed her eyes, for she thought the girl would slap her in the face with the mackerel. but, no; virginie gave a constrained smile. then the laundress, whose huge basket filled up the stairway and who did not choose to be outdone in politeness, said: "i beg your pardon--" "pray don't apologize," answered virginie in a stately fashion. and they stood and talked for a few minutes with not the smallest allusion, however, to the past. virginie, then about twenty-nine, was really a magnificent-looking woman, head well set on her shoulders and a long, oval face crowned by bands of glossy black hair. she told her history in a few brief words. she was married. had married the previous spring a cabinetmaker who had given up his trade and was hoping to obtain a position on the police force. she had just been out to buy this mackerel for him. "he adores them," she said, "and we women spoil our husbands, i think. but come up. we are standing in a draft here." when gervaise had, in her turn, told her story and added that virginie was living in the very rooms where she had lived and where her child was born, virginie became still more urgent that she should go up. "it is always pleasant to see a place where one has been happy," she said. she herself had been living on the other side of the water but had got tired of it and had moved into these rooms only two weeks ago. she was not settled yet. her name was mme poisson. "and mine," said gervaise, "is coupeau." gervaise was a little suspicious of all this courtesy. might not some terrible revenge be hidden under it all? and she determined to be well on her guard. but as virginie was so polite just now she must be polite in her turn. poisson, the husband, was a man of thirty-five with a mustache and imperial; he was seated at a table near the window, making little boxes. his only tools were a penknife, a tiny saw and a gluepot; he was executing the most wonderful and delicate carving, however. he never sold his work but made presents of it to his friends. it amused him while he was awaiting his appointment. poisson rose and bowed politely to gervaise, whom his wife called an old friend. but he did not speak, his conversational powers not being his strong point. he cast a plaintive glance at the mackerel, however, from time to time. gervaise looked around the room and described her furniture and where it had stood. how strange it was, after losing sight of each other so long, that they should occupy the same apartment! virginie entered into new details. he had a small inheritance from his aunt, and she herself sewed a little, made a dress now and then. at the end of a half-hour gervaise rose to depart; virginie went to the head of the stairs with her, and there both hesitated. gervaise fancied that virginie wished to say something about lantier and adele, but they separated without touching on these disagreeable topics. this was the beginning of a great friendship. in another week virginie could not pass the shop without going in, and sometimes she remained for two or three hours. at first gervaise was very uncomfortable; she thought every time virginie opened her lips that she would hear lantier's name. lantier was in her mind all the time she was with mme poisson. it was a stupid thing to do, after all, for what on earth did she care what had become of lantier or of adele? but she was, nonetheless, curious to know something about them. winter had come, the fourth winter that the coupeaus had spent in la rue de la goutte-d'or. this year december and january were especially severe, and after new year's the snow lay three weeks in the street without melting. there was plenty of work for gervaise, and her shop was delightfully warm and singularly quiet, for the carriages made no noise in the snow-covered streets. the laughs and shouts of the children were almost the only sounds; they had made a long slide and enjoyed themselves hugely. gervaise took especial pleasure in her coffee at noon. her apprentices had no reason to complain, for it was hot and strong and unadulterated by chicory. on the morning of twelfth-day the clock had struck twelve and then half past, and the coffee was not ready. gervaise was ironing some muslin curtains. clemence, with a frightful cold, was, as usual, at work on a man's shirt. mme putois was ironing a skirt on a board, with a cloth laid on the floor to prevent the skirt from being soiled. mamma coupeau brought in the coffee, and as each one of the women took a cup with a sigh of enjoyment the street door opened and virginie came in with a rush of cold air. "heavens!" she cried. "it is awful! my ears are cut off!" "you have come just in time for a cup of hot coffee," said gervaise cordially. "and i shall be only too glad to have it!" answered virginie with a shiver. she had been waiting at the grocer's, she said, until she was chilled through and through. the heat of that room was delicious, and then she stirred her coffee and said she liked the damp, sweet smell of the freshly ironed linen. she and mamma coupeau were the only ones who had chairs; the others sat on wooden footstools, so low that they seemed to be on the floor. virginie suddenly stooped down to her hostess and said with a smile: "do you remember that day at the lavatory?" gervaise colored; she could not answer. this was just what she had been dreading. in a moment she felt sure she would hear lantier's name. she knew it was coming. virginie drew nearer to her. the apprentices lingered over their coffee and told each other as they looked stupidly into the street what they would do if they had an income of ten thousand francs. virginie changed her seat and took a footstool by the side of gervaise, who felt weak and cowardly and helpless to change the conversation or to stave off what was coming. she breathlessly awaited the next words, her heart big with an emotion which she would not acknowledge to herself. "i do not wish to give you any pain," said virginie blandly. "twenty times the words have been on my lips, but i hesitated. pray don't think i bear you any malice." she tipped up her cup and drank the last drop of her coffee. gervaise, with her heart in her mouth, waited in a dull agony of suspense, asking herself if virginie could have forgiven the insult in the lavatory. there was a glitter in the woman's eyes she did not like. "you had an excuse," virginie added as she placed her cup on the table. "you had been abominably treated. i should have killed someone." and then, dropping her little-affected tone, she continued more rapidly: "they were not happy, i assure you, not at all happy. they lived in a dirty street, where the mud was up to their knees. i went to breakfast with them two days after he left you and found them in the height of a quarrel. you know that adele is a wretch. she is my sister, to be sure, but she is a wretch all the same. as to lantier--well, you know him, so i need not describe him. but for a yes or a no he would not hesitate to thresh any woman that lives. oh, they had a beautiful time! their quarrels were heard all over the neighborhood. one day the police were sent for, they made such a hubbub." she talked on and on, telling things that were enough to make the hair stand up on one's head. gervaise listened, as pale as death, with a nervous trembling of her lips which might have been taken for a smile. for seven years she had never heard lantier's name, and she would not have believed that she could have felt any such overwhelming agitation. she could no longer be jealous of adele, but she smiled grimly as she thought of the blows she had received in her turn from lantier, and she would have listened for hours to all that virginia had to tell, but she did not ask a question for some time. finally she said: "and do they still live in that same place?" "no indeed! but i have not told you all yet. they separated a week ago." "separated!" exclaimed the clearstarcher. "who is separated?" asked clemence, interrupting her conversation with mamma coupeau. "no one," said virginie, "or at least no one whom you know." as she spoke she looked at gervaise and seemed to take a positive delight in disturbing her still more. she suddenly asked her what she would do or say if lantier should suddenly make his appearance, for men were so strange; no one could ever tell what they would do. lantier was quite capable of returning to his old love. then gervaise interrupted her and rose to the occasion. she answered with grave dignity that she was married now and that if lantier should appear she would ask him to leave. there could never be anything more between them, not even the most distant acquaintance. "i know very well," she said, "that etienne belongs to him, and if lantier desires to see his son i shall place no obstacle in his way. but as to myself, madame poisson, he shall never touch my little finger again! it is finished." as she uttered these last words she traced a cross in the air to seal her oath, and as if desirous to put an end to the conversation, she called out to her women: "do you think the ironing will be done today if you sit still? to work! to work!" the women did not move; they were lulled to apathy by the heat, and gervaise herself found it very difficult to resume her labors. her curtains had dried in all this time, and some coffee had been spilled on them, and she must wash out the spots. "au revoir!" said virginie. "i came out to buy a half pound of cheese. poisson will think i am frozen to death!" the better part of the day was now gone, and it was this way every day, for the shop was the refuge and haunt of all the chilly people in the neighborhood. gervaise liked the reputation of having the most comfortable room in the _quartier_, and she held her receptions, as the lorilleux and boche clique said, with a sniff of disdain. she would, in fact, have liked to bring in the very poor whom she saw shivering outside. she became very friendly toward a journeyman painter, an old man of seventy, who lived in a loft of the house, where he shivered with cold and hunger. he had lost his three sons in the crimea, and for two years his hand had been so cramped by rheumatism that he could not hold a brush. whenever gervaise saw father bru she called him in, made a place for him near the stove and gave him some bread and cheese. father bru, with his white beard and his face wrinkled like an old apple, sat in silent content for hours at a time, enjoying the warmth and the crackling of the coke. "what are you thinking about?" gervaise would say gaily. "of nothing--of all sorts of things," he would reply with a dazed air. the workwomen laughed and thought it a good joke to ask if he were in love. he paid little heed to them but relapsed into silent thought. from this time virginie often spoke to gervaise of lantier, and one day she said she had just met him. but as the clearstarcher made no reply virginie then said no more. but on the next day she returned to the subject and told her that he had talked long and tenderly of her. gervaise was much troubled by these whispered conversations in the corner of her shop. the name of lantier made her faint and sick at heart. she believed herself to be an honest woman. she meant, in every way, to do right and to shun the wrong, because she felt that only in doing so could she be happy. she did not think much of coupeau because she was conscious of no shortcomings toward him. but she thought of her friend at the forge, and it seemed to her that this return of her interest in lantier, faint and undecided as it was, was an infidelity to goujet and to that tender friendship which had become so very precious to her. her heart was much troubled in these days. she dwelt on that time when her first lover left her. she imagined another day when, quitting adele, he might return to her--with that old familiar trunk. when she went into the street it was with a spasm of terror. she fancied that every step behind her was lantier's. she dared not look around lest his hand should glide about her waist. he might be watching for her at any time. he might come to her door in the afternoon, and this idea brought a cold sweat to her forehead, because he would certainly kiss her on her ear as he had often teased her by doing in the years gone by. it was this kiss she dreaded. its dull reverberation deafened her to all outside sounds, and she could hear only the beatings of her own heart. when these terrors assailed her the forge was her only asylum, from whence she returned smiling and serene, feeling that goujet, whose sonorous hammer had put all her bad dreams to flight, would protect her always. what a happy season this was after all! the clearstarcher always carried a certain basket of clothes to her customer each week, because it gave her a pretext for going into the forge, as it was on her way. as soon as she turned the corner of the street in which it was situated she felt as lighthearted as if she were going to the country. the black charcoal dust in the road, the black smoke rising slowly from the chimneys, interested and pleased her as much as a mossy path through the woods. afar off the forge was red even at midday, and her heart danced in time with the hammers. goujet was expecting her and making more noise than usual, that she might hear him at a great distance. she gave etienne a light tap on his cheek and sat quietly watching these two--this man and boy, who were so dear to her--for an hour without speaking. when the sparks touched her tender skin she rather enjoyed the sensation. he, in his turn, was fully aware of the happiness she felt in being there, and he reserved the work which required skill for the time when she could look on in wonder and admiration. it was an idyl that they were unconsciously enacting all that spring, and when gervaise returned to her home it was in a spirit of sweet content. by degrees her unreasonable fears of lantier were conquered. coupeau was behaving very badly at this time, and one evening as she passed the assommoir she was certain she saw him drinking with mes-bottes. she hurried on lest she should seem to be watching him. but as she hastened she looked over her shoulder. yes, it was coupeau who was tossing down a glass of liquor with an air as if it were no new thing. he had lied to her then; he did drink brandy. she was in utter despair, and all her old horror of brandy returned. wine she could have forgiven--wine was good for a working man--liquor, on the contrary, was his ruin and took from him all desire for the food that nourished and gave him strength for his daily toil. why did not the government interfere and prevent the manufacture of such pernicious things? when she reached her home she found the whole house in confusion. her employees had left their work and were in the courtyard. she asked what the matter was. "it is father bijard beating his wife; he is as drunk as a fool, and he drove her up the stairs to her room, where he is murdering her. just listen!" gervaise flew up the stairs. she was very fond of mme bijard, who was her laundress and whose courage and industry she greatly admired. on the sixth floor a little crowd was assembled. mme boche stood at an open door. "have done!" she cried. "have done, or the police will be summoned." no one dared enter the room, because bijard was well known to be like a madman when he was tipsy. he was rarely thoroughly sober, and on the occasional days when he condescended to work he always had a bottle of brandy at his side. he rarely ate anything, and if a match had been touched to his mouth he would have taken fire like a torch. "would you let her be killed?" exclaimed gervaise, trembling from head to foot, and she entered the attic room, which was very clean and very bare, for the man had sold the very sheets off the bed to satisfy his mad passion for drink. in this terrible struggle for life the table had been thrown over, and the two chairs also. on the floor lay the poor woman with her skirts drenched as she had come from the washtub, her hair streaming over her bloody face, uttering low groans at each kick the brute gave her. the neighbors whispered to each other that she had refused to give him the money she had earned that day. boche called up the staircase to his wife: "come down, i say; let him kill her if he will. it will only make one fool the less in the world!" father bru followed gervaise into the room, and the two expostulated with the madman. but he turned toward them, pale and threatening; a white foam glistened on his lips, and in his faded eyes there was a murderous expression. he grasped father bru by the shoulder and threw him over the table and shook gervaise until her teeth chattered and then returned to his wife, who lay motionless, with her mouth wide open and her eyes closed; and during this frightful scene little lalie, four years old, was in the corner, looking on at the murder of her mother. the child's arms were round her sister henriette, a baby who had just been weaned. she stood with a sad, solemn face and serious, melancholy eyes but shed no tears. when bijard slipped and fell gervaise and father bru helped the poor creature to her feet, who then burst into sobs. lalie went to her side, but she did not cry, for the child was already habituated to such scenes. and as gervaise went down the stairs she was haunted by the strange look of resignation and courage in lalie's eyes; it was an expression belonging to maturity and experience rather than to childhood. "your husband is on the other side of the street," said clemence as soon as she saw gervaise; "he is as tipsy as possible!" coupeau reeled in, breaking a square of glass with his shoulder as he missed the doorway. he was not tipsy but drunk, with his teeth set firmly together and a pinched expression about the nose. and gervaise instantly knew that it was the liquor of the assommoir which had vitiated his blood. she tried to smile and coaxed him to go to bed. but he shook her off and as he passed her gave her a blow. he was just like the other--the beast upstairs who was now snoring, tired out by beating his wife. she was chilled to the heart and desperate. were all men alike? she thought of lantier and of her husband and wondered if there was no happiness in the world. chapter vii a birthday fete the nineteenth of june was the clearstarcher's birthday. there was always an excuse for a fete in the coupeau mansion; saints were invented to serve as a pretext for idleness and festivities. virginie highly commended gervaise for living luxuriously. what was the use of her husband drinking up everything? why should she save for her husband to spend at all the wineshops in the neighborhood? and gervaise accepted this excuse. she was growing very indolent and much stouter, while her lameness had perceptibly increased. for a whole month they discussed the preparation for this fete; they talked over dishes and licked their lips. they must have something out of the common way. gervaise was much troubled as to whom she should invite. she wanted exactly twelve at table, not one more or one less. she, her husband, her mother-in-law and mme lerat were four. the goujets and poissons were four more. at first she thought she would not ask her two women, mme putois and clemence, lest it should make them too familiar, but as the entertainment was constantly under discussion before them she ended by inviting them too. thus there were ten; she must have two more. she decided on a reconciliation with the lorilleuxs, who had extended the olive branch several times lately. family quarrels were bad things, she said. when the boche people heard of this they showed several little courtesies to gervaise, who felt obliged to urge them to come also. this made fourteen without counting the children. she had never had a dinner like this, and she was both triumphant and terrified. the nineteenth fell on a monday, and gervaise thought it very fortunate, as she could begin her cooking on sunday afternoon. on saturday, while the women hurried through their work, there was an endless discussion as to what the dishes should be. in the last three weeks only one thing had been definitely decided upon--a roast goose stuffed with onions. the goose had been purchased, and mme coupeau brought it in that mme putois might guess its weight. the thing looked enormous, and the fat seemed to burst from its yellow skin. "soup before that, of course," said gervaise, "and we must have another dish." clemence proposed rabbits, but gervaise wanted something more distinguished. mme putois suggested a _blanquette du veau_. that was a new idea. veal was always good too. then mme coupeau made an allusion to fish, which no one seconded. evidently fish was not in favor. gervaise proposed a sparerib of pork and potatoes, which brightened all their faces, just as virginie came in like a whirlwind. "you are just in season. mamma coupeau, show her the goose," cried gervaise. virginie admired it, guessed the weight and laid it down on the ironing table between an embroidered skirt and a pile of shirts. she was evidently thinking of something else. she soon led gervaise into the back shop. "i have come to warn you," she said quickly. "i just met lantier at the very end of this street, and i am sure he followed me, and i naturally felt alarmed on your account, my dear." gervaise turned very pale. what did he want of her? and why on earth should he worry her now amid all the busy preparations for the fete? it seemed as if she never in her life had set her heart on anything that she was not disappointed. why was it that she could never have a minute's peace? but virginie declared that she would look out for her. if lantier followed her she would certainly give him over to the police. her husband had been in office now for a month, and virginie was very dictatorial and aggressive and talked of arresting everyone who displeased her. she raised her voice as she spoke, but gervaise implored her to be cautious, because her women could hear every word. they went back to the front shop, and she was the first to speak. "we have said nothing of vegetables," she said quietly. "peas, with a bit of pork," said virginie authoritatively. this was agreed upon with enthusiasm. the next day at three mamma coupeau lighted the two furnaces belonging to the house and a third one borrowed from mme boche, and at half-past three the soup was gently simmering in a large pot lent by the restaurant at the corner. they had decided to cook the veal and the pork the day previous, as those two dishes could be warmed up so well, and would leave for monday only the goose to roast and the vegetables. the back shop was ruddy with the glow from the three furnaces--sauces were bubbling with a strong smell of browned flour. mamma coupeau and gervaise, each with large white aprons, were washing celery and running hither and thither with pepper and salt or hurriedly turning the veal with flat wooden sticks made for the purpose. they had told coupeau pleasantly that his room was better than his company, but they had plenty of people there that afternoon. the smell of the cooking found its way out into the street and up through the house, and the neighbors, impelled by curiosity, came down on all sorts of pretexts, merely to discover what was going on. about five virginie made her appearance. she had seen lantier twice. indeed, it was impossible nowadays to enter the street and not see him. mme boche, too, had spoken to him on the corner below. then gervaise, who was on the point of going for a sou's worth of fried onions to season her soup, shuddered from head to foot and said she would not go out ever again. the concierge and virginie added to her terror by a succession of stories of men who lay in wait for women, with knives and pistols hidden in their coats. such things were read every day in the papers! when such a scamp as lantier found a woman happy and comfortable, he was always wretched until he had made her so too. virginie said she would go for the onions. "women," she observed sententiously, "should protect each other, as well as serve each other, in such matters." when she returned she reported that lantier was no longer there. the conversation around the stove that evening never once drifted from that subject. mme boche said that she, under similar circumstances, should tell her husband, but gervaise was horror-struck at this and begged her never to breathe one single word about it. besides, she fancied her husband had caught a glimpse of lantier from something he had muttered amid a volley of oaths two or three nights before. she was filled with dread lest these two men should meet. she knew coupeau so well that she had long since discovered that he was still jealous of lantier, and while the four women discussed the imminent danger of a terrible tragedy the sauces and the meats hissed and simmered on the furnaces, and they ended by each taking a cup of soup to discover what improvement was desirable. monday arrived. now that gervaise had invited fourteen to dine, she began to be afraid there would not be room and finally decided to lay the table in the shop. she was uncertain how to place the table, which was the ironing table on trestles. in the midst of the hubbub and confusion a customer arrived and made a scene because her linen had not come home on the friday previous. she insisted on having every piece that moment--clean or dirty, ironed or rough-dry. then gervaise, to excuse herself, told a lie with wonderful _sang-froid_. it was not her fault. she was cleaning her rooms. her women would be at work again the next day, and she got rid of her customer, who went away soothed by the promise that her wash would be sent to her early the following morning. but gervaise lost her temper, which was not a common thing with her, and as soon as the woman's back was turned called her by an opprobrious name and declared that if she did as people wished she could not take time to eat and vowed she would not have an iron heated that day or the next in her establishment. no! not if the grand turk himself should come and entreat her on his knees to do up a collar for him. she meant to enjoy herself a little occasionally! the entire morning was consumed in making purchases. three times did gervaise go out and come in, laden with bundles. but when she went the fourth time for the wine she discovered that she had not money enough. she could have got the wine on credit, but she could not be without money in the house, for a thousand little unexpected expenses arise at such times, and she and her mother-in-law racked their brains to know what they should do to get the twenty francs they considered necessary. mme coupeau, who had once been housekeeper for an actress, was the first to speak of the mont-de-piete. gervaise laughed gaily. "to be sure! why had she not thought of it before?" she folded her black silk dress and pinned it in a napkin; then she hid the bundle under her mother-in-law's apron and bade her keep it very flat, lest the neighbors, who were so terribly inquisitive, should find it out, and then she watched the old woman from the door to see that no one followed her. but when mamma coupeau had gone a few steps gervaise called her back into the shop and, taking her wedding ring from her finger, said: "take this, too, for we shall need all the money we can get today." and when the old woman came back with twenty-five francs she clapped her hands with joy. she ordered six bottles of wine with seals to drink with the roast. the lorilleuxs would be green with envy. for a fortnight this had been her idea, to crush the lorilleuxs, who were never known to ask a friend to their table; who, on the contrary, locked their doors when they had anything special to eat. gervaise wanted to give her a lesson and would have liked to offer the strangers who passed her door a seat at her table. money was a very good thing and mighty pretty to look at, but it was good for nothing but to spend. mamma coupeau and gervaise began to lay their table at three o'clock. they had hung curtains before the windows, but as the day was warm the door into the street was open. the two women did not put on a plate or salt spoon without the avowed intention of worrying the lorilleuxs. they had given them seats where the table could be seen to the best advantage, and they placed before them the real china plates. "no, no, mamma," cried gervaise, "not those napkins. i have two which are real damask." "well! well! i declare!" murmured the old woman. "what will they say to all this?" and they smiled as they stood at opposite sides of this long table with its glossy white cloth and its places for fourteen carefully laid. they worshiped there as if it had been a chapel erected in the middle of the shop. "how false they are!" said gervaise. "do you remember how she declared she had lost a piece of one of the chains when she was carrying them home? that was only to get out of giving you your five francs." "which i have never had from them but just twice," muttered the old woman. "i will wager that next month they will invent another tale. that is one reason why they lock their doors when they have a rabbit. they think people might say, 'if you can eat rabbits you can give five francs to your mother!' how mean they are! what do they think would have become of you if i had not asked you to come and live here?" her mother-in-law shook her head. she was rather severe in her judgment of the lorilleuxs that day, inasmuch as she was influenced by the gorgeous entertainment given by the coupeaus. she liked the excitement; she liked to cook. she generally lived pretty well with gervaise, but on those days which occur in all households, when the dinner was scanty and unsatisfactory, she called herself a most unhappy woman, left to the mercy of a daughter-in-law. in the depths of her heart she still loved mme lorilleux; she was her eldest child. "you certainly would have weighed some pounds less with her," continued gervaise. "no coffee, no tobacco, no sweets. and do you imagine that they would have put two mattresses on your bed?" "no indeed," answered the old woman, "but i wish to see them when they first come in--just to see how they look!" at four o'clock the goose was roasted, and augustine, seated on a little footstool, was given a long-handled spoon and bidden to watch and baste it every few minutes. gervaise was busy with the peas, and mamma coupeau, with her head a little confused, was waiting until it was time to heat the veal and the pork. at five the guests began to arrive. clemence and mme putois, gorgeous to behold in their sunday rig, were the first. clemence wore a blue dress and had some geraniums in her hand; madame was in black, with a bunch of heliotrope. gervaise, whose hands were covered with flour, put them behind her back, came forward and kissed them cordially. after them came virginie in scarf and hat, though she had only to cross the street; she wore a printed muslin and was as imposing as any lady in the land. she brought a pot of red carnations and put both her arms around her friend and kissed her. the offering brought by boche was a pot of pansies, and his wife's was mignonette; mme lerat's, a lemon verbena. the three furnaces filled the room with an overpowering heat, and the frying potatoes drowned their voices. gervaise was very sweet and smiling, thanking everyone for the flowers, at the same time making the dressing for the salad. the perfume of the flowers was perceived above all the smell of cooking. "can't i help you?" said virginie. "it is a shame to have you work so hard for three days on all these things that we shall gobble up in no time." "no indeed," answered gervaise; "i am nearly through." the ladies covered the bed with their shawls and bonnets and then went into the shop that they might be out of the way and talked through the open door with much noise and loud laughing. at this moment goujet appeared and stood timidly on the threshold with a tall white rosebush in his arms whose flowers brushed against his yellow beard. gervaise ran toward him with her cheeks reddened by her furnaces. she took the plant, crying: "how beautiful!" he dared not kiss her, and she was compelled to offer her cheek to him, and both were embarrassed. he told her in a confused way that his mother was ill with sciatica and could not come. gervaise was greatly disappointed, but she had no time to say much just then: she was beginning to be anxious about coupeau--he ought to be in--then, too, where were the lorilleuxs? she called mme lerat, who had arranged the reconciliation, and bade her go and see. mme lerat put on her hat and shawl with excessive care and departed. a solemn hush of expectation pervaded the room. mme lerat presently reappeared. she had come round by the street to give a more ceremonious aspect to the affair. she held the door open while mme lorilleux, in a silk dress, stood on the threshold. all the guests rose, and gervaise went forward to meet her sister and kissed her, as had been agreed upon. "come in! come in!" she said. "we are friends again." "and i hope for always," answered her sister-in-law severely. after she was ushered in the same program had to be followed out with her husband. neither of the two brought any flowers. they had refused to do so, saying that it would look as if they were bowing down to wooden legs. gervaise summoned augustine and bade her bring some wine and then filled glasses for all the party, and each drank the health of the family. "it is a good thing before soup," muttered boche. mamma coupeau drew gervaise into the next room. "did you see her?" she said eagerly. "i was watching her, and when she saw the table her face was as long as my arm, and now she is gnawing her lips; she is so mad!" it was true the lorilleuxs could not stand that table with its white linen, its shining glass and square piece of bread at each place. it was like a restaurant on the boulevard, and mme lorilleux felt of the cloth stealthily to ascertain if it were new. "we are all ready," cried gervaise, reappearing and pulling down her sleeves over her white arms. "where can coupeau be?" she continued. "he is always late! he always forgets!" muttered his sister. gervaise was in despair. everything would be spoiled. she proposed that someone should go out and look for him. goujet offered to go, and she said she would accompany him. virginie followed, all three bareheaded. everyone looked at them, so gay and fresh on a week-day. virginie in her pink muslin and gervaise in a white cambric with blue spots and a gray silk handkerchief knotted round her throat. they went to one wineshop after another, but no coupeau. suddenly, as they went toward the boulevard, his wife uttered an exclamation. "what is the matter?" asked goujet. the clearstarcher was very pale and so much agitated that she could hardly stand. virginie knew at once and, leaning over her, looked in at the restaurant and saw lantier quietly dining. "i turned my foot," said gervaise when she could speak. finally at the assommoir they found coupeau and poisson. they were standing in the center of an excited crowd. coupeau, in a gray blouse, was quarreling with someone, and poisson, who was not on duty that day, was listening quietly, his red mustache and imperial giving him, however, quite a formidable aspect. goujet left the women outside and, going in, placed his hand on coupeau's shoulder, who, when he saw his wife and virginie, fell into a great rage. no, he would not move! he would not stand being followed about by women in this way! they might go home and eat their rubbishy dinner themselves! he did not want any of it! to appease him goujet was compelled to drink with him, and finally he persuaded him to go with him. but when he was outside he said to gervaise: "i am not going home; you need not think it!" she did not reply. she was trembling from head to foot. she had been speaking of lantier to virginie and begged the other to go on in front, while the two women walked on either side of coupeau to prevent him from seeing lantier as they passed the open window where he sat eating his dinner. but coupeau knew that lantier was there, for he said: "there's a fellow i know, and you know him too!" he then went on to accuse her, with many a coarse word, of coming out to look, not for him, but for her old lover, and then all at once he poured out a torrent of abuse upon lantier, who, however, never looked up or appeared to hear it. virginie at last coaxed coupeau on, whose rage disappeared when they turned the corner of the street. they returned to the shop, however, in a very different mood from the one in which they had left it and found the guests, with very long faces, awaiting them. coupeau shook hands with the ladies in succession, with difficulty keeping his feet as he did so, and gervaise, in a choked voice, begged them to take their seats. but suddenly she perceived that mme goujet not having come, there was an empty seat next to mme lorilleux. "we are thirteen," she said, much disturbed, as she fancied this to be an additional proof of the misfortune which for some time she had felt to be hanging over them. the ladies, who were seated, started up. mme putois offered to leave because, she said, no one should fly in the face of destiny; besides, she was not hungry. as to boche, he laughed, and said it was all nonsense. "wait!" cried gervaise. "i will arrange it." and rushing out on the sidewalk, she called to father bru, who was crossing the street, and the old man followed her into the room. "sit there," said the clearstarcher. "you are willing to dine with us, are you not?" he nodded acquiescence. "he will do as well as another," she continued in a low voice. "he rarely, if ever, had as much as he wanted to eat, and it will be a pleasure to us to see him enjoy his dinner." goujet's eyes were damp, so much was he touched by the kind way in which gervaise spoke, and the others felt that it would bring them good luck. mme lorilleux was the only one who seemed displeased. she drew her skirts away and looked down with disgusted mien upon the patched blouse at her side. gervaise served the soup, and the guests were just lifting their spoons to their mouths when virginie noticed that coupeau had disappeared. he had probably returned to the more congenial society at the assommoir, and someone said he might stay in the street; certainly no one would go after him, but just as they had swallowed the soup coupeau appeared bearing two pots, one under each arm--a balsam and a wallflower. all the guests clapped their hands. he placed them on either side of gervaise and, kissing her, he said: "i forgot you, my dear, but all the same i loved you very much." "monsieur coupeau is very amiable tonight; he has taken just enough to make him good natured," whispered one of the guests. this little act on the part of the host brought back the smiles to the faces around the table. the wine began to circulate, and the voices of the children were heard in the next room. etienne, nana, pauline and little victor fauconnier were installed at a small table and were told to be very good. when the _blanquette du veau_ was served the guests were moved to enthusiasm. it was now half-past seven. the door of the shop was shut to keep out inquisitive eyes, and curtains hung before the windows. the veal was a great success; the sauce was delicious and the mushrooms extraordinarily good. then came the sparerib of pork. of course all these good things demanded a large amount of wine. in the next room at the children's table nana was playing the mistress of the household. she was seated at the head of the table and for a while was quite dignified, but her natural gluttony made her forget her good manners when she saw augustine stealing the peas from the plate, and she slapped the girl vehemently. "take care, mademoiselle," said augustine sulkily, "or i will tell your mother that i heard you ask victor to kiss you." now was the time for the goose. two lamps were placed on the table, one at each end, and the disorder was very apparent: the cloth was stained and spotted. gervaise left the table to reappear presently, bearing the goose in triumph. lorilleux and his wife exchanged a look of dismay. "who will cut it?" said the clearstarcher. "no, not i. it is too big for me to manage!" coupeau said he could do it. after all, it was a simple thing enough--he should just tear it to pieces. there was a cry of dismay. mme lerat had an inspiration. "monsieur poisson is the man," she said; "of course he understands the use of arms." and she handed the sergeant the carving knife. poisson made a stiff inclination of his whole body and drew the dish toward him and went to work in a slow, methodical fashion. as he thrust his knife into the breast lorilleux was seized with momentary patriotism, and he exclaimed: "if it were only a cossack!" at last the goose was carved and distributed, and the whole party ate as if they were just beginning their dinner. presently there was a grand outcry about the heat, and coupeau opened the door into the street. gervaise devoured large slices of the breast, hardly speaking, but a little ashamed of her own gluttony in the presence of goujet. she never forgot old bru, however, and gave him the choicest morsels, which he swallowed unconsciously, his palate having long since lost the power of distinguishing flavors. mamma coupeau picked a bone with her two remaining teeth. and the wine! good heavens, how much they drank! a pile of empty bottles stood in the corner. when mme putois asked for water coupeau himself removed the carafes from the table. no one should drink water, he declared, in his house--did she want to swallow frogs and live things?--and he filled up all the glasses. hypocrites might talk as much as they pleased; the juice of the grape was a mighty good thing and a famous invention! the guests all laughed and approved; working people must have their wine, they said, and father noah had planted the vine for them especially. wine gave courage and strength for work; and if it chanced that a man sometimes took a drop too much, in the end it did him no harm, and life looked brighter to him for a time. goujet himself, who was usually so prudent and abstemious, was becoming a little excited. boche was growing red, and the lorilleux pair very pale, while poisson assumed a solemn and severe aspect. the men were all more or less tipsy, and the ladies--well, the less we say of the ladies, the better. suddenly gervaise remembered the six bottles of sealed wine she had omitted to serve with the goose as she had intended. she produced them amid much applause. the glasses were filled anew, and poisson rose and proposed the health of their hostess. "and fifty more birthdays!" cried virginie. "no, no," answered gervaise with a smile that had a touch of sadness in it. "i do not care to live to be very old. there comes a time when one is glad to go!" a little crowd had collected outside and smiled at the scene, and the smell of the goose pervaded the whole street. the clerks in the grocery opposite licked their lips and said it was good and curiously estimated the amount of wine that had been consumed. none of the guests were annoyed by being the subjects of observation, although they were fully aware of it and, in fact, rather enjoyed it. coupeau, catching sight of a familiar face, held up a bottle, which, being accepted with a nod, he sent it out with a glass. this established a sort of fraternity with the street. in the next room the children were unmanageable. they had taken possession of a saucepan and were drumming on it with spoons. mamma coupeau and father bru were talking earnestly. the old man was speaking of his two sons who had died in the crimea. ah, had they but lived, he would have had bread to eat in his old age! mme coupeau, whose tongue was a little thick, said: "yes, but one has a good deal of unhappiness with children. many an hour have i wept on account of mine." father bru hardly heard what she said but talked on, half to himself. "i can't get any work to do. i am too old. when i ask for any people laugh and ask if it was i who blacked henri quatre's boots. last year i earned thirty sous by painting a bridge. i had to lie on my back all the time, close to the water, and since then i have coughed incessantly." he looked down at his poor stiff hands and added, "i know i am good for nothing. i wish i was by the side of my boys. it is a great pity that one can't kill one's self when one begins to grow old." "really," said lorilleux, "i cannot see why the government does not do something for people in your condition. men who are disabled--" "but workmen are not soldiers," interrupted poisson, who considered it his duty to espouse the cause of the government. "it is foolish to expect them to do impossibilities." the dessert was served. in the center was a pyramid of spongecake in the form of a temple with melonlike sides, and on the top was an artificial rose with a butterfly of silver paper hovering over it, held by a gilt wire. two drops of gum in the heart of the rose stood for dew. on the left was a deep plate with a bit of cheese, and on the other side of the pyramid was a dish of strawberries, which had been sugared and carefully crushed. in the salad dish there were a few leaves of lettuce left. "madame boche," said gervaise courteously, "pray eat these. i know how fond you are of salad." the concierge shook her head. there were limits even to her capacities, and she looked at the lettuce with regret. clemence told how she had once eaten three quarts of water cresses at her breakfast. mme putois declared that she enjoyed lettuce with a pinch of salt and no dressing, and as they talked the ladies emptied the salad bowl. none of the guests were dismayed at the dessert, although they had eaten so enormously. they had the night before them too; there was no need of haste. the men lit their pipes and drank more wine while they watched gervaise cut the cake. poisson, who prided himself on his knowledge of the habits of good society, rose and took the rose from the top and presented it to the hostess amid the loud applause of the whole party. she fastened it just over her heart, and the butterfly fluttered at every movement. a song was proposed--comic songs were a specialty with boche--and the whole party joined in the chorus. the men kept time with their heels and the women with their knives on their glasses. the windows of the shop jarred with the noise. virginie had disappeared twice, and the third time, when she came back, she said to gervaise: "my dear, he is still at the restaurant and pretends to be reading his paper. i fear he is meditating some mischief." she spoke of lantier. she had been out to see if he were anywhere in the vicinity. gervaise became very grave. "is he tipsy?" she asked. "no indeed, and that is what troubled me. why on earth should he stay there so long if he is not drinking? my heart is in my mouth; i am so afraid something will happen." the clearstarcher begged her to say no more. mme putois started up and began a fierce piratical song, standing stiff and erect in her black dress, her pale face surrounded by her black lace cap, and gesticulating violently. poisson nodded approval. he had been to sea, and he knew all about it. gervaise, assisted by her mother-in-law, now poured out the coffee. her guests insisted on a song from her, declaring that it was her turn. she refused. her face was disturbed and pale, so much so that she was asked if the goose disagreed with her. finally she began to sing a plaintive melody all about dreams and rest. her eyelids half closed as she ended, and she peered out into the darkness. then followed a barcarole from mme boche and a romance from lorilleux, in which figured perfumes of araby, ivory throats, ebony hair, kisses, moonlight and guitars! clemence followed with a song which recalled the country with its descriptions of birds and flowers. virginie brought down the house with her imitation of a vivandiere, standing with her hand on her hip and a wineglass in her hand, which she emptied down her throat as she finished. but the grand success of the evening was goujet, who sang in his rich bass the _"adieux d'abd-et-kader."_ the words issued from his yellow beard like the call of a trumpet and thrilled everyone around the table. virginie whispered to gervaise: "i have just seen lantier pass the door. good heavens! there he is again, standing still and looking in." gervaise caught her breath and timidly turned around. the crowd had increased, attracted by the songs. there were soldiers and shopkeepers and three little girls, five or six years old, holding each other by the hand, grave and silent, struck with wonder and admiration. lantier was directly in front of the door. gervaise met his eyes and felt the very marrow of her bones chilled; she could not move hand or foot. coupeau called for more wine, and clemence helped herself to more strawberries. the singing ceased, and the conversation turned upon a woman who had hanged herself the day before in the next street. it was now mme lerat's turn to amuse the company, but she needed to make certain preparations. she dipped the corner of her napkin into a glass of water and applied it to her temples because she was too warm. then she asked for a teaspoonful of brandy and wiped her lips. "i will sing _'l'enfant du bon dieu,'_" she said pompously. she stood up, with her square shoulders like those of a man, and began: _"l'enfant perdu que sa mere abandonne, troue toujours un asile au saint lieu, dieu qui le voit, le defend de son trone, l'enfant perdu, c'est l'enfant du bon dieu."_ she raised her eyes to heaven and placed one hand on her heart; her voice was not without a certain sympathetic quality, and gervaise, already quivering with emotion caused by the knowledge of lantier's presence, could no longer restrain her tears. it seemed to her that she was the deserted child whom _le bon dieu_ had taken under his care. clemence, who was quite tipsy, burst into loud sobs. the ladies took out their handkerchiefs and pressed them to their eyes, rather proud of their tenderness of heart. the men felt it their duty to respect the feeling shown by the women and were, in fact, somewhat touched themselves. the wine had softened their hearts apparently. gervaise and virginie watched the shadows outside. mme boche, in her turn, now caught a glimpse of lantier and uttered an exclamation as she wiped away her fast-falling tears. the three women exchanged terrified, anxious glances. "good heavens!" muttered virginie. "suppose coupeau should turn around. there would be a murder, i am convinced." and the earnestness of their fixed eyes became so apparent that finally he said: "what are you staring at?" and leaning forward, he, too, saw lantier. "this is too much," he muttered, "the dirty ruffian! it is too much, and i won't have it!" as he started to his feet with an oath, gervaise put her hand on his arm imploringly. "put down that knife," she said, "and do not go out, i entreat of you." virginie took away the knife that coupeau had snatched from the table, but she could not prevent him from going into the street. the other guests saw nothing, so entirely absorbed were they in the touching words which mme lerat was still singing. gervaise sat with her hands clasped convulsively, breathless with fear, expecting to hear a cry of rage from the street and see one of the two men fall to the ground. virginie and mme boche had something of the same feeling. coupeau had been so overcome by the fresh air that when he rushed forward to take lantier by the collar he missed his footing and found himself seated quietly in the gutter. lantier moved aside a little without taking his hands from his pockets. coupeau staggered to his feet again, and a violent quarrel commenced. gervaise pressed her hands over her eyes; suddenly all was quiet, and she opened her eyes again and looked out. to her intense astonishment she saw lantier and her husband talking in a quiet, friendly manner. gervaise exchanged a look with mme boche and virginie. what did this mean? as the women watched them the two men began to walk up and down in front of the shop. they were talking earnestly. coupeau seemed to be urging something, and lantier refusing. finally coupeau took lantier's arm and almost dragged him toward the shop. "i tell you, you must!" he cried. "you shall drink a glass of wine with us. men will be men all the world over. my wife and i know that perfectly well." mme lerat had finished her song and seated herself with the air of being utterly exhausted. she asked for a glass of wine. when she sang that song, she said, she was always torn to pieces, and it left her nerves in a terrible state. lantier had been placed at the table by coupeau and was eating a piece of cake, leisurely dipping it into his glass of wine. with the exception of mme boche and virginie, no one knew him. the lorilleuxs looked at him with some suspicion, which, however, was very far from the mark. an awkward silence followed, broken by coupeau, who said simply: "he is a friend of ours!" and turning to his wife, he added: "can't you move round a little? perhaps there is a cup of hot coffee!" gervaise looked from one to the other. she was literally dazed. when her husband first appeared with her former lover she had clasped her hands over her forehead with that instinctive gesture with which in a great storm one waits for the approach of the thunderclap. it did not seem possible that the walls would not fall and crush them all. then seeing the two men calmly seated together, it all at once seemed perfectly natural to her. she was tired of thinking about it and preferred to accept it. why, after all, should she worry? no one else did. everyone seemed to be satisfied; why should not she be also? the children had fallen asleep in the back room, pauline with her head on etienne's shoulder. gervaise started as her eyes fell on her boy. she was shocked at the thought of his father sitting there eating cake without showing the least desire to see his child. she longed to awaken him and show him to lantier. and then again she had a feeling of passing wonder at the manner in which things settled themselves in this world. she would not disturb the serenity of matters now, so she brought in the coffeepot and poured out a cup for lantier, who received it without even looking up at her as he murmured his thanks. "now it is my turn to sing!" shouted coupeau. his song was one familiar to them all and even to the street, for the little crowd at the door joined in the chorus. the guests within were all more or less tipsy, and there was so much noise that the policemen ran to quell a riot, but when they saw poisson they bowed respectfully and passed on. no one of the party ever knew how or at what hour the festivities terminated. it must have been very late, for there was not a human being in the street when they departed. they vaguely remembered having joined hands and danced around the table. gervaise remembered that lantier was the last to leave, that he passed her as she stood in the doorway. she felt a breath on her cheek, but whether it was his or the night air she could not tell. mme lerat had refused to return to batignolles so late, and a mattress was laid on the floor in the shop near the table. she slept there amid the debris of the feast, and a neighbor's cat profited by an open window to establish herself by her side, where she crunched the bones of the goose all night between her fine, sharp teeth. chapter viii an old acquaintance the following saturday coupeau, who had not been home to dinner, came in with lantier about ten o'clock. they had been eating pigs' feet at a restaurant at montmarte. "don't scold, wife," said coupeau; "we have not been drinking, you see; we can walk perfectly straight." and he went on to say how they had met each other quite by accident in the street and how lantier had refused to drink with him, saying that when a man had married a nice little woman he had no business to throw away his money in that way. gervaise listened with a faint smile; she had no idea of scolding. oh no, it was not worth the trouble, but she was much agitated at seeing the two men together so soon again, and with trembling hands she knotted up her loosened hair. her workwomen had been gone some time. nana and mamma coupeau were in bed, and gervaise, who was just closing her shutters when her husband appeared, brought out some glasses and the remains of a bottle of brandy. lantier did not sit down and avoided addressing her directly. when she served him, however, he exclaimed: "a drop, madame; a mere drop!" coupeau looked at them for a moment and then expressed his mind fully. they were no fools, he said, nor were they children. the past was the past. if people kept up their enmities for nine or ten years no one would have a soul to speak to soon. as for himself, he was made differently. he knew they were honest people, and he was sure he could trust them. "of course," murmured gervaise, hardly knowing what she said, "of course." "i regard her as a sister," said lantier, "only as a sister." "give us your hand on that," cried coupeau, "and let us be good friends in the future. after all, a good heart is better than gold, and i estimate friendship as above all price." and he gave himself a little tap on his breast and looked about for applause, as if he had uttered rather a noble sentiment. then the three silently drank their brandy. gervaise looked at lantier and saw him for the first time, for on the night of the fete she had seen him, as it were, through a glass, darkly. he had grown very stout, and his arms and legs very heavy. but his face was still handsome, although somewhat bloated by liquor and good living. he was dressed with care and did not look any older than his years. he was thirty-five. he wore gray pantaloons and a dark blue frock coat, like any gentleman, and had a watch and a chain on which hung a ring--a souvenir, apparently. "i must go," he said presently. he was at the door when coupeau recalled him to say that he must never pass without coming in to say, "how do you do?" meanwhile gervaise, who had disappeared, returned, pushing etienne before her. the boy was half asleep but smiled as he rubbed his eyes. when he saw lantier he stared and looked uneasily from him to coupeau. "do you know this gentleman?" said his mother. the child looked away and did not answer, but when his mother repeated the question he made a little sign that he remembered him. lantier, grave and silent, stood still. when etienne went toward him he stooped and kissed the child, who did not look at him but burst into tears, and when he was violently reproached by coupeau he rushed away. "it is excitement," said his mother, who was herself very pale. "he is usually very good and very obedient," said coupeau. "i have brought him up well, as you will find out. he will soon get used to you. he must learn something of life, you see, and will understand one of these days that people must forget and forgive, and i would cut off my head sooner than prevent a father from seeing his child!" he then proposed to finish the bottle of brandy. they all three drank together again. lantier was quite undisturbed, and before he left he insisted on aiding coupeau to shut up the shop. then as he dusted his hands with his handkerchief he wished them a careless good night. "sleep well. i am going to try and catch the omnibus. i will see you soon again." lantier kept his word and was seen from that time very often in the shop. he came only when coupeau was home and asked for him before he crossed the threshold. then seated near the window, always wearing a frock coat, fresh linen and carefully shaved, he kept up a conversation like a man who had seen something of the world. by degrees coupeau learned something of his life. for the last eight years he had been at the head of a hat manufactory, and when he was asked why he had given it up he said vaguely that he was not satisfied with his partner; he was a rascal, and so on. but his former position still imparted to him a certain air of importance. he said, also, that he was on the point of concluding an important matter--that certain business houses were in process of establishing themselves, the management of which would be virtually in his hands. in the meantime he had absolutely not one thing to do but to walk about with his hands in his pockets. any day he pleased, however, he could start again. he had only to decide on some house. coupeau did not altogether believe this tale and insisted that he must be doing something which he did not choose to tell; otherwise how did he live? the truth was that lantier, excessively talkative in regard to other people's affairs, was very reticent about his own. he lied quite as often as he spoke the truth and would never tell where he resided. he said he was never at home, so it was of no use for anyone to come and see him. "i am very careful," he said, "in making an engagement. i do not choose to bind myself to a man and find, when it is too late, that he intends to make a slave of me. i went one monday to champion at monrouge. that evening champion began a political discussion. he and i differed entirely, and on tuesday i threw up the situation. you can't blame me, i am sure, for not being willing to sell my soul and my convictions for seven francs per day!" it was now november. lantier occasionally brought a bunch of violets to gervaise. by degrees his visits became more frequent. he seemed determined to fascinate the whole house, even the _quartier_, and he began by ingratiating himself with clemence and mme putois, showing them both the greatest possible attention. these two women adored him at the end of a month. mme boche, whom he flattered by calling on her in her loge, had all sorts of pleasant things to say about him. as to the lorilleuxs, they were furious when they found out who he was and declared that it was a sin and a disgrace for gervaise to bring him into her house. but one fine day lantier bearded them in their den and ordered a chain made for a lady of his acquaintance and made himself so agreeable that they begged him to sit down and kept him an hour. after this visit they expressed their astonishment that a man so distinguished could ever have seen anything in wooden legs to admire. by degrees, therefore, people had become accustomed to seeing him and no longer expressed their horror or amazement. goujet was the only one who was disturbed. if lantier came in while he was there he at once departed and avoided all intercourse with him. gervaise was very unhappy. she was conscious of a returning inclination for lantier, and she was afraid of herself and of him. she thought of him constantly; he had taken entire possession of her imagination. but she grew calmer as days passed on, finding that he never tried to see her alone and that he rarely looked at her and never laid the tip of his finger on her. virginie, who seemed to read her through and through, asked her what she feared. was there ever a man more respectful? but out of mischief or worse, the woman contrived to get the two into a corner one day and then led the conversation into a most dangerous direction. lantier, in reply to some question, said in measured tones that his heart was dead, that he lived now only for his son. he never thought of claude, who was away. he embraced etienne every night but soon forgot he was in the room and amused himself with clemence. then gervaise began to realize that the past was dead. lantier had brought back to her the memory of plassans and the hotel boncoeur. but this faded away again, and, seeing him constantly, the past was absorbed in the present. she shook off these memories almost with disgust. yes, it was all over, and should he ever dare to allude to former years she would complain to her husband. she began again to think of goujet almost unconsciously. one morning clemence said that the night before she had seen lantier walking with a woman who had his arm. yes, he was coming up la rue notre-dame de lorette; the woman was a blonde and no better than she should be. clemence added that she had followed them until the woman reached a house where she went in. lantier waited in the street until there was a window opened, which was evidently a signal, for he went into the house at once. gervaise was ironing a white dress; she smiled slightly and said that she believed a provencal was always crazy after women, and at night when lantier appeared she was quite amused at clemence, who at once attacked him. he seemed to be, on the whole, rather pleased that he had been seen. the person was an old friend, he said, one whom he had not seen for some time--a very stylish woman, in fact--and he told clemence to smell of his handkerchief on which his friend had put some of the perfume she used. just then etienne came in, and his father became very grave and said that he was in jest--that his heart was dead. gervaise nodded approval of this sentiment, but she did not speak. when spring came lantier began to talk of moving into that neighborhood. he wanted a furnished, clean room. mme boche and gervaise tried to find one for him. but they did not meet with any success. he was altogether too fastidious in his requirements. every evening at the coupeaus' he wished he could find people like themselves who would take a lodger. "you are very comfortable here, i am sure," he would say regularly. finally one night when he had uttered this phrase, as usual, coupeau cried out: "if you like this place so much why don't you stay here? we can make room for you." and he explained that the linen room could be so arranged that it would be very comfortable, and etienne could sleep on a mattress in the corner. "no, no," said lantier; "it would trouble you too much. i know that you have the most generous heart in the world, but i cannot impose upon you. your room would be a passageway to mine, and that would not be agreeable to any of us." "nonsense," said coupeau. "have we no invention? there are two windows; can't one be cut down to the floor and used as a door? in that case you would enter from the court and not through the shop. you would be by yourself, and we by ourselves." there was a long silence, broken finally by lantier. "if this could be done," he said, "i should like it, but i am afraid you would find yourselves too crowded." he did not look at gervaise as he spoke, but it was clear that he was only waiting for a word from her. she did not like the plan at all; not that the thought of lantier living under their roof disturbed her, but she had no idea where she could put the linen as it came in to be washed and again when it was rough-dry. but coupeau was enchanted with the plan. the rent, he said, had always been heavy to carry, and now they would gain twenty francs per month. it was not dear for him, and it would help them decidedly. he told his wife that she could have two great boxes made in which all the linen of the _quartier_ could be piled. gervaise still hesitated, questioning mamma coupeau with her eyes. lantier had long since propitiated the old lady by bringing her gumdrops for her cough. "if we could arrange it i am sure--" said gervaise hesitatingly. "you are too kind," remonstrated lantier. "i really feel that it would be an intrusion." coupeau flamed out. why did she not speak up, he should like to know? instead of stammering and behaving like a fool? "etienne! etienne!" he shouted. the boy was asleep with his head on the table. he started up. "listen to me. say to this gentleman, 'i wish it.' say just those words and nothing more." "i wish it!" stammered etienne, half asleep. everybody laughed. but lantier almost instantly resumed his solemn air. he pressed coupeau's hand cordially. "i accept your proposition," he said. "it is a most friendly one, and i thank you in my name and in that of my child." the next morning marescot, the owner of the house, happening to call, gervaise spoke to him of the matter. at first he absolutely refused and was as disturbed and angry as if she had asked him to build on a wing for her especial accommodation. then after a minute examination of the premises he ended by giving his consent, only on condition, however, that he should not be required to pay any portion of the expense, and the coupeaus signed a paper, agreeing to put everything into its original condition at the expiration of their lease. that same evening coupeau brought in a mason, a painter and a carpenter, all friends and boon companions of his, who would do this little job at night, after their day's work was over. the cutting of the door, the painting and the cleaning would come to about one hundred francs, and coupeau agreed to pay them as fast as his tenant paid him. the next question was how to furnish the room? gervaise left mamma coupeau's wardrobe in it. she added a table and two chairs from her own room. she was compelled to buy a bed and dressing table and divers other things, which amounted to one hundred and thirty francs. this she must pay for ten francs each month. so that for nearly a year they could derive no benefit from their new lodger. it was early in june that lantier took possession of his new quarters. coupeau had offered the night before to help him with his trunk in order to avoid the thirty sous for a fiacre. but the other seemed embarrassed and said his trunk was heavy, and it seemed as if he preferred to keep it a secret even now where he resided. he came about three o'clock. coupeau was not there, and gervaise, standing at her shop door, turned white as she recognized the trunk on the fiacre. it was their old one with which they had traveled from plassans. now it was banged and battered and strapped with cords. she saw it brought in as she had often seen it in her dreams, and she vaguely wondered if it were the same fiacre which had taken him and adele away. boche welcomed lantier cordially. gervaise stood by in silent bewilderment, watching them place the trunk in her lodger's room. then hardly knowing what she said, she murmured: "we must take a glass of wine together----" lantier, who was busy untying the cords on his trunk, did not look up, and she added: "you will join us, monsieur boche!" and she went for some wine and glasses. at that moment she caught sight of poisson passing the door. she gave him a nod and a wink which he perfectly understood: it meant, when he was on duty, that he was offered a glass of wine. he went round by the courtyard in order not to be seen. lantier never saw him without some joke in regard to his political convictions, which, however, had not prevented the men from becoming excellent friends. to one of these jests boche now replied: "did you know," he said, "that when the emperor was in london he was a policeman, and his special duty was to carry all the intoxicated women to the station house?" gervaise had filled three glasses on the table. she did not care for any wine; she was sick at heart as she stood looking at lantier kneeling on the floor by the side of the trunk. she was wild to know what it contained. she remembered that in one corner was a pile of stockings, a shirt or two and an old hat. were those things still there? was she to be confronted with those tattered relics of the past? lantier did not lift the lid, however; he rose and, going to the table, held his glass high in his hands. "to your health, madame!" he said. and poisson and boche drank with him. gervaise filled their glasses again. the three men wiped their lips with the backs of their hands. then lantier opened his trunk. it was filled with a hodgepodge of papers, books, old clothes and bundles of linen. he pulled out a saucepan, then a pair of boots, followed by a bust of ledru rollin with a broken nose, then an embroidered shirt and a pair of ragged pantaloons, and gervaise perceived a mingled and odious smell of tobacco, leather and dust. no, the old hat was not in the left corner; in its place was a pin cushion, the gift of some woman. all at once the strange anxiety with which she had watched the opening of this trunk disappeared, and in its place came an intense sadness as she followed each article with her eyes as lantier took them out and wondered which belonged to her time and which to the days when another woman filled his life. "look here, poisson," cried lantier, pulling out a small book. it was a scurrilous attack on the emperor, printed at brussels, entitled _the amours of napoleon iii_. poisson was aghast. he found no words with which to defend the emperor. it was in a book--of course, therefore, it was true. lantier, with a laugh of triumph, turned away and began to pile up his books and papers, grumbling a little that there were no shelves on which to put them. gervaise promised to buy some for him. he owned louis blanc's _histoire de dix ans_, all but the first volume, which he had never had, lamartine's _les girondins_, _the mysteries of paris_ and _the wandering jew_, by eugene sue, without counting a pile of incendiary volumes which he had picked up at bookstalls. his old newspapers he regarded with especial respect. he had collected them with care for years: whenever he had read an article at a cafe of which he approved, he bought the journal and preserved it. he consequently had an enormous quantity, of all dates and names, tied together without order or sequence. he laid them all in a corner of the room, saying as he did so: "if people would study those sheets and adopt the ideas therein, society would be far better organized than it now is. your emperor and all his minions would come down a bit on the ladder--" here he was interrupted by poisson, whose red imperial and mustache irradiated his pale face. "and the army," he said, "what would you do with that?" lantier became very much excited. "the army!" he cried. "i would scatter it to the four winds of heaven! i want the military system of the country abolished! i want the abolition of titles and monopolies! i want salaries equalized! i want liberty for everyone. divorces, too--" "yes; divorces, of course," interposed boche. "that is needed in the cause of morality." poisson threw back his head, ready for an argument, but gervaise, who did not like discussions, interfered. she had recovered from the torpor into which she had been plunged by the sight of this trunk, and she asked the men to take another glass. lantier was suddenly subdued and drank his wine, but boche looked at poisson uneasily. "all this talk is between ourselves, is it not?" he said to the policeman. poisson did not allow him to finish: he laid his hand on his heart and declared that he was no spy. their words went in at one ear and out at another. he had forgotten them already. coupeau by this time appeared, and more wine was sent for. but poisson dared linger no longer, and, stiff and haughty, he departed through the courtyard. from the very first lantier was made thoroughly at home. lantier had his separate room, private entrance and key. but he went through the shop almost always. the accumulation of linen disturbed gervaise, for her husband never arranged the boxes he had promised, and she was obliged to stow it away in all sorts of places, under the bed and in the corner. she did not like making up etienne's mattress late at night either. goujet had spoken of sending the child to lille to his own old master, who wanted apprentices. the plan pleased her, particularly as the boy, who was not very happy at home, was impatient to become his own master. but she dared not ask lantier, who had come there to live ostensibly to be near his son. she felt, therefore, that it was hardly a good plan to send the boy away within a couple of weeks after his father's arrival. when, however, she did make up her mind to approach the subject he expressed warm approval of the idea, saying that youths were far better in the country than in paris. finally it was decided that etienne should go, and when the morning of his departure arrived lantier read his son a long lecture and then sent him off, and the house settled down into new habits. gervaise became accustomed to seeing the dirty linen lying about and to seeing lantier coming in and going out. he still talked with an important air of his business operations. he went out daily, dressed with the utmost care and came home, declaring that he was worn out with the discussions in which he had been engaged and which involved the gravest and most important interests. he rose about ten o'clock, took a walk if the day pleased him, and if it rained he sat in the shop and read his paper. he liked to be there. it was his delight to live surrounded by a circle of worshiping women, and he basked indolently in the warmth and atmosphere of ease and comfort, which characterized the place. at first lantier took his meals at the restaurant at the corner, but after a while he dined three or four times a week with the coupeaus and finally requested permission to board with them and agreed to pay them fifteen francs each saturday. thus he was regularly installed and was one of the family. he was seen in his shirt sleeves in the shop every morning, attending to any little matters or receiving orders from the customers. he induced gervaise to leave her own wine merchant and go to a friend of his own. then he found fault with the bread and sent augustine to the vienna bakery in a distant _faubourg_. he changed the grocer but kept the butcher on account of his political opinions. at the end of a month he had instituted a change in the cuisine. everything was cooked in oil: being a provencal, that was what he adored. he made the omelets himself, which were as tough as leather. he superintended mamma coupeau and insisted that the beefsteaks should be thoroughly cooked, until they were like the soles of an old shoe. he watched the salad to see that nothing went in which he did not like. his favorite dish was vermicelli, into which he poured half a bottle of oil. this he and gervaise ate together, for the others, being parisians, could not be induced to taste it. by degrees lantier attended to all those affairs which fall to the share of the master of the house and to various details of their business, in addition. he insisted that if the five francs which the lorilleux people had agreed to pay toward the support of mamma coupeau was not forthcoming they should go to law about it. in fact, ten francs was what they ought to pay. he himself would go and see if he could not make them agree to that. he went up at once and asked them in such a way that he returned in triumph with the ten francs. and mme lerat, too, did the same at his representation. mamma coupeau could have kissed lantier's hands, who played the part, besides, of an arbiter in the quarrels between the old woman and gervaise. the latter, as was natural, sometimes lost patience with the old woman, who retreated to her bed to weep. he would bluster about and ask if they were simpletons, to amuse people with their disagreements, and finally induced them to kiss and be friends once more. he expressed his mind freely in regard to nana also. in his opinion she was brought up very badly, and here he was quite right, for when her father cuffed her her mother upheld her, and when, in her turn, the mother reproved, the father made a scene. nana was delighted at this and felt herself free to do much as she pleased. she had started a new game at the farriery opposite. she spent entire days swinging on the shafts of the wagons. she concealed herself, with her troop of followers, at the back of the dark court, redly lit by the forge, and then would make sudden rushes with screams and whoops, followed by every child in the neighborhood, reminding one of a flock of martins or sparrows. lantier was the only one whose scoldings had any effect. she listened to him graciously. this child of ten years of age, precocious and vicious, coquetted with him as if she had been a grown woman. he finally assumed the care of her education. he taught her to dance and to talk slang! thus a year passed away. the whole neighborhood supposed lantier to be a man of means--otherwise how did the coupeaus live as they did? gervaise, to be sure, still made money, but she supported two men who did nothing, and the shop, of course, did not make enough for that. the truth was that lantier had never paid one sou, either for board or lodging. he said he would let it run on, and when it amounted to a good sum he would pay it all at once. after that gervaise never dared to ask him for a centime. she got bread, wine and meat on credit; bills were running up everywhere, for their expenditures amounted to three and four francs every day. she had never paid anything, even a trifle on account, to the man from whom she had bought her furniture or to coupeau's three friends who had done the work in lantier's room. the tradespeople were beginning to grumble and treated her with less politeness. but she seemed to be insensible to this; she chose the most expensive things, having thrown economy to the winds, since she had given up paying for things at once. she always intended, however, to pay eventually and had a vague notion of earning hundreds of francs daily in some extraordinary way by which she could pay all these people. about the middle of summer clemence departed, for there was not enough work for two women; she had waited for her money for some weeks. lantier and coupeau were quite undisturbed, however. they were in the best of spirits and seemed to be growing fat over the ruined business. in the _quartier_ there was a vast deal of gossip. everybody wondered as to the terms on which lantier and gervaise now stood. the lorilleuxs viciously declared that gervaise would be glad enough to resume her old relations with lantier but that he would have nothing to do with her, for she had grown old and ugly. the boche people took a different view, but while everyone declared that the whole arrangement was a most improper one, they finally accepted it as quite a matter of course and altogether natural. it is quite possible there were other homes which were quite as open to invidious remarks within a stone's throw, but these coupeaus, as their neighbors said, were good, kind people. lantier was especially ingratiating. it was decided, therefore, to let things go their own way undisturbed. gervaise lived quietly indifferent to, and possibly entirely unsuspicious of, all these scandals. by and by it came to pass that her husband's own people looked on her as utterly heartless. mme lerat made her appearance every evening, and she treated lantier as if he were utterly irresistible, into whose arms any and every woman would be only too glad to fall. an actual league seemed to be forming against gervaise: all the women insisted on giving her a lover. but she saw none of these fascinations in him. he had changed, unquestionably, and the external changes were all in his favor. he wore a frock coat and had acquired a certain polish. but she who knew him so well looked down into his soul through his eyes and shuddered at much she saw there. she could not understand what others saw in him to admire. and she said so one day to virginie. then mme lerat and virginie vied with each other in the stories they told of clemence and himself--what they did and said whenever her back was turned--and now they were sure, since she had left the establishment, that he went regularly to see her. "well, what of it?" asked gervaise, her voice trembling. "what have i to do with that?" but she looked into virginie's dark brown eyes, which were specked with gold and emitted sparks as do those of cats. but the woman put on a stupid look as she answered: "why, nothing, of course; only i should think you would advise him not to have anything to do with such a person." lantier was gradually changing his manner to gervaise. now when he shook hands with her he held her fingers longer than was necessary. he watched her incessantly and fixed his bold eyes upon her. he leaned over her so closely that she felt his breath on her cheek. but one evening, being alone with her, he caught her in both arms. at that moment goujet entered. gervaise wrenched herself free, and the three exchanged a few words as if nothing had happened. goujet was very pale and seemed embarrassed, supposing that he had intruded upon them and that she had pushed lantier aside only because she did not choose to be embraced in public. the next day gervaise was miserable, unhappy and restless. she could not iron a handkerchief. she wanted to see goujet and tell him just what had happened, but ever since etienne had gone to lille she had given up going to the forge, as she was quite unable to face the knowing winks with which his comrades received her. but this day she determined to go, and, taking an empty basket on her arms, she started off, pretending that she was going with skirts to some customers in la rue des portes-blanches. goujet seemed to be expecting her, for she met him loitering on the corner. "ah," he said with a wan smile, "you are going home, i presume?" he hardly knew what he was saying, and they both turned toward montmartre without another word. they merely wished to go away from the forge. they passed several manufactories and soon found themselves with an open field before them. a goat was tethered near by and bleating as it browsed, and a dead tree was crumbling away in the hot sun. "one might almost think oneself in the country," murmured gervaise. they took a seat under the dead tree. the clearstarcher set the basket down at her feet. before them stretched the heights of montmartre, with its rows of yellow and gray houses amid clumps of trees, and when they threw back their heads a little they saw the whole sky above, clear and cloudless, but the sunlight dazzled them, and they looked over to the misty outlines of the _faubourg_ and watched the smoke rising from tall chimneys in regular puffs, indicating the machinery which impelled it. these great sighs seemed to relieve their own oppressed breasts. "yes," said gervaise after a long silence. "i have been on a long walk, and i came out--" she stopped. after having been so eager for an explanation she found herself unable to speak and overwhelmed with shame. she knew that he as well as herself had come to that place with the wish and intention of speaking on one especial subject, and yet neither of them dared to allude to it. the occurrence of the previous evening weighed on both their souls. then with a heart torn with anguish and with tears in her eyes, she told him of the death of mme bijard, who had breathed her last that morning after suffering unheard-of agonies. "it was caused by a kick of bijard's," she said in her low, soft voice; "some internal injury. for three days she has suffered frightfully. why are not such men punished? i suppose, though, if the law undertook to punish all the wretches who kill their wives that it would have too much to do. after all, one kick more or less: what does it matter in the end? and this poor creature, in her desire to save her husband from the scaffold, declared she had fallen over a tub." goujet did not speak. he sat pulling up the tufts of grass. "it is not a fortnight," continued gervaise, "since she weaned her last baby, and here is that child lalie left to take care of two mites. she is not eight years old but as quiet and sensible as if she were a grown woman, and her father kicks and strikes her too. poor little soul! there are some persons in this world who seem born to suffer." goujet looked at her and then said suddenly, with trembling lips: "you made me suffer yesterday." gervaise clasped her hands imploringly, and he continued: "i knew of course how it must end; only you should not have allowed me to think--" he could not finish. she started up, seeing what his convictions were. she cried out: "you are wrong! i swear to you that you are wrong! he was going to kiss me, but his lips did not touch me, and it is the very first time that he made the attempt. believe me, for i swear--on all that i hold most sacred--that i am telling you the truth." but the blacksmith shook his head. he knew that women did not always tell the truth on such points. gervaise then became very grave. "you know me well," she said; "you know that i am no liar. i again repeat that lantier and i are friends. we shall never be anything more, for if that should ever come to pass i should regard myself as the vilest of the vile and should be unworthy of the friendship of a man like yourself." her face was so honest, her eyes were so clear and frank, that he could do no less than believe her. once more he breathed freely. he held her hand for the first time. both were silent. white clouds sailed slowly above their heads with the majesty of swans. the goat looked at them and bleated piteously, eager to be released, and they stood hand in hand on that bleak slope with tears in their eyes. "your mother likes me no longer," said gervaise in a low voice. "do not say no; how can it be otherwise? we owe you so much money." he roughly shook her arm in his eagerness to check the words on her lips; he would not hear her. he tried to speak, but his throat was too dry; he choked a little and then he burst out: "listen to me," he cried; "i have long wished to say something to you. you are not happy. my mother says things are all going wrong with you, and," he hesitated, "we must go away together and at once." she looked at him, not understanding him but impressed by this abrupt declaration of a love from him, who had never before opened his lips in regard to it. "what do you mean?" she said. "i mean," he answered without looking in her face, "that we two can go away and live in belgium. it is almost the same to me as home, and both of us could get work and live comfortably." the color came to her face, which she would have hidden on his shoulder to hide her shame and confusion. he was a strange fellow to propose an elopement. it was like a book and like the things she heard of in high society. she had often seen and known of the workmen about her making love to married women, but they did not think of running away with them. "ah, monsieur goujet!" she murmured, but she could say no more. "yes," he said, "we two would live all by ourselves." but as her self-possession returned she refused with firmness. "it is impossible," she said, "and it would be very wrong. i am married and i have children. i know that you are fond of me, and i love you too much to allow you to commit any such folly as you are talking of, and this would be an enormous folly. no; we must live on as we are. we respect each other now. let us continue to do so. that is a great deal and will help us over many a roughness in our paths. and when we try to do right we are sure of a reward." he shook his head as he listened to her, but he felt she was right. suddenly he snatched her in his arms and kissed her furiously once and then dropped her and turned abruptly away. she was not angry, but the locksmith trembled from head to foot. he began to gather some of the wild daisies, not knowing what to do with his hands, and tossed them into her empty basket. this occupation amused him and tranquillized him. he broke off the head of the flowers and, when he missed his mark and they fell short of the basket, laughed aloud. gervaise sat with her back against the tree, happy and calm. and when she set forth on her walk home her basket was full of daisies, and she was talking of etienne. in reality gervaise was more afraid of lantier than she was willing to admit even to herself. she was fully determined never to allow the smallest familiarity, but she was afraid that she might yield to his persuasions, for she well knew the weakness and amiability of her nature and how hard it was for her to persist in any opposition to anyone. lantier, however, did not put this determination on her part to the test. he was often alone with her now and was always quiet and respectful. coupeau declared to everyone that lantier was a true friend. there was no nonsense about him; he could be relied upon always and in all emergencies. and he trusted him thoroughly, he declared. when they went out together--the three--on sundays he bade his wife and lantier walk arm in arm, while he mounted guard behind, ready to cuff the ears of anyone who ventured on a disrespectful glance, a sneer or a wink. he laughed good-naturedly before lantier's face, told him he put on a great many airs with his coats and his books, but he liked him in spite of them. they understood each other, he said, and a man's liking for another man is more solid and enduring than his love for a woman. coupeau and lantier made the money fly. lantier was continually borrowing money from gervaise--ten francs, twenty francs--whenever he knew there was money in the house. it was always because he was in pressing need for some business matter. but still on those same days he took coupeau off with him and at some distant restaurant ordered and devoured such dishes as they could not obtain at home, and these dishes were washed down by bottle after bottle of wine. coupeau would have preferred to get tipsy without the food, but he was impressed by the elegance and experience of his friend, who found on the carte so many extraordinary sauces. he had never seen a man like him, he declared, so dainty and so difficult. he wondered if all southerners were the same as he watched him discussing the dishes with the waiter and sending away a dish that was too salty or had too much pepper. neither could he endure a draft: his skin was all blue if a door was left open, and he made no end of a row until it was closed again. lantier was not wasteful in certain ways, for he never gave a _garcon_ more than two sous after he had served a meal that cost some seven or eight francs. they never alluded to these dinners the next morning at their simple breakfast with gervaise. naturally people cannot frolic and work, too, and since lantier had become a member of his household coupeau had never lifted a tool. he knew every drinking shop for miles around and would sit and guzzle deep into the night, not always pleased to find himself deserted by lantier, who never was known to be overcome by liquor. about the first of november coupeau turned over a new leaf; he declared he was going to work the next day, and lantier thereupon preached a little sermon, declaring that labor ennobled man, and in the morning arose before it was light to accompany his friend to the shop, as a mark of the respect he felt. but when they reached a wineshop on the corner they entered to take a glass merely to cement good resolutions. near the counter they beheld bibi-la-grillade smoking his pipe with a sulky air. "what is the matter, bibi?" cried coupeau. "nothing," answered his comrade, "except that i got my walking ticket yesterday. perdition seize all masters!" he added fiercely. and bibi accepted a glass of liquor. lantier defended the masters. they were not so bad after all; then, too, how were the men to get along without them? "to be sure," continued lantier, "i manage pretty well, for i don't have much to do with them myself!" "come, my boy," he added, turning to coupeau; "we shall be late if we don't look out." bibi went out with them. day was just breaking, gray and cloudy. it had rained the night before and was damp and warm. the street lamps had just been extinguished. there was one continued tramp of men going to their work. coupeau, with his bag of tools on his shoulder, shuffled along; his footsteps had long since lost their ring. "bibi," he said, "come with me; the master told me to bring a comrade if i pleased." "it won't be me then," answered bibi. "i wash my hands of them all. no more masters for me, i tell you! but i dare say mes-bottes would be glad of the offer." and as they reached the assommoir they saw mes-bottes within. notwithstanding the fact that it was daylight, the gas was blazing in the assommoir. lantier remained outside and told coupeau to make haste, as they had only ten minutes. "do you think i will work for your master?" cried mes-bottes. "he is the greatest tyrant in the kingdom. no, i should rather suck my thumbs for a year. you won't stay there, old man! no, you won't stay there three days, now i tell you!" "are you in earnest?" asked coupeau uneasily. "yes, i am in earnest. you can't speak--you can't move. your nose is held close to the grindstone all the time. he watches you every moment. if you drink a drop he says you are tipsy and makes no end of a row!" "thanks for the warning. i will try this one day, and if the master bothers me i will just tell him what i think of him and turn on my heel and walk out." coupeau shook his comrade's hand and turned to depart, much to the disgust of mes-bottes, who angrily asked if the master could not wait five minutes. he could not go until he had taken a drink. lantier entered to join in, and mes-bottes stood there with his hat on the back of his head, shabby, dirty and staggering, ordering father colombe to pour out the glasses and not to cheat. at that moment goujet and lorilleux were seen going by. mes-bottes shouted to them to come in, but they both refused--goujet saying he wanted nothing, and the other, as he hugged a little box of gold chains close to his heart, that he was in a hurry. "milksops!" muttered mes-bottes. "they had best pass their lives in the corner by the fire!" returning to the counter, he renewed his attack on father colombe, whom he accused of adulterating his liquors. it was now bright daylight, and the proprietor of the assommoir began to extinguish the lights. coupeau made excuses for his brother-in-law, who, he said, could never drink; it was not his fault, poor fellow! he approved, too, of goujet, declaring that it was a good thing never to be thirsty. again he made a move to depart and go to his work when lantier, with his dictatorial air, reminded him that he had not paid his score and that he could not go off in that way, even if it were to his duty. "i am sick of the words 'work' and 'duty,'" muttered mes-bottes. they all paid for their drinks with the exception of bibi-la-grillade, who stooped toward the ear of father colombe and whispered a few words. the latter shook his head, whereupon mes-bottes burst into a torrent of invectives, but colombe stood in impassive silence, and when there was a lull in the storm he said: "let your friends pay for you then--that is a very simple thing to do." by this time mes-bottes was what is properly called howling drunk, and as he staggered away from the counter he struck the bag of tools which coupeau had over his shoulder. "you look like a peddler with his pack or a humpback. put it down!" coupeau hesitated a moment, and then slowly and deliberately, as if he had arrived at a decision after mature deliberation, he laid his bag on the ground. "it is too late to go this morning. i will wait until after breakfast now. i will tell him my wife was sick. listen, father colombe, i will leave my bag of tools under this bench and come for them this afternoon." lantier assented to this arrangement. of course work was a good thing, but friends and good company were better; and the four men stood, first on one foot and then on the other, for more than an hour, and then they had another drink all round. after that a game of billiards was proposed, and they went noisily down the street to the nearest billiard room, which did not happen to please the fastidious lantier, who, however, soon recovered his good humor under the effect of the admiration excited in the minds of his friends by his play, which was really very extraordinary. when the hour arrived for breakfast coupeau had an idea. "let us go and find bec sali. i know where he works. we will make him breakfast with us." the idea was received with applause. the party started forth. a fine drizzling rain was now falling, but they were too warm within to mind this light sprinkling on their shoulders. coupeau took them to a factory where his friend worked and at the door gave two sous to a small boy to go up and find bec sali and to tell him that his wife was very sick and had sent for him. bec sali quickly appeared, not in the least disturbed, as he suspected a joke. "aha!" he said as he saw his friend. "i knew it!" they went to a restaurant and ordered a famous repast of pigs' feet, and they sat and sucked the bones and talked about their various employers. "will you believe," said bec sali, "that mine has had the brass to hang up a bell? does he think we are slaves to run when he rings it? never was he so mistaken--" "i am obliged to leave you!" said coupeau, rising at last with an important air. "i promised my wife to go to work today, and i leave you with the greatest reluctance." the others protested and entreated, but he seemed so decided that they all accompanied him to the assommoir to get his tools. he pulled out the bag from under the bench and laid it at his feet while they all took another drink. the clock struck one, and coupeau kicked his bag under the bench again. he would go tomorrow to the factory; one day really did not make much difference. the rain had ceased, and one of the men proposed a little walk on the boulevards to stretch their legs. the air seemed to stupefy them, and they loitered along with their arms swinging at their sides, without exchanging a word. when they reached the wineshop on the corner of la rue des poissonniers they turned in mechanically. lantier led the way into a small room divided from the public one by windows only. this room was much affected by lantier, who thought it more stylish by far than the public one. he called for a newspaper, spread it out and examined it with a heavy frown. coupeau and mes-bottes played a game of cards, while wine and glasses occupied the center of the table. "what is the news?" asked bibi. lantier did not reply instantly, but presently, as the others emptied their glasses, he began to read aloud an account of a frightful murder, to which they listened with eager interest. then ensued a hot discussion and argument as to the probable motives for the murder. by this time the wine was exhausted, and they called for more. about five all except lantier were in a state of beastly intoxication, and he found them so disgusting that, as usual, he made his escape without his comrades noticing his defection. lantier walked about a little and then, when he felt all right, went home and told gervaise that her husband was with his friends. coupeau did not make his appearance for two days. rumors were brought in that he had been seen in one place and then in another, and always alone. his comrades had apparently deserted him. gervaise shrugged her shoulders with a resigned air. "good heavens!" she said. "what a way to live!" she never thought of hunting him up. indeed, on the afternoon of the third day, when she saw him through the window of a wineshop, she turned back and would not pass the door. she sat up for him, however, and listened for his step or the sound of his hand fumbling at the lock. the next morning he came in, only to begin the same thing at night again. this went on for a week, and at last gervaise went to the assommoir to make inquiries. yes, he had been there a number of times, but no one knew where he was just then. gervaise picked up the bag of tools and carried them home. lantier, seeing that gervaise was out of spirits, proposed that she should go with him to a cafe concert. she refused at first, being in no mood for laughing; otherwise she would have consented, for lantier's proposal seemed to be prompted by the purest friendliness. he seemed really sorry for her trouble and, indeed, assumed an absolutely paternal air. coupeau had never stayed away like this before, and she continually found herself going to the door and looking up and down the street. she could not keep to her work but wandered restlessly from place to place. had coupeau broken a limb? had he fallen into the water? she did not think she could care so very much if he were killed, if this uncertainty were over, if she only knew what she had to expect. but it was very trying to live in this suspense. finally when the gas was lit and lantier renewed his proposition of the cafe she consented. after all, why should she not go? why should she refuse all pleasures because her husband chose to behave in this disgraceful way? if he would not come in she would go out. they hurried through their dinner, and as she went out with lantier at eight o'clock gervaise begged nana and mamma coupeau to go to bed early. the shop was closed, and she gave the key to mme boche, telling her that if coupeau came in it would be as well to look out for the lights. lantier stood whistling while she gave these directions. gervaise wore her silk dress, and she smiled as they walked down the street in alternate shadow and light from the shopwindows. the cafe concert was on the boulevard de rochechoumart. it had once been a cafe and had had a concert room built on of rough planks. over the door was a row of glass globes brilliantly illuminated. long placards, nailed on wood, were standing quite out in the street by the side of the gutter. "here we are!" said lantier. "mademoiselle amanda makes her debut tonight." bibi-la-grillade was reading the placard. bibi had a black eye, as if he had been fighting. "hallo!" cried lantier. "how are you? where is coupeau? have you lost him?" "yes, since yesterday. we had a little fight with a waiter at baquets. he wanted us to pay twice for what we had, and somehow coupeau and i got separated, and i have not seen him since." and bibi gave a great yawn. he was in a disgraceful state of intoxication. he looked as if he had been rolling in the gutter. "and you know nothing of my husband?" asked gervaise. "no, nothing. i think, though, he went off with a coachman." lantier and gervaise passed a very agreeable evening at the cafe concert, and when the doors were closed at eleven they went home in a sauntering sort of fashion. they were in no hurry, and the night was fair, though a little cool. lantier hummed the air which amanda had sung, and gervaise added the chorus. the room had been excessively warm, and she had drunk several glasses of wine. she expressed a great deal of indignation at mlle amanda's costume. how did she dare face all those men, dressed like that? but her skin was beautiful, certainly, and she listened with considerable curiosity to all that lantier could tell her about the woman. "everybody is asleep," said gervaise after she had rung the bell three times. the door was finally opened, but there was no light. she knocked at the door of the boche quarters and asked for her key. the sleepy concierge muttered some unintelligible words, from which gervaise finally gathered that coupeau had been brought in by poisson and that the key was in the door. gervaise stood aghast at the disgusting sight that met her eyes as she entered the room where coupeau lay wallowing on the floor. she shuddered and turned away. this sight annihilated every ray of sentiment remaining in her heart. "what am i to do?" she said piteously. "i can't stay here!" lantier snatched her hand. "gervaise," he said, "listen to me." but she understood him and drew hastily back. "no, no! leave me, auguste. i can manage." but lantier would not obey her. he put his arm around her waist and pointed to her husband as he lay snoring, with his mouth wide open. "leave me!" said gervaise, imploringly, and she pointed to the room where her mother-in-law and nana slept. "you will wake them!" she said. "you would not shame me before my child? pray go!" he said no more but slowly and softly kissed her on her ear, as he had so often teased her by doing in those old days. gervaise shivered, and her blood was stirred to madness in her veins. "what does that beast care?" she thought. "it is his fault," she murmured; "all his fault. he sends me from his room!" and as lantier drew her toward his door nana's face appeared for a moment at the window which lit her little cabinet. the mother did not see the child, who stood in her nightdress, pale with sleep. she looked at her father as he lay and then watched her mother disappear in lantier's room. she was perfectly grave, but in her eyes burned the sensual curiosity of premature vice. chapter ix clouds in the horizon that winter mamma coupeau was very ill with an asthmatic attack, which she always expected in the month of december. the poor woman suffered much, and the depression of her spirits was naturally very great. it must be confessed that there was nothing very gay in the aspect of the room where she slept. between her bed and that of the little girl there was just room for a chair. the paper hung in strips from the wall. through a round window near the ceiling came a dreary gray light. there was little ventilation in the room, which made it especially unfit for the old woman, who at night, when nana was there and she could hear her breathe, did not complain, but when left alone during the day, moaned incessantly, rolling her head about on her pillow. "ah," she said, "how unhappy i am! it is the same as a prison. i wish i were dead!" and as soon as a visitor came in--virginie or mme boche--she poured out her grievances. "i should not suffer so much among strangers. i should like sometimes a cup of tisane, but i can't get it; and nana--that child whom i have raised from the cradle--disappears in the morning and never shows her face until night, when she sleeps right through and never once asks me how i am or if she can do anything for me. it will soon be over, and i really believe this clearstarcher would smother me herself--if she were not afraid of the law!" gervaise, it is true, was not as gentle and sweet as she had been. everything seemed to be going wrong with her, and she had lost heart and patience together. mamma coupeau had overheard her saying that she was really a great burden. this naturally cut her to the heart, and when she saw her eldest daughter, mme lerat, she wept piteously and declared that she was being starved to death, and when these complaints drew from her daughter's pocket a little silver, she expended it in dainties. she told the most preposterous tales to mme lerat about gervaise--of her new finery and of cakes and delicacies eaten in the corner and many other things of infinitely more consequence. then in a little while she turned against the lorilleuxs and talked of them in the most bitter manner. at the height of her illness it so happened that her two daughters met one afternoon at her bedside. their mother made a motion to them to come closer. then she went on to tell them, between paroxysms of coughing, that her son came home dead drunk the night before and that she was absolutely certain that gervaise spent the night in lantier's room. "it is all the more disgusting," she added, "because i am certain that nana heard what was going on quite as well as i did." the two women did not appear either shocked or surprised. "it is none of our business," said mme lorilleux. "if coupeau does not choose to take any notice of her conduct it is not for us to do so." all the neighborhood were soon informed of the condition of things by her two sisters-in-law, who declared they entered her doors only on their mother's account, who, poor thing, was compelled to live amid these abominations. everyone accused gervaise now of having perverted poor lantier. "men will be men," they said; "surely you can't expect them to turn a cold shoulder to women who throw themselves at their heads. she has no possible excuse; she is a disgrace to the whole street!" the lorilleuxs invited nana to dinner that they might question her, but as soon as they began the child looked absolutely stupid, and they could extort nothing from her. amid this sudden and fierce indignation gervaise lived--indifferent, dull and stupid. at first she loathed herself, and if coupeau laid his hand on her she shivered and ran away from him. but by degrees she became accustomed to it. her indolence had become excessive, and she only wished to be quiet and comfortable. after all, she asked herself, why should she care? if her lover and her husband were satisfied, why should she not be too? so the household went on much as usual to all appearance. in reality, whenever coupeau came in tipsy, she left and went to lantier's room to sleep. she was not led there by passion or affection; it was simply that it was more comfortable. she was very like a cat in her choice of soft, clean places. mamma coupeau never dared to speak out openly to the clearstarcher, but after a dispute she was unsparing in her hints and allusions. the first time gervaise fixed her eyes on her and heard all she had to say in profound silence. then without seeming to speak of herself, she took occasion to say not long afterward that when a woman was married to a man who was drinking himself to death a woman was very much to be pitied and by no means to blame if she looked for consolation elsewhere. another time, when taunted by the old woman, she went still further and declared that lantier was as much her husband as was coupeau--that he was the father of two of her children. she talked a little twaddle about the laws of nature, and a shrewd observer would have seen that she--parrotlike--was repeating the words that some other person had put into her mouth. besides, what were her neighbors doing all about her? they were not so extremely respectable that they had the right to attack her. and then she took house after house and showed her mother-in-law that while apparently so deaf to gossip she yet knew all that was going on about her. yes, she knew--and now seemed to gloat over that which once had shocked and revolted her. "it is none of my business, i admit," she cried; "let each person live as he pleases, according to his own light, and let everybody else alone." one day when mamma coupeau spoke out more clearly she said with compressed lips: "now look here, you are flat on your back and you take advantage of that fact. i have never said a word to you about your own life, but i know it all the same--and it was atrocious! that is all! i am not going into particulars, but remember, you had best not sit in judgment on me!" the old woman was nearly suffocated with rage and her cough. the next day goujet came for his mother's wash while gervaise was out. mamma coupeau called him into her room and kept him for an hour. she read the young man's heart; she knew that his suspicions made him miserable. and in revenge for something that had displeased her she told him the truth with many sighs and tears, as if her daughter-in-law's infamous conduct was a bitter blow to her. when goujet left her room he was deadly pale and looked ten years older than when he went in. the old woman had, too, the additional pleasure of telling gervaise on her return that mme goujet had sent word that her linen must be returned to her at once, ironed or unironed. and she was so animated and comparatively amiable that gervaise scented the truth and knew instinctively what she had done and what she was to expect with goujet. pale and trembling, she piled the linen neatly in a basket and set forth to see mme goujet. years had passed since she had paid her friends one penny. the debt still stood at four hundred and twenty-five francs. each time she took the money for her washing she spoke of being pressed just at that time. it was a great mortification for her. coupeau was, however, less scrupulous and said with a laugh that if she kissed her friend occasionally in the corner it would keep things straight and pay him well. then gervaise, with eyes blazing with indignation, would ask if he really meant that. had he fallen so low? nor should he speak of goujet in that way in her presence. every time she took home the linen of these former friends she ascended the stairs with a sick heart. "ah, it is you, is it?" said mme goujet coldly as she opened the door. gervaise entered with some hesitation; she did not dare attempt to excuse herself. she was no longer punctual to the hour or the day--everything about her was becoming perfectly disorderly. "for one whole week," resumed the lace mender, "you have kept me waiting. you have told me falsehood after falsehood. you have sent your apprentice to tell me that there was an accident--something had been spilled on the shirts, they would come the next day, and so on. i have been unnecessarily annoyed and worried, besides losing much time. there is no sense in it! now what have you brought home? are the shirts here which you have had for a month and the skirt which was missing last week?" "yes," said gervaise, almost inaudibly; "yes, the skirt is here. look at it!" but mme goujet cried out in indignation. that skirt did not belong to her, and she would not have it. this was the crowning touch, if her things were to be changed in this way. she did not like other people's things. "and the shirts? where are they? lost, i suppose. very well, settle it as you please, but these shirts i must have tomorrow morning!" there was a long silence. gervaise was much disturbed by seeing that the door of goujet's room was wide open. he was there, she was sure, and listening to all these reproaches which she knew to be deserved and to which she could not reply. she was very quiet and submissive and laid the linen on the bed as quickly as possible. mme goujet began to examine the pieces. "well! well!" she said. "no one can praise your washing nowadays. there is not a piece here that is not dirtied by the iron. look at this shirt: it is scorched, and the buttons are fairly torn off by the root. everything comes back--that comes at all, i should say--with the buttons off. look at that sack: the dirt is all in it. no, no, i can't pay for such washing as this!" she stopped talking--while she counted the pieces. then she exclaimed: "two pairs of stockings, six towels and one napkin are missing from this week. you are laughing at me, it seems. now, just understand, i tell you to bring back all you have, ironed or not ironed. if in an hour your woman is not here with the rest i have done with you, madame coupeau!" at this moment goujet coughed. gervaise started. how could she bear being treated in this way before him? and she stood confused and silent, waiting for the soiled clothes. mme goujet had taken her place and her work by the window. "and the linen?" said gervaise timidly. "many thanks," said the old woman. "there is nothing this week." gervaise turned pale; it was clear that mme goujet meant to take away her custom from her. she sank into a chair. she made no attempt at excuses; she only asked a question. "is monsieur goujet ill?" "he is not well; at least he has just come in and is lying down to rest a little." mme goujet spoke very slowly, almost solemnly, her pale face encircled by her white cap, and wearing, as usual, her plain black dress. and she explained that they were obliged to economize very closely. in future she herself would do their washing. of course gervaise must know that this would not be necessary had she and her husband paid their debt to her son. but of course they would submit; they would never think of going to law about it. while she spoke of the debt her needle moved rapidly to and fro in the delicate meshes of her work. "but," continued mme goujet, "if you were to deny yourself a little and be careful and prudent, you could soon discharge your debt to us; you live too well; you spend too freely. were you to give us only ten francs each month--" she was interrupted by her son, who called impatiently, "mother! come here, will you?" when she returned she changed the conversation. her son had undoubtedly begged her to say no more about this money to gervaise. in spite of her evident determination to avoid this subject, she returned to it again in about ten minutes. she knew from the beginning just what would happen. she had said so at the time, and all had turned out precisely as she had prophesied. the tinworker had drunk up the shop and had left his wife to bear the load by herself. if her son had taken her advice he would never have lent the money. his marriage had fallen through, and he had lost his spirits. she grew very angry as she spoke and finally accused gervaise openly of having, with her husband, deliberately conspired to cheat her simplehearted son. "many women," she exclaimed, "played the parts of hypocrites and prudes for years and were found out at the last!" "mother! mother!" called goujet peremptorily. she rose and when she returned said: "go in; he wants to see you." gervaise obeyed, leaving the door open behind her. she found the room sweet and fresh looking, like that of a young girl, with its simple pictures and white curtains. goujet, crushed by what he had heard from mamma coupeau, lay at full length on the bed with pale face and haggard eyes. "listen!" he said. "you must not mind my mother's words; she does not understand. you do not owe me anything." he staggered to his feet and stood leaning against the bed and looking at her. "are you ill?" she said nervously. "no, not ill," he answered, "but sick at heart. sick when i remember what you said and see the truth. leave me. i cannot bear to look at you." and he waved her away, not angrily, but with great decision. she went out without a word, for she had nothing to say. in the next room she took up her basket and stood still a moment; mme goujet did not look up, but she said: "remember, i want my linen at once, and when that is all sent back to me we will settle the account." "yes," answered gervaise. and she closed the door, leaving behind her all that sweet odor and cleanliness on which she had once placed so high a value. she returned to the shop with her head bowed down and looking neither to the right nor the left. mother coupeau was sitting by the fire, having left her bed for the first time. gervaise said nothing to her--not a word of reproach or congratulation. she felt deadly tired; all her bones ached, as if she had been beaten. she thought life very hard and wished that it were over for her. gervaise soon grew to care for nothing but her three meals per day. the shop ran itself; one by one her customers left her. gervaise shrugged her shoulders half indifferently, half insolently; everybody could leave her, she said: she could always get work. but she was mistaken, and soon it became necessary for her to dismiss mme putois, keeping no assistant except augustine, who seemed to grow more and more stupid as time went on. ruin was fast approaching. naturally, as indolence and poverty increased, so did lack of cleanliness. no one would ever have known that pretty blue shop in which gervaise had formerly taken such pride. the windows were unwashed and covered with the mud scattered by the passing carriages. within it was still more forlorn: the dampness of the steaming linen had ruined the paper; everything was covered with dust; the stove, which once had been kept so bright, was broken and battered. the long ironing table was covered with wine stains and grease, looking as if it had served a whole garrison. the atmosphere was loaded with a smell of cooking and of sour starch. but gervaise was unconscious of it. she did not notice the torn and untidy paper and, having ceased to pay any attention to personal cleanliness, was hardly likely to spend her time in scrubbing the greasy floors. she allowed the dust to accumulate over everything and never lifted a finger to remove it. her own comfort and tranquillity were now her first considerations. her debts were increasing, but they had ceased to give her any uneasiness. she was no longer honest or straightforward. she did not care whether she ever paid or not, so long as she got what she wanted. when one shop refused her more credit she opened an account next door. she owed something in every shop in the whole _quartier_. she dared not pass the grocer or the baker in her own street and was compelled to make a lengthy circuit each time she went out. the tradespeople muttered and grumbled, and some went so far as to call her a thief and a swindler. one evening the man who had sold her the furniture for lantier's room came in with ugly threats. such scenes were unquestionably disagreeable. she trembled for an hour after them, but they never took away her appetite. it was very stupid of these people, after all, she said to lantier. how could she pay them if she had no money? and where could she get money? she closed her eyes to the inevitable and would not think of the future. mamma coupeau was well again, but the household had been disorganized for more than a year. in summer there was more work brought to the shop--white skirts and cambric dresses. there were ups and downs, therefore: days when there was nothing in the house for supper and others when the table was loaded. mamma coupeau was seen almost daily, going out with a bundle under her apron and returning without it and with a radiant face, for the old woman liked the excitement of going to the mont-de-piete. gervaise was gradually emptying the house--linen and clothes, tools and furniture. in the beginning she took advantage of a good week to take out what she had pawned the week before, but after a while she ceased to do that and sold her tickets. there was only one thing which cost her a pang, and that was selling her clock. she had sworn she would not touch it, not unless she was dying of hunger, and when at last she saw her mother-in-law carry it away she dropped into a chair and wept like a baby. but when the old woman came back with twenty-five francs and she found she had five francs more than was demanded by the pressing debt which had caused her to make the sacrifice, she was consoled and sent out at once for four sous' worth of brandy. when these two women were on good terms they often drank a glass together, sitting at the corner of the ironing table. mamma coupeau had a wonderful talent for bringing a glass in the pocket of her apron without spilling a drop. she did not care to have the neighbors know, but, in good truth, the neighbors knew very well and laughed and sneered as the old woman went in and out. this, as was natural and right, increased the prejudice against gervaise. everyone said that things could not go on much longer; the end was near. amid all this ruin coupeau thrived surprisingly. bad liquor seemed to affect him agreeably. his appetite was good in spite of the amount he drank, and he was growing stout. lantier, however, shook his head, declaring that it was not honest flesh and that he was bloated. but coupeau drank all the more after this statement and was rarely or ever sober. there began to be a strange bluish tone in his complexion. his spirits never flagged. he laughed at his wife when she told him of her embarrassments. what did he care, so long as she provided him with food to eat? and the longer he was idle, the more exacting he became in regard to this food. he was ignorant of his wife's infidelity, at least, so all his friends declared. they believed, moreover, that were he to discover it there would be great trouble. but mme lerat, his own sister, shook her head doubtfully, averring that she was not so sure of his ignorance. lantier was also in good health and spirits, neither too stout nor too thin. he wished to remain just where he was, for he was thoroughly well satisfied with himself, and this made him critical in regard to his food, as he had made a study of the things he should eat and those he should avoid for the preservation of his figure. even when there was not a cent he asked for eggs and cutlets: nourishing and light things were what he required, he said. he ruled gervaise with a rod of iron, grumbled and found fault far more than coupeau ever did. it was a house with two masters, one of whom, cleverer by far than the other, took the best of everything. he skimmed the coupeaus, as it were, and kept all the cream for himself. he was fond of nana because he liked girls better than boys. he troubled himself little about etienne. when people came and asked for coupeau it was lantier who appeared in his shirt sleeves with the air of the man of the house who is needlessly disturbed. he answered for coupeau, said it was one and the same thing. gervaise did not find this life always smooth and agreeable. she had no reason to complain of her health. she had become very stout. but it was hard work to provide for and please these two men. when they came in, furious and out of temper, it was on her that they wreaked their rage. coupeau abused her frightfully and called her by the coarsest epithets. lantier, on the contrary, was more select in his phraseology, but his words cut her quite as deeply. fortunately people become accustomed to almost everything in this world, and gervaise soon ceased to care for the reproaches and injustice of these two men. she even preferred to have them out of temper with her, for then they let her alone in some degree; but when they were in a good humor they were all the time at her heels, and she could not find a leisure moment even to iron a cap, so constant were the demands they made upon her. they wanted her to do this and do that, to cook little dishes for them and wait upon them by inches. one night she dreamed she was at the bottom of a well. coupeau was pushing her down with his fists, and lantier was tickling her to make her jump out quicker. and this, she thought, was a very fair picture of her life! she said that the people of the _quartier_ were very unjust, after all, when they reproached her for the way of life into which she had fallen. it was not her fault. it was not she who had done it, and a little shiver ran over her as she reflected that perhaps the worst was not yet. the utter deterioration of her nature was shown by the fact that she detested neither her husband nor lantier. in a play at the gaite she had seen a woman hate her husband and poison him for the sake of her lover. this she thought very strange and unnatural. why could the three not have lived together peaceably? it would have been much more reasonable! in spite of her debts, in spite of the shifts to which her increasing poverty condemned her, gervaise would have considered herself quite well off, but for the exacting selfishness of lantier and coupeau. toward autumn lantier became more and more disgusted, declared he had nothing to live on but potato parings and that his health was suffering. he was enraged at seeing the house so thoroughly cleared out, and he felt that the day was not far off when he must take his hat and depart. he had become accustomed to his den, and he hated to leave it. he was thoroughly provoked that the extravagant habits of gervaise necessitated this sacrifice on his part. why could she not have shown more sense? he was sure he didn't know what would become of them. could they have struggled on six months longer, he could have concluded an affair which would have enabled him to support the whole family in comfort. one day it came to pass that there was not a mouthful in the house, not even a radish. lantier sat by the stove in somber discontent. finally he started up and went to call on the poissons, to whom he suddenly became friendly to a degree. he no longer taunted the police officer but condescended to admit that the emperor was a good fellow after all. he showed himself especially civil to virginie, whom he considered a clever woman and well able to steer her bark through stormy seas. virginie one day happened to say in his presence that she should like to establish herself in some business. he approved the plan and paid her a succession of adroit compliments on her capabilities and cited the example of several women he knew who had made or were making their fortunes in this way. virginie had the money, an inheritance from an aunt, but she hesitated, for she did not wish to leave the _quartier_ and she did not know of any shop she could have. then lantier led her into a corner and whispered to her for ten minutes; he seemed to be persuading her to something. they continued to talk together in this way at intervals for several days, seeming to have some secret understanding. lantier all this time was fretting and scolding at the coupeaus, asking gervaise what on earth she intended to do, begging her to look things fairly in the face. she owed five or six hundred francs to the tradespeople about her. she was behindhand with her rent, and marescot, the landlord, threatened to turn her out if they did not pay before the first of january. the mont-de-piete had taken everything; there was literally nothing but the nails in the walls left. what did she mean to do? gervaise listened to all this at first listlessly, but she grew angry at last and cried out: "look here! i will go away tomorrow and leave the key in the door. i had rather sleep in the gutter than live in this way!" "and i can't say that it would not be a wise thing for you to do!" answered lantier insidiously. "i might possibly assist you to find someone to take the lease off your hands whenever you really conclude to leave the shop." "i am ready to leave it at once!" cried gervaise violently. "i am sick and tired of it." then lantier became serious and businesslike. he spoke openly of virginie, who, he said, was looking for a shop; in fact, he now remembered having heard her say that she would like just such a one as this. but gervaise shrank back and grew strangely calm at this name of virginie. she would see, she said; on the whole, she must have time to think. people said a great many things when they were angry, which on reflection were found not to be advisable. lantier rang the changes on this subject for a week, but gervaise said she had decided to employ some woman and go to work again, and if she were not able to get back her old customers she could try for new ones. she said this merely to show lantier that she was not so utterly downcast and crushed as he had seemed to take for granted was the case. he was reckless enough to drop the name of virginie once more, and she turned upon him in a rage. "no, no, never!" she had always distrusted virginie, and if she wanted the shop it was only to humiliate her. any other woman might have it, but not this hypocrite, who had been waiting for years to gloat over her downfall. no, she understood now only too well the meaning of the yellow sparks in her cat's eyes. it was clear to her that virginie had never forgotten the scene in the lavatory, and if she did not look out there would be a repetition of it. lantier stood aghast at this anger and this torrent of words, but presently he plucked up courage and bade her hold her tongue and told her she should not talk of his friends in that way. as for himself, he was sick and tired of other people's affairs; in future he would let them all take care of themselves, without a word of counsel from him. january arrived, cold and damp. mamma coupeau took to her bed with a violent cold which she expected each year at this time. but those about her said she would never leave the house again, except feet first. her children had learned to look forward to her death as a happy deliverance for all. the physician who came once was not sent for again. a little tisane was given her from time to time that she might not feel herself utterly neglected. she was just alive; that was all. it now became a mere question of time with her, but her brain was clear still, and in the expression of her eyes there were many things to be read--sorrow at seeing no sorrow in those she left behind her and anger against nana, who was utterly indifferent to her. one monday evening coupeau came in as tipsy as usual and threw himself on the bed, all dressed. gervaise intended to remain with her mother-in-law part of the night, but nana was very brave and said she would hear if her grandmother moved and wanted anything. about half-past three gervaise woke with a start; it seemed to her that a cold blast had swept through the room. her candle had burned down, and she nastily wrapped a shawl around her with trembling hands and hurried into the next room. nana was sleeping quietly, and her grandmother was dead in the bed at her side. gervaise went to lantier and waked him. "she is dead," she said. "well, what of it?" he muttered, half asleep. "why don't you go to sleep?" she turned away in silence while he grumbled at her coming to disturb him by the intelligence of a death in the house. gervaise dressed herself, not without tears, for she really loved the cross old woman whose son lay in the heavy slumbers of intoxication. when she went back to the room she found nana sitting up and rubbing her eyes. the child realized what had come to pass and trembled nervously in the face of this death of which she had thought much in the last two days, as of something which was hidden from children. "get up!" said her mother in a low voice. "i do not wish you to stay here." the child slipped from her bed slowly and regretfully, with her eyes fixed on the dead body of her grandmother. gervaise did not know what to do with her or where to send her. at this moment lantier appeared at the door. he had dressed himself, impelled by a little shame at his own conduct. "let the child go into my room," he said, "and i will help you." nana looked first at her mother and then at lantier and then trotted with her little bare feet into the next room and slipped into the bed that was still warm. she lay there wide awake with blazing cheeks and eyes and seemed to be absorbed in thought. while lantier and gervaise were silently occupied with the dead coupeau lay and snored. gervaise hunted in a bureau to find a little crucifix which she had brought from plassans, when she suddenly remembered that mamma coupeau had sold it. they each took a glass of wine and sat by the stove until daybreak. about seven o'clock coupeau woke. when he heard what had happened he declared they were jesting. but when he saw the body he fell on his knees and wept like a baby. gervaise was touched by these tears and found her heart softer toward her husband than it had been for many a long year. "courage, old friend!" said lantier, pouring out a glass of wine as he spoke. coupeau took some wine, but he continued to weep, and lantier went off under pretext of informing the family, but he did not hurry. he walked along slowly, smoking a cigar, and after he had been to mme lerat's he stopped in at a _cremerie_ to take a cup of coffee, and there he sat for an hour or more in deep thought. by nine o'clock the family were assembled in the shop, whose shutters had not been taken down. lorilleux only remained for a few moments and then went back to his shop. mme lorilleux shed a few tears and then sent nana to buy a pound of candles. "how like gervaise!" she murmured. "she can do nothing in a proper way!" mme lerat went about among the neighbors to borrow a crucifix. she brought one so large that when it was laid on the breast of mamma coupeau the weight seemed to crush her. then someone said something about holy water, so nana was sent to the church with a bottle. the room assumed a new aspect. on a small table burned a candle, near it a glass of holy water in which was a branch of box. "everything is in order," murmured the sisters; "people can come now as soon as they please." lantier made his appearance about eleven. he had been to make inquiries in regard to funeral expenses. "the coffin," he said, "is twelve francs, and if you want a mass, ten francs more. a hearse is paid for according to its ornaments." "you must remember," said mme lorilleux with compressed lips, "that mamma must be buried according to her purse." "precisely!" answered lantier. "i only tell you this as your guide. decide what you want, and after breakfast i will go and attend to it all." he spoke in a low voice, oppressed by the presence of the dead. the children were laughing in the courtyard and nana singing loudly. gervaise said gently: "we are not rich, to be sure, but we wish to do what she would have liked. if mamma coupeau has left us nothing it was not her fault and no reason why we should bury her as if she were a dog. no, there must be a mass and a hearse." "and who will pay for it?" asked mme lorilleux. "we can't, for we lost much money last week, and i am quite sure you would find it hard work!" coupeau, when he was consulted, shrugged his shoulders with a gesture of profound indifference. mme lerat said she would pay her share. "there are three of us," said gervaise after a long calculation; "if we each pay thirty francs we can do it with decency." but mme lorilleux burst out furiously: "i will never consent to such folly. it is not that i care for the money, but i disapprove of the ostentation. you can do as you please." "very well," replied gervaise, "i will. i have taken care of your mother while she was living; i can bury her now that she is dead." then mme lorilleux fell to crying, and lantier had great trouble in preventing her from going away at once, and the quarrel grew so violent that mme lerat hastily closed the door of the room where the dead woman lay, as if she feared the noise would waken her. the children's voices rose shrill in the air with nana's perpetual "tra-la-la" above all the rest. "heavens, how wearisome those children are with their songs," said lantier. "tell them to be quiet, and make nana come in and sit down." gervaise obeyed these dictatorial orders while her sisters-in-law went home to breakfast, while the coupeaus tried to eat, but they were made uncomfortable by the presence of death in their crowded quarters. the details of their daily life were disarranged. gervaise went to goujet and borrowed sixty francs, which, added to thirty from mme lerat, would pay the expenses of the funeral. in the afternoon several persons came in and looked at the dead woman, crossing themselves as they did so and shaking holy water over the body with the branch of box. they then took their seats in the shop and talked of the poor thing and of her many virtues. one said she had talked with her only three days before, and another asked if it were not possible it was a trance. by evening the coupeaus felt it was more than they could bear. it was a mistake to keep a body so long. one has, after all, only so many tears to shed, and that done, grief turns to worry. mamma coupeau--stiff and cold--was a terrible weight on them all. they gradually lost the sense of oppression, however, and spoke louder. after a while m. marescot appeared. he went to the inner room and knelt at the side of the corpse. he was very religious, they saw. he made a sign of the cross in the air and dipped the branch into the holy water and sprinkled the body. m. marescot, having finished his devotions, passed out into the shop and said to coupeau: "i came for the two quarters that are due. have you got the money for me?" "no sir, not entirely," said gervaise, coming forward, excessively annoyed at this scene taking place in the presence of her sisters-in-law. "you see, this trouble came upon us--" "undoubtedly," answered her landlord; "but we all of us have our troubles. i cannot wait any longer. i really must have the money. if i am not paid by tomorrow i shall most assuredly take immediate measures to turn you out." gervaise clasped her hands imploringly, but he shook his head, saying that discussion was useless; besides, just then it would be a disrespect to the dead. "a thousand pardons!" he said as he went out. "but remember that i must have the money tomorrow." and as he passed the open door of the lighted room he saluted the corpse with another genuflection. after he had gone the ladies gathered around the stove, where a great pot of coffee stood, enough to keep them all awake for the whole night. the poissons arrived about eight o'clock; then lantier, carefully watching gervaise, began to speak of the disgraceful act committed by the landlord in coming to a house to collect money at such a time. "he is a thorough hypocrite," continued lantier, "and were i in madame coupeau's place, i would walk off and leave his house on his hands." gervaise heard but did not seem to heed. the lorilleuxs, delighted at the idea that she would lose her shop, declared that lantier's idea was an excellent one. they gave coupeau a push and repeated it to him. gervaise seemed to be disposed to yield, and then virginie spoke in the blandest of tones. "i will take the lease off your hands," she said, "and will arrange the back rent with your landlord." "no, no! thank you," cried gervaise, shaking off the lethargy in which she had been wrapped. "i can manage this matter and i can work. no, no, i say." lantier interposed and said soothingly: "never mind! we will talk of it another time--tomorrow, possibly." the family were to sit up all night. nana cried vociferously when she was sent into the boche quarters to sleep; the poissons remained until midnight. virginia began to talk of the country: she would like to be buried under a tree with flowers and grass on her grave. mme lerat said that in her wardrobe--folded up in lavender--was the linen sheet in which her body was to be wrapped. when the poissons went away lantier accompanied them in order, he said, to leave his bed for the ladies, who could take turns in sleeping there. but the ladies preferred to remain together about the stove. mme lorilleux said she had no black dress, and it was too bad that she must buy one, for they were sadly pinched just at this time. and she asked gervaise if she was sure that her mother had not a black skirt which would do, one that had been given her on her birthday. gervaise went for the skirt. yes, it would do if it were taken in at the waist. then mme lorilleux looked at the bed and the wardrobe and asked if there was nothing else belonging to her mother. here mme lerat interfered. the coupeaus, she said, had taken care of her mother, and they were entitled to all the trifles she had left. the night seemed endless. they drank coffee and went by turns to look at the body, lying silent and calm under the flickering light of the candle. the interment was to take place at half-past ten, but gervaise would gladly have given a hundred francs, if she had had them, to anyone who would have taken mamma coupeau away three hours before the time fixed. "ah," she said to herself, "it is no use to disguise the fact: people are very much in the way after they are dead, no matter how much you have loved them!" father bazonge, who was never known to be sober, appeared with the coffin and the pall. when he saw gervaise he stood with his eyes starting from his head. "i beg you pardon," he said, "but i thought it was for you," and he was turning to go away. "leave the coffin!" cried gervaise, growing very pale. bazonge began to apologize: "i heard them talking yesterday, but i did not pay much attention. i congratulate you that you are still alive. though why i do, i do not know, for life is not such a very agreeable thing." gervaise listened with a shiver of horror and a morbid dread that he would take her away and shut her up in his box and bury her. she had once heard him say that he knew a woman who would be only too thankful if he would do exactly that. "he is horribly drunk," she murmured in a tone of mingled disgust and terror. "it will come for you another time," he said with a laugh; "you have only to make me a little sign. i am a great consolation to women sometimes, and you need not sneer at poor father bazonge, for he has held many a fine lady in his arms, and they made no complaint when he laid them down to sleep in the shade of the evergreens." "do hold your tongue," said lorilleux; "this is no time for such talk. be off with you!" the clock struck ten. the friends and neighbors had assembled in the shop while the family were in the back room, nervous and feverish with suspense. four men appeared--the undertaker, bazonge and his three assistants placed the body in the coffin. bazonge held the screws in his mouth and waited for the family to take their last farewell. then coupeau, his two sisters and gervaise kissed their mother, and their tears fell fast on her cold face. the lid was put on and fastened down. the hearse was at the door to the great edification of the tradespeople of the neighborhood, who said under their breath that the coupeaus had best pay their debts. "it is shameful," gervaise was saying at the same moment, speaking of the lorilleuxs. "these people have not even brought a bouquet of violets for their mother." it was true they had come empty-handed, while mme lerat had brought a wreath of artificial flowers which was laid on the bier. coupeau and lorilleux, with their hats in their hands, walked at the head of the procession of men. after them followed the ladies, headed by mme lorilleux in her black skirt, wrenched from the dead, her sister trying to cover a purple dress with a large black shawl. gervaise had lingered behind to close the shop and give nana into the charge of mme boche and then ran to overtake the procession, while the little girl stood with the concierge, profoundly interested in seeing her grandmother carried in that beautiful carriage. just as gervaise joined the procession goujet came up a side street and saluted her with a slight bow and with a faint sweet smile. the tears rushed to her eyes. she did not weep for mamma coupeau but rather for herself, but her sisters-in-law looked at her as if she were the greatest hypocrite in the world. at the church the ceremony was of short duration. the mass dragged a little because the priest was very old. the cemetery was not far off, and the cortege soon reached it. a priest came out of a house near by and shivered as he saw his breath rise with each _de profundis_ he uttered. the coffin was lowered, and as the frozen earth fell upon it more tears were shed, accompanied, however, by sigh of relief. the procession dispersed outside the gates of the cemetery, and at the very first cabaret coupeau turned in, leaving gervaise alone on the sidewalk. she beckoned to goujet, who was turning the corner. "i want to speak to you," she said timidly. "i want to tell you how ashamed i am for coming to you again to borrow money, but i was at my wit's end." "i am always glad to be of use to you," answered the blacksmith. "but pray never allude to the matter before my mother, for i do not wish to trouble her. she and i think differently on many subjects." she looked at him sadly and earnestly. through her mind flitted a vague regret that she had not done as he desired, that she had not gone away with him somewhere. then a vile temptation assailed her. she trembled. "you are not angry now?" she said entreatingly. "no, not angry, but still heartsick. all is over between us now and forever." and he walked off with long strides, leaving gervaise stunned by his words. "all is over between us!" she kept saying to herself. "and what more is there for me then in life?" she sat down in her empty, desolate room and drank a large tumbler of wine. when the others came in she looked up suddenly and said to virginie gently: "if you want the shop, take it!" virginie and her husband jumped at this and sent for the concierge, who consented to the arrangement on condition that the new tenants would become security for the two quarters then due. this was agreed upon. the coupeaus would take a room on the sixth floor near the lorilleuxs. lantier said politely that if it would not be disagreeable to the poissons he should like much to retain his present quarters. the policeman bowed stiffly but with every intention of being cordial and said he decidedly approved of the idea. then lantier withdrew from the discussion entirely, watching gervaise and virginie out of the corners of his eyes. that evening when gervaise was alone again she felt utterly exhausted. the place looked twice its usual size. it seemed to her that in leaving mamma coupeau in the quiet cemetery she had also left much that was precious to her, a portion of her own life, her pride in her shop, her hopes and her energy. these were not all, either, that she had buried that day. her heart was as bare and empty as her walls and her home. she was too weary to try and analyze her sensations but moved about as if in a dream. at ten o'clock, when nana was undressed, she wept, begging that she might be allowed to sleep in her grandmother's bed. her mother vaguely wondered that the child was not afraid and allowed her to do as she pleased. nana was not timid by nature, and only her curiosity, not her fears, had been excited by the events of the last three days, and she curled herself up with delight in the soft, warm feather bed. chapter x disasters and changes the new lodging of the coupeaus was next that of the bijards. almost opposite their door was a closet under the stairs which went up to the roof--a mere hole without light or ventilation, where father bru slept. a chamber and a small room, about as large as one's hand, were all the coupeaus had now. nana's little bed stood in the small room, the door of which had to be left open at night, lest the child should stifle. when it came to the final move gervaise felt that she could not separate from the commode which she had spent so much time in polishing when first married and insisted on its going to their new quarters, where it was much in the way and stopped up half the window, and when gervaise wished to look out into the court she had not room for her elbows. the first few days she spent in tears. she felt smothered and cramped; after having had so much room to move about in it seemed to her that she was smothering. it was only at the window she could breathe. the courtyard was not a place calculated to inspire cheerful thoughts. opposite her was the window which years before had elicited her admiration, where every successive summer scarlet beans had grown to a fabulous height on slender strings. her room was on the shady side, and a pot of mignonette would die in a week on her sill. no, life had not been what she hoped, and it was all very hard to bear. instead of flowers to solace her declining years she would have but thorns. one day as she was looking down into the court she had the strangest feeling imaginable. she seemed to see herself standing just near the loge of the concierge, looking up at the house and examining it for the first time. this glimpse of the past made her feel faint. it was at least thirteen years since she had first seen this huge building--this world within a world. the court had not changed. the facade was simply more dingy. the same clothes seemed to be hanging at the windows to dry. below there were the shavings from the cabinetmaker's shop, and the gutter glittered with blue water, as blue and soft in tone as the water she remembered. but she--alas, how changed was she! she no longer looked up to the sky. she was no longer hopeful, courageous and ambitious. she was living under the very roof in crowded discomfort, where never a ray of sunshine could reach her, and her tears fell fast in utter discouragement. nevertheless, when gervaise became accustomed to her new surroundings she grew more content. the pieces of furniture she had sold to virginie had facilitated her installation. when the fine weather came coupeau had an opportunity of going into the country to work. he went and lived three months without drinking--cured for the time being by the fresh, pure air. it does a man sometimes an infinite deal of good to be taken away from all his old haunts and from parisian streets, which always seem to exhale a smell of brandy and of wine. he came back as fresh as a rose, and he brought four hundred francs with which he paid the poissons the amount for which they had become security as well as several other small but pressing debts. gervaise had now two or three streets open to her again, which for some time she had not dared to enter. she now went out to iron by the day and had gone back to her old mistress, mme fauconnier, who was a kindhearted creature and ready to do anything for anyone who flattered her adroitly. with diligence and economy gervaise could have managed to live comfortably and pay all her debts, but this prospect did not charm her particularly. she suffered acutely in seeing the poissons in her old shop. she was by no means of a jealous or envious disposition, but it was not agreeable to her to hear the admiration expressed for her successors by her husband's sisters. to hear them one would suppose that never had so beautiful a shop been seen before. they spoke of the filthy condition of the place when virginie moved in--who had paid, they declared, thirty francs for cleaning it. virginie, after some hesitation, had decided on a small stock of groceries--sugar, tea and coffee, also bonbons and chocolate. lantier had advised these because he said the profit on them was immense. the shop was repainted, and shelves and cases were put in, and a counter with scales such as are seen at confectioners'. the little inheritance that poisson held in reserve was seriously encroached upon. but virginie was triumphant, for she had her way, and the lorilleuxs did not spare gervaise the description of a case or a jar. it was said in the street that lantier had deserted gervaise, that she gave him no peace running after him, but this was not true, for he went and came to her apartment as he pleased. scandal was connecting his name and virginie's. they said virginie had taken the clearstarcher's lover as well as her shop! the lorilleuxs talked of nothing when gervaise was present but lantier, virginie and the shop. fortunately gervaise was not inclined to jealousy, and lantier's infidelities had hitherto left her undisturbed, but she did not accept this new affair with equal tranquillity. she colored or turned pale as she heard these allusions, but she would not allow a word to pass her lips, as she was fully determined never to gratify her enemies by allowing them to see her discomfiture; but a dispute was heard by the neighbors about this time between herself and lantier, who went angrily away and was not seen by anyone in the coupeau quarters for more than a fortnight. coupeau behaved very oddly. this blind and complacent husband, who had closed his eyes to all that was going on at home, was filled with virtuous indignation at lantier's indifference. then coupeau went so far as to tease gervaise in regard to this desertion of her lovers. she had had bad luck, he said, with hatters and blacksmiths--why did she not try a mason? he said this as if it were a joke, but gervaise had a firm conviction that he was in deadly earnest. a man who is tipsy from one year's end to the next is not apt to be fastidious, and there are husbands who at twenty are very jealous and at thirty have grown very complacent under the influence of constant tippling. lantier preserved an attitude of calm indifference. he kept the peace between the poissons and the coupeaus. thanks to him, virginie and gervaise affected for each other the most tender regard. he ruled the brunette as he had ruled the blonde, and he would swallow her shop as he had that of gervaise. it was in june of this year that nana partook of her first communion. she was about thirteen, slender and tall as an asparagus plant, and her air and manner were the height of impertinence and audacity. she had been sent away from the catechism class the year before on account of her bad conduct. and if the cure did not make a similar objection this year it was because he feared she would never come again and that his refusal would launch on the parisian _pave_ another castaway. nana danced with joy at the mere thought of what the lorilleuxs--as her godparents--had promised, while mme lerat gave the veil and cup, virginie the purse and lantier a prayer book, so that the coupeaus looked forward to the day without anxiety. the poissons--probably through lantier's advice--selected this occasion for their housewarming. they invited the coupeaus and the boche family, as pauline made her first communion on that day, as well as nana. the evening before, while nana stood in an ecstasy of delight before her presents, her father came in in an abominable condition. his virtuous resolutions had yielded to the air of paris; he had fallen into evil ways again, and he now assailed his wife and child with the vilest epithets, which did not seem to shock nana, for they could fall from her tongue on occasion with facile glibness. "i want my soup," cried coupeau, "and you two fools are chattering over those fal-lals! i tell you, i will sit on them if i am not waited upon, and quickly too." gervaise answered impatiently, but nana, who thought it better taste just then--all things considered--to receive with meekness all her father's abuse, dropped her eyes and did not reply. "take that rubbish away!" he cried with growing impatience. "put it out of my sight or i will tear it to bits." nana did not seem to hear him. she took up the tulle cap and asked her mother what it cost, and when coupeau tried to snatch the cap gervaise pushed him away. "let the child alone!" she said. "she is doing no harm!" then her husband went into a perfect rage: "mother and daughter," he cried, "a nice pair they make. i understand very well what all this row is for: it is merely to show yourself in a new gown. i will put you in a bag and tie it close round your throat, and you will see if the cure likes that!" nana turned like lightning to protect her treasures. she looked her father full in the face, and, forgetting the lessons taught her by her priest, she said in a low, concentrated voice: "beast!" that was all. after coupeau had eaten his soup he fell asleep and in the morning woke quite amiable. he admired his daughter and said she looked quite like a young lady in her white robe. then he added with a sentimental air that a father on such days was naturally proud of his child. when they were ready to go to the church and nana met pauline in the corridor, she examined the latter from head to foot and smiled condescendingly on seeing that pauline had not a particle of chic. the two families started off together, nana and pauline in front, each with her prayer book in one hand and with the other holding down her veil, which swelled in the wind like a sail. they did not speak to each other but keenly enjoyed seeing the shopkeepers run to their doors to see them, keeping their eyes cast down devoutly but their ears wide open to any compliment they might hear. nana's two aunts walked side by side, exchanging their opinions in regard to gervaise, whom they stigmatized as an irreligious ne'er-do-well whose child would never have gone to the holy communion if it had depended on her. at the church coupeau wept all the time. it was very silly, he knew, but he could not help it. the voice of the cure was pathetic; the little girls looked like white-robed angels; the organ thrilled him, and the incense gratified his senses. there was one especial anthem which touched him deeply. he was not the only person who wept, he was glad to see, and when the ceremony was over he left the church feeling that it was the happiest day of his life. but an hour later he quarreled with lorilleux in a wineshop because the latter was so hardhearted. the housewarming at the poissons' that night was very gay. lantier sat between gervaise and virginie and was equally civil and attentive to both. opposite was poisson with his calm, impassive face, a look he had cultivated since he began his career as a police officer. but the queens of the fete were the two little girls, nana and pauline, who sat very erect lest they should crush and deface their pretty white dresses. at dessert there was a serious discussion in regard to the future of the children. mme boche said that pauline would at once enter a certain manufactory, where she would receive five or six francs per week. gervaise had not decided yet, for nana had shown no especial leaning in any direction. she had a good deal of taste, but she was butter-fingered and careless. "i should make a florist of her," said mme lerat. "it is clean work and pretty work too." whereupon ensued a warm discussion. the men were especially careful of their language out of deference to the little girls, but mme lerat would not accept the lesson: she flattered herself she could say what she pleased in such a way that it could not offend the most fastidious ears. women, she declared, who followed her trade were more virtuous than others. they rarely made a slip. "i have no objection to your trade," interrupted gervaise. "if nana likes to make flowers let her do so. say, nana, would you like it?" the little girl did not look up from her plate, into which she was dipping a crust of bread. she smiled faintly as she replied: "yes, mamma; if you desire it i have no objection." the decision was instantly made, and coupeau wished his sister to take her the very next day to the place where she herself worked, rue du caire, and the circle talked gravely of the duties of life. boche said that pauline and nana were now women, since they had been to communion, and they ought to be serious and learn to cook and to mend. they alluded to their future marriages, their homes and their children, and the girls touched each other under the table, giggled and grew very red. lantier asked them if they did not have little husbands already, and nana blushingly confessed that she loved victor fauconnier and never meant to marry anyone else. mme lorilleux said to mme boche on their way home: "nana is our goddaughter now, but if she goes into that flower business, in six months she will be on the _pave_, and we will have nothing to do with her." gervaise told boche that she thought the shop admirably arranged. she had looked forward to an evening of torture and was surprised that she had not experienced a pang. nana, as she undressed, asked her mother if the girl on the next floor, who had been married the week before, wore a dress of muslin like hers. but this was the last bright day in that household. two years passed away, and their prospects grew darker and their demoralization and degradation more evident. they went without food and without fire, but never without brandy. they found it almost impossible to meet their rent, and a certain january came when they had not a penny, and father boche ordered them to leave. it was frightfully cold, with a sharp wind blowing from the north. m. marescot appeared in a warm overcoat and his hands encased in warm woolen gloves and told them they must go, even if they slept in the gutter. the whole house was oppressed with woe, and a dreary sound of lamentation arose from most of the rooms, for half the tenants were behindhand. gervaise sold her bed and paid the rent. nana made nothing as yet, and gervaise had so fallen off in her work that mme fauconnier had reduced her wages. she was irregular in her hours and often absented herself from the shop for several days together but was none the less vexed to discover that her old employee, mme putois, had been placed above her. naturally at the end of the week gervaise had little money coming to her. as to coupeau, if he worked he brought no money home, and his wife had ceased to count upon it. sometimes he declared he had lost it through a hole in his pocket or it had been stolen, but after a while he ceased to make any excuses. but if he had no cash in his pockets it was because he had spent it all in drink. mme boche advised gervaise to watch for him at the door of the place where he was employed and get his wages from him before he had spent them all, but this did no good, as coupeau was warned by his friends and escaped by a rear door. the coupeaus were entirely to blame for their misfortunes, but this is just what people will never admit. it is always ill luck or the cruelty of god or anything, in short, save the legitimate result of their own vices. gervaise now quarreled with her husband incessantly. the warmth of affection of husband and wife, of parents for their children and children for their parents had fled and left them all shivering, each apart from the other. all three, coupeau, gervaise and nana, watched each other with eyes of baleful hate. it seemed as if some spring had broken--the great mainspring that binds families together. gervaise did not shudder when she saw her husband lying drunk in the gutter. she would not have pushed him in, to be sure, but if he were out of the way it would be a good thing for everybody. she even went so far as to say one day in a fit of rage that she would be glad to see him brought home on a shutter. of what good was he to any human being? he ate and he drank and he slept. his child learned to hate him, and she read the accidents in the papers with the feelings of an unnatural daughter. what a pity it was that her father had not been the man who was killed when that omnibus tipped over! in addition to her own sorrows and privations, gervaise, whose heart was not yet altogether hard, was condemned to hear now of the sufferings of others. the corner of the house in which she lived seemed to be consecrated to those who were as poor as herself. no smell of cooking filled the air, which, on the contrary, was laden with the shrill cries of hungry children, heavy with the sighs of weary, heartbroken mothers and with the oaths of drunken husbands and fathers. gervaise pitied father bru from the bottom of her heart; he lay the greater part of the time rolled up in the straw in his den under the staircase leading to the roof. when two or three days elapsed without his showing himself someone opened the door and looked in to see if he were still alive. yes, he was living; that is, he was not dead. when gervaise had bread she always remembered him. if she had learned to hate men because of her husband her heart was still tender toward animals, and father bru seemed like one to her. she regarded him as a faithful old dog. her heart was heavy within her whenever she thought of him, alone, abandoned by god and man, dying by inches or drying, rather, as an orange dries on the chimney piece. gervaise was also troubled by the vicinity of the undertaker bazonge--a wooden partition alone separated their rooms. when he came in at night she could hear him throw down his glazed hat, which fell with a dull thud, like a shovelful of clay, on the table. the black cloak hung against the wall rustled like the wings of some huge bird of prey. she could hear his every movement, and she spent most of her time listening to him with morbid horror, while he--all unconscious--hummed his vulgar songs and tipsily staggered to his bed, under which the poor woman's sick fancy pictured a dead body concealed. she had read in some paper a dismal tale of some undertaker who took home with him coffin after coffin--children's coffins--in order to make one trip to the cemetery suffice. when she heard his step the whole corridor was pervaded to her senses with the odor of dead humanity. she would as lief have resided at pere-lachaise and watched the moles at their work. the man terrified her; his incessant laughter dismayed her. she talked of moving but at the same time was reluctant to do so, for there was a strange fascination about bazonge after all. had he not told her once that he would come for her and lay her down to sleep in the shadow of waving branches, where she would know neither hunger nor toil? she wished she could try it for a month. and she thought how delicious it would be in midwinter, just at the time her quarter's rent was due. but, alas, this was not possible! the rest and the sleep must be eternal; this thought chilled her, and her longing for death faded away before the unrelenting severity of the bonds exacted by mother earth. one night she was sick and feverish, and instead of throwing herself out of the window as she was tempted to do, she rapped on the partition and called loudly: "father bazonge! father bazonge!" the undertaker was kicking off his slippers, singing a vulgar song as he did so. "what is the matter?" he answered. but at his voice gervaise awoke as from a nightmare. what had she done? had she really tapped? she asked herself, and she recoiled from his side of the wall in chill horror. it seemed to her that she felt the undertaker's hands on her head. no! no! she was not ready. she told herself that she had not intended to call him. it was her elbow that had knocked the wall accidentally, and she shivered from head to foot at the idea of being carried away in this man's arms. "what is the matter?" repeated bazonge. "can i serve you in any way, madame?" "no! no! it is nothing!" answered the laundress in a choked voice. "i am very much obliged." while the undertaker slept she lay wide awake, holding her breath and not daring to move, lest he should think she called him again. she said to herself that under no circumstances would she ever appeal to him for assistance, and she said this over and over again with the vain hope of reassuring herself, for she was by no means at ease in her mind. gervaise had before her a noble example of courage and fortitude in the bijard family. little lalie, that tiny child--about as big as a pinch of salt--swept and kept her room like wax; she watched over the two younger children with all the care and patience of a mother. this she had done since her father had kicked her mother to death. she had entirely assumed that mother's place, even to receiving the blows which had fallen formerly on that poor woman. it seemed to be a necessity of his nature that when he came home drunk he must have some woman to abuse. lalie was too small, he grumbled; one blow of his fist covered her whole face, and her skin was so delicate that the marks of his five fingers would remain on her cheek for days! he would fly at her like a wolf at a poor little kitten for the merest trifle. lalie never answered, never rebelled and never complained. she merely tried to shield her face and suppressed all shrieks, lest the neighbors should come; her pride could not endure that. when her father was tired kicking her about the room she lay where he left her until she had strength to rise, and then she went steadily about her work, washing the children and making her soup, sweeping and dusting until everything was clean. it was a part of her plan of life to be beaten every day. gervaise had conceived a strong affection for this little neighbor. she treated her like a woman who knew something of life. it must be admitted that lalie was large for her years. she was fair and pale, with solemn eyes for her years and had a delicate mouth. to have heard her talk one would have thought her thirty. she could make and mend, and she talked of the children as if she had herself brought them into the world. she made people laugh sometimes when she talked, but more often she brought tears to their eyes. gervaise did everything she could for her, gave her what she could and helped the energetic little soul with her work. one day she was altering a dress of nana's for her, and when the child tried it on gervaise was chilled with horror at seeing her whole back purple and bruised, the tiny arm bleeding--all the innocent flesh of childhood martyrized by the brute--her father. bazonge might get the coffin ready, she thought, for the little girl could not bear this long. but lalie entreated her friend to say nothing, telling her that her father did not know what he was doing, that he had been drinking. she forgave him with her whole heart, for madmen must not be held accountable for their deeds. after that gervaise was on the watch whenever she heard bijard coming up the stairs. but she never caught him in any act of absolute brutality. several times she had found lalie tied to the foot of the bedstead--an idea that had entered her father's brain, no one knew why, a whim of his disordered brain, disordered by liquor, which probably arose from his wish to tyrannize over the child, even when he was no longer there. lalie sometimes was left there all day and once all night. when gervaise insisted on untying her the child entreated her not to touch the knots, saying that her father would be furious if he found the knots had been tampered with. and really, she said with an angelic smile, she needed rest, and the only thing that troubled her was not to be able to put the room in order. she could watch the children just as well, and she could think, so that her time was not entirely lost. when her father let her free, her sufferings were not over, for it was sometimes more than an hour before she could stand--before the blood circulated freely in her stiffened limbs. her father had invented another cheerful game. he heated some sous red hot on the stove and laid them on the chimney piece. he then summoned lalie and bade her go buy some bread. the child unsuspiciously took up the sous, uttered a little shriek and dropped them, shaking her poor burned fingers. then he would go off in a rage. what did she mean by such nonsense? she had thrown away the money and lost it, and he threatened her with a hiding if she did not find the money instantly. the poor child hesitated; he gave her a cuff on the side of the head. with silent tears streaming down her cheeks she would pick up the sous and toss them from hand to hand to cool them as she went down the long flights of stairs. there was no limit to the strange ingenuity of the man. one afternoon, for example, lalie had completed playing with the children. the window was open, and the air shook the door so that it sounded like gentle raps. "it is mr wind," said lalie; "come in, mr wind. how are you today?" and she made a low curtsy to mr wind. the children did the same in high glee, and she was quite radiant with happiness, which was not often the case. "come in, mr wind!" she repeated, but the door was pushed open by a rough hand and bijard entered. then a sudden change came over the scene. the two children crouched in a corner, while lalie stood in the center of the floor, frozen stiff with terror, for bijard held in his hand a new whip with a long and wicked-looking lash. he laid this whip on the bed and did not kick either one of the children but smiled in the most vicious way, showing his two lines of blackened, irregular teeth. he was very drunk and very noisy. "what is the matter with you fools? have you been struck dumb? i heard you all talking and laughing merrily enough before i came in. where are your tongues now? here! take off my shoes!" lalie, considerably disheartened at not having received her customary kick, turned very pale as she obeyed. he was sitting on the side of the bed. he lay down without undressing and watched the child as she moved about the room. troubled by this strange conduct, the child ended by breaking a cup. then without disturbing himself he took up the whip and showed it to her. "look here, fool," he said grimly: "i bought this for you, and it cost me fifty sous, but i expect to get a good deal more than fifty sous' worth of good out of it. with this long lash i need not run about after you, for i can reach you in every corner of the room. you will break the cups, will you? come, now, jump about a little and say good morning to mr wind again!" he did not even sit up in the bed but, with his head buried in the pillow, snapped the whip with a noise like that made by a postilion. the lash curled round lalie's slender body; she fell to the floor, but he lashed her again and compelled her to rise. "this is a very good thing," he said coolly, "and saves my getting chilled on cold mornings. yes, i can reach you in that corner--and in that! skip now! skip!" a light foam was on his lips, and his suffused eyes were starting from their sockets. poor little lalie darted about the room like a terrified bird, but the lash tingled over her shoulders, coiled around her slender legs and stung like a viper. she was like an india-rubber ball bounding from the floor, while her beast of a father laughed aloud and asked her if she had had enough. the door opened and gervaise entered. she had heard the noise. she stood aghast at the scene and then was seized with noble rage. "let her be!" she cried. "i will go myself and summon the police." bijard growled like an animal who is disturbed over his prey. "why do you meddle?" he exclaimed. "what business is it of yours?" and with another adroit movement he cut lalie across the face. the blood gushed from her lip. gervaise snatched a chair and flew at the brute, but the little girl held her skirts and said it did not hurt much; it would be over soon, and she washed the blood away, speaking gently to the frightened children. when gervaise thought of lalie she was ashamed to complain. she wished she had the courage of this child. she knew that she had lived on dry bread for weeks and that she was so weak she could hardly stand, and the tears came to the woman's eyes as she saw the precocious mite who had known nothing of the innocent happiness of her years. and gervaise took this slender creature for example, whose eyes alone told the story of her misery and hardships, for in the coupeau family the vitriol of the assommoir was doing its work of destruction. gervaise had seen a whip. gervaise had learned to dread it, and this dread inspired her with tenderest pity for lalie. coupeau had lost the flesh and the bloated look which had been his, and he was thin and emaciated. his complexion was gradually acquiring a leaden hue. his appetite was utterly gone. it was with difficulty that he swallowed a mouthful of bread. his stomach turned against all solid food, but he took his brandy every day. this was his meat as well as his drink, and he touched nothing else. when he crawled out of his bed in the morning he stood for a good fifteen minutes, coughing and spitting out a bitter liquid that rose in his throat and choked him. he did not feel any better until he had taken what he called "a good drink," and later in the day his strength returned. he felt strange prickings in the skin of his hands and feet. but lately his limbs had grown heavy. this pricking sensation gave place to the most excruciating cramps, which he did not find very amusing. he rarely laughed now but often stopped short and stood still on the sidewalk, troubled by a strange buzzing in his ears and by flashes of light before his eyes. everything looked yellow to him; the houses seemed to be moving away from him. at other times, when the sun was full on his back, he shivered as if a stream of ice water had been poured down between his shoulders. but the thing he liked the least about himself was a nervous trembling in his hands, the right hand especially. had he become an old woman then? he asked himself with sudden fury. he tried with all his strength to lift his glass and command his nerves enough to hold it steady. but the glass had a regular tremulous movement from right to left and left to right again, in spite of all his efforts. then he emptied it down his throat, saying that when he had swallowed a dozen more he would be all right and as steady as a monument. gervaise told him, on the contrary, that he must leave off drinking if he wished to leave off trembling. he grew very angry and drank quarts in his eagerness to test the question, finally declaring that it was the passing omnibusses that jarred the house and shook his hand. in march coupeau came in one night drenched to the skin. he had been caught out in a shower. that night he could not sleep for coughing. in the morning he had a high fever, and the physician who was sent for advised gervaise to send him at once to the hospital. and gervaise made no objection; once she had refused to trust her husband to these people, but now she consigned him to their tender mercies without a regret; in fact, she regarded it as a mercy. nevertheless, when the litter came she turned very pale and, if she had had even ten francs in her pocket, would have kept him at home. she walked to the hospital by the side of the litter and went into the ward where he was placed. the room looked to her like a miniature pere-lachaise, with its rows of beds on either side and its path down the middle. she went slowly away, and in the street she turned and looked up. how well she remembered when coupeau was at work on those gutters, cheerily singing in the morning air! he did not drink in those days, and she, at her window in the hotel boncoeur, had watched his athletic form against the sky, and both had waved their handkerchiefs. yes, coupeau had worked more than a year on this hospital, little thinking that he was preparing a place for himself. now he was no longer on the roof--he had built a dismal nest within. good god, was she and the once-happy wife and mother one and the same? how long ago those days seemed! the next day when gervaise went to make inquiries she found the bed empty. a sister explained that her husband had been taken to the asylum of sainte-anne, because the night before he had suddenly become unmanageable from delirium and had uttered such terrible howls that it disturbed the inmates of all the beds in that ward. it was the alcohol in his system, she said, which attacked his nerves now, when he was so reduced by the inflammation on his lungs that he could not resist it. the clearstarcher went home, but how or by what route she never knew. her husband was mad--she heard these words reverberating through her brain. life was growing very strange. nana simply said that he must, of course, be left at the asylum, for he might murder them both. on sunday only could gervaise go to sainte-anne. it was a long distance off. fortunately there was an omnibus which went very near. she got out at la rue sante and bought two oranges that she might not go quite empty-handed. but when she went in, to her astonishment she found coupeau sitting up. he welcomed her gaily. "you are better!" she exclaimed. "yes, nearly well," he replied, and they talked together awhile, and she gave him the oranges, which pleased and touched him, for he was a different man now that he drank tisane instead of liquor. she did not dare allude to his delirium, but he spoke of it himself. "yes," he said, "i was in a pretty state! i saw rats running all over the floor and the walls, and you were calling me, and i saw all sorts of horrible things! but i am all right now. once in a while i have a bad dream, but everybody does, i suppose." gervaise remained with him until night. when the house surgeon made his rounds at six o'clock he told him to hold out his hands. they scarcely trembled--an almost imperceptible motion of the tips of his fingers was all. but as the room grew darker coupeau became restless. two or three times he sat up and peered into the remote corners. suddenly he stretched out his arms and seemed to crush some creature on the wall. "what is it?" asked gervaise, terribly frightened. "rats!" he said quietly. "only rats!" after a long silence he seemed to be dropping off to sleep, with disconnected sentences falling from his lips. "dirty beasts! look out, one is under your skirts!" he pulled the covering hastily over his head, as if to protect himself against the creature he saw. then starting up in mad terror, he screamed aloud. a nurse ran to the bed, and gervaise was sent away, mute with horror at this scene. but when on the following sunday she went again to the hospital, coupeau was really well. all his dreams had vanished. he slept like a child, ten hours without lifting a finger. his wife, therefore, was allowed to take him away. the house surgeon gave him a few words of advice before he left, assuring him if he continued to drink he would be a dead man in three months. all depended on himself. he could live at home just as he had lived at sainte-anne's and must forget that such things as wine and brandy existed. "he is right," said gervaise as they took their seats in the omnibus. "of course he is right," answered her husband. but after a moment's silence he added: "but then, you know, a drop of brandy now and then never hurts a man: it aids digestion." that very evening he took a tiny drop and for a week was very moderate; he had no desire, he said, to end his days at bicetre. but he was soon off his guard, and one day his little drop ended in a full glass, to be followed by a second, and so on. at the end of a fortnight he had fallen back in the old rut. gervaise did her best, but, after all, what can a wife do in such circumstances? she had been so startled by the scene at the asylum that she had fully determined to begin a regular life again and hoped that he would assist her and do the same himself. but now she saw that there was no hope, that even the knowledge of the inevitable results could not restrain her husband now. then the hell on earth began again; hopeless and intolerant, nana asked indignantly why he had not remained in the asylum. all the money she made, she said, should be spent in brandy for her father, for the sooner it was ended, the better for them all. gervaise blazed out one day when he lamented his marriage and told him that it was for her to curse the day when she first saw him. he must remember that she had refused him over and over again. the scene was a frightful one and one unexampled in the coupeau annals. gervaise, now utterly discouraged, grew more indolent every day. her room was rarely swept. the lorilleuxs said they could not enter it, it was so dirty. they talked all day long over their work of the downfall of wooden legs. they gloated over her poverty and her rags. "well! well!" they murmured. "a great change has indeed come to that beautiful blonde who was so fine in her blue shop." gervaise suspected their comments on her and her acts to be most unkind, but she determined to have no open quarrel. it was for her interest to speak to them when they met, but that was all the intercourse between them. on saturday coupeau had told his wife he would take her to the circus; he had earned a little money and insisted on indulging himself. nana was obliged to stay late at the place where she worked and would sleep with her aunt mme lerat. seven o'clock came, but no coupeau. her husband was drinking with his comrades probably. she had washed a cap and mended an old gown with the hope of being presentable. about nine o'clock, in a towering rage, she sallied forth on an empty stomach to find coupeau. "are you looking for your husband?" said mme boche. "he is at the assommoir. boche has just seen him there." gervaise muttered her thanks and went with rapid steps to the assommoir. a fine rain was falling. the gas in the tavern was blazing brightly, lighting up the mirrors, the bottles and glasses. she stood at the window and looked in. he was sitting at a table with his comrades. the atmosphere was thick with smoke, and he looked stupefied and half asleep. she shivered and wondered why she should stay there and, so thinking, turned away, only to come back twice to look again. the water lay on the uneven sidewalk in pools, reflecting all the lights from the assommoir. finally she determined on a bold step: she opened the door and deliberately walked up to her husband. after all, why should she not ask him why he had not kept his promise of taking her to the circus? at any rate, she would not stay out there in the rain and melt away like a cake of soap. "she is crazy!" said coupeau when he saw her. "i tell you, she is crazy!" he and all his friends shrieked with laughter, but no one condescended to say what it was that was so very droll. gervaise stood still, a little bewildered by this unexpected reception. coupeau was so amiable that she said: "come, you know it is not too late to see something." "sit down a minute," said her husband, not moving from his seat. gervaise saw she could not stand there among all those men, so she accepted the offered chair. she looked at the glasses, whose contents glittered like gold. she looked at these dirty, shabby men and at the others crowding around the counter. it was very warm, and the pipe smoke thickened the air. gervaise felt as if she were choking; her eyes smarted, and her head was heavy with the fumes of alcohol. she turned around and saw the still, the machine that created drunkards. that evening the copper was dull and glittered only in one round spot. the shadows of the apparatus on the wall behind were strange and weird--creatures with tails, monsters opening gigantic jaws as if to swallow the whole world. "what will you take to drink?" said coupeau. "nothing," answered his wife. "you know i have had no dinner!" "you need it all the more then! have a drop of something!" as she hesitated mes-bottes said gallantly: "the lady would like something sweet like herself." "i like men," she answered angrily, "who do not get tipsy and talk like fools! i like men who keep their promises!" her husband laughed. "you had better drink your share," he said, "for the devil a bit of a circus will you see tonight." she looked at him fixedly. a heavy frown contracted her eyebrows. she answered slowly: "you are right; it is a good idea. we can drink up the money together." bibi brought her a glass of anisette. as she sipped it she remembered all at once the brandied fruit she had eaten in the same place with coupeau when he was courting her. that day she had left the brandy and took only the fruit, and now she was sitting there drinking liqueur. but the anisette was good. when her glass was empty she refused another, and yet she was not satisfied. she looked around at the infernal machine behind her--a machine that should have been buried ten fathoms deep in the sea. nevertheless, it had for her a strange fascination, and she longed to quench her thirst with that liquid fire. "what is that you have in your glasses?" she asked. "that, my dear," answered her husband, "is father colombe's own especial brew. taste it." and when a glass of the vitriol was brought to her coupeau bade her swallow it down, saying it was good for her. after she had drunk this glass gervaise was no longer conscious of the hunger that had tormented her. coupeau told her they could go to the circus another time, and she felt she had best stay where she was. it did not rain in the assommoir, and she had come to look upon the scene as rather amusing. she was comfortable and sleepy. she took a third glass and then put her head on her folded arms, supporting them on the table, and listened to her husband and his friends as they talked. behind her the still was at work with constant drip-drip, and she felt a mad desire to grapple with it as with some dangerous beast and tear out its heart. she seemed to feel herself caught in those copper fangs and fancied that those coils of pipe were wound around her own body, slowly but surely crushing out her life. the whole room danced before her eyes, for gervaise was now in the condition which had so often excited her pity and indignation with others. she vaguely heard a quarrel arise and a crash of chairs and tables, and then father colombe promptly turned everyone into the street. it was still raining and a cold, sharp wind blowing. gervaise lost coupeau, found him and then lost him again. she wanted to go home, but she could not find her way. at the corner of the street she took her seat by the side of the gutter, thinking herself at her washtub. finally she got home and endeavored to walk straight past the door of the concierge, within whose room she was vaguely conscious of the poissons and lorilleuxs holding up their hands in disgust at her condition. she never knew how she got up those six flights of stairs. but when she turned into her own corridor little lalie ran toward her with loving, extended arms. "dear madame gervaise," she cried, "papa has not come in; please come and see my children. they are sleeping so sweetly!" but when she looked up in the face of the clearstarcher she recoiled, trembling from head to foot. she knew only too well that alcoholic smell, those wandering eyes and convulsed lips. then as gervaise staggered past her without speaking the child's arms fell at her side, and she looked after her friend with sad and solemn eyes. chapter xi little nana nana was growing fast--fair, fresh and dimpled--her skin velvety, like a peach, and eyes so bright that men often asked her if they might not light their pipes at them. her mass of blonde hair--the color of ripe wheat--looked around her temples as if it were powdered with gold. she had a quaint little trick of sticking out the tip of her tongue between her white teeth, and this habit, for some reason, exasperated her mother. she was very fond of finery and very coquettish. in this house, where bread was not always to be got, it was difficult for her to indulge her caprices in the matter of costume, but she did wonders. she brought home odds and ends of ribbons from the shop where she worked and made them up into bows and knots with which she ornamented her dirty dresses. she was not overparticular in washing her feet, but she wore her boots so tight that she suffered martyrdom in honor of st crispin, and if anyone asked her what the matter was when the pain flushed her face suddenly, she always and promptly laid it to the score of the colic. summer was the season of her triumphs. in a calico dress that cost five or six francs she was as fresh and sweet as a spring morning and made the dull street radiant with her youth and her beauty. she went by the name of "the little chicken." one gown, in particular, suited her to perfection. it was white with rose-colored dots, without trimming of any kind. the skirt was short and showed her feet. the sleeves were very wide and displayed her arms to the elbows. she turned the neck away and fastened it with pins--in a corner in the corridor, dreading her father's jests--to exhibit her pretty rounded throat. a rose-colored ribbon, knotted in the rippling masses of her hair, completed her toilet. she was a charming combination of child and woman. sundays at this period of her life were her days for coquetting with the public. she looked forward to them all the week through with a longing for liberty and fresh air. early in the morning she began her preparations and stood for hours in her chemise before the bit of broken mirror nailed by the window, and as everyone could see her, her mother would be very much vexed and ask how long she intended to show herself in that way. but she, quite undisturbed, went on fastening down the little curls on her forehead with a little sugar and water and then sewed the buttons on her boots or took a stitch or two in her frock, barefooted all this time and with her chemise slipping off her rounded shoulders. her father declared he would exhibit her as the "wild girl," at two sous a head. she was very lovely in this scanty costume, the color flushing her cheeks in her indignation at her father's sometimes coarse remarks. she did not dare answer him, however, but bit off her thread in silent rage. after breakfast she went down to the courtyard. the house was wrapped in sunday quiet; the workshops on the lower floor were closed. through some of the open windows the tables were seen laid for dinners, the families being on the fortifications "getting an appetite." five or six girls--nana, pauline and others--lingered in the courtyard for a time and then took flight altogether into the streets and thence to the outer boulevards. they walked in a line, filling up the whole sidewalk, with ribbons fluttering in their uncovered hair. they managed to see everybody and everything through their downcast lids. the streets were their native heath, as it were, for they had grown up in them. nana walked in the center and gave her arm to pauline, and as they were the oldest and tallest of the band, they gave the law to the others and decided where they should go for the day and what they should do. nana and pauline were deep ones. they did nothing without premeditation. if they ran it was to show their slender ankles, and when they stopped and panted for breath it was sure to be at the side of some youths--young workmen of their acquaintance--who smoked in their faces as they talked. nana had her favorite, whom she always saw at a great distance--victor fauconnier--and pauline adored a young cabinetmaker, who gave her apples. toward sunset the great pleasure of the day began. a band of mountebanks would spread a well-worn carpet, and a circle was formed to look on. nana and pauline were always in the thickest of the crowd, their pretty fresh dresses crushed between dirty blouses, but insensible to the mingled odors of dust and alcohol, tobacco and dirt. they heard vile language; it did not disturb them; it was their own tongue--they heard little else. they listened to it with a smile, their delicate cheeks unflushed. the only thing that disturbed them was the appearance of their fathers, particularly if these fathers seemed to have been drinking. they kept a good lookout for this disaster. "look!" cried pauline. "your father is coming, nana." then the girl would crouch on her knees and bid the others stand close around her, and when he had passed on after an inquiring look she would jump up and they would all utter peals of laughter. but one day nana was kicked home by her father, and boche dragged pauline away by her ear. the girls would ordinarily return to the courtyard in the twilight and establish themselves there with the air of not having been away, and each invented a story with which to greet their questioning parents. nana now received forty sous per day at the place where she had been apprenticed. the coupeaus would not allow her to change, because she was there under the supervision of her aunt, mme lerat, who had been employed for many years in the same establishment. the girl went off at an early hour in her little black dress, which was too short and too tight for her, and mme lerat was bidden, whenever she was after her time, to inform gervaise, who allowed her just twenty minutes, which was quite long enough. but she was often seven or eight minutes late, and she spent her whole day coaxing her aunt not to tell her mother. mme lerat, who was fond of the girl and understood the follies of youth, did not tell, but at the same time she read nana many a long sermon on her follies and talked of her own responsibility and of the dangers a young girl ran in paris. "you must tell me everything," she said. "i am too indulgent to you, and if evil should come of it i should throw myself into the seine. understand me, my little kitten; if a man should speak to you you must promise to tell me every word he says. will you swear to do this?" nana laughed an equivocal little laugh. oh yes, she would promise. but men never spoke to her; she walked too fast for that. what could they say to her? and she explained her irregularity in coming--her five or ten minutes delay--with an innocent little air. she had stopped at a window to look at pictures or she had stopped to talk to pauline. her aunt might follow her if she did not believe her. "oh, i will watch her. you need not be afraid!" said the widow to her brother. "i will answer for her, as i would for myself!" the place where the aunt and niece worked side by side was a large room with a long table down the center. shelves against the wall were piled with boxes and bundles--all covered with a thick coating of dust. the gas had blackened the ceiling. the two windows were so large that the women, seated at the table, could see all that was going on in the street below. mme lerat was the first to make her appearance in the morning, but in another fifteen minutes all the others were there. one morning in july nana came in last, which, however, was the usual case. "i shall be glad when i have a carriage!" she said as she ran to the window without even taking off her hat--a shabby little straw. "what are you looking at?" asked her aunt suspiciously. "did your father come with you?" "no indeed," answered nana carelessly; "nor am i looking at anything. it is awfully warm, and of all things in the world, i hate to be in a hurry." the morning was indeed frightfully hot. the workwomen had closed the blinds, leaving a crack, however, through which they could inspect the street, and they took their seats on each side of the table--mme lerat at the farther end. there were eight girls, four on either side, each with her little pot of glue, her pincers and other tools; heaps of wires of different lengths and sizes lay on the table, spools of cotton and of different-colored papers, petals and leaves cut out of silk, velvet and satin. in the center, in a goblet, one of the girls had placed a two-sou bouquet,--which was slowly withering in the heat. "did you know," said leonie as she picked up a rose leaf with her pincers, "how wretched poor caroline is with that fellow who used to call for her regularly every night?" before anyone could answer leonie added: "hush! here comes madame." and in sailed mme titreville, a tall, thin woman, who usually remained below in the shop. her employees stood in dread terror of her, as she was never known to smile. she went from one to another, finding fault with all; she ordered one woman to pull a marguerite to pieces and make it over and then went out as stiffly and silently as she had come in. "houp! houp!" said nana under her breath, and a giggle ran round the table. "really, young ladies," said mme lerat, "you will compel me to severe measures." but no one was listening, and no one feared her. she was very tolerant. they could say what they pleased, provided they put it in decent language. nana was certainly in a good school! her instincts, to be sure, were vicious, but these instincts were fostered and developed in this place, as is too often the case when a crowd of girls are herded together. it was the story of a basket of apples, the good ones spoiled by those that were already rotten. if two girls were whispering in a corner, ten to one they were telling some story that could not be told aloud. nana was not yet thoroughly perverted, but the curiosity which had been her distinguishing characteristic as a child had not deserted her, and she scarcely took her eyes from a girl by the name of lisa, about whom strange stories were told. "how warm it is!" she exclaimed, suddenly rising and pushing open the blinds. leonie saw a man standing on the sidewalk opposite. "who is that old fellow?" she said. "he has been there a full quarter of an hour." "some fool who has nothing better to do, i suppose," said mme lerat. "nana, will you come back to your work? i have told you that you should not go to that window." nana took up her violets, and they all began to watch this man. he was well dressed, about fifty, pale and grave. for a full hour he watched the windows. "look!" said leonie. "he has an eyeglass. oh, he is very chic. he is waiting for augustine." but augustine sharply answered that she did not like the old man. "you make a great mistake then," said mme lerat with her equivocal smile. nana listened to the conversation which followed--reveling in indecency--as much at home in it as a fish is in water. all the time her fingers were busy at work. she wound her violet stems and fastened in the leaves with a slender strip of green paper. a drop of gum--and then behold a bunch of delicate fresh verdure which would fascinate any lady. her fingers were especially deft by nature. no instruction could have imparted this quality. the gentleman had gone away, and the workshop settled down into quiet once more. when the bell rang for twelve nana started up and said she would go out and execute any commissions. leonie sent for two sous' worth of shrimp, augustine for some fried potatoes, sophie for a sausage and lisa for a bunch of radishes. as she was going out, her aunt said quietly: "i will go with you. i want something." lo, in the lane running up by the shop was the mysterious stranger. nana turned very red, and her aunt drew her arm within her own and hurried her along. so then he had come for her! was not this pretty behavior for a girl of her age? and mme lerat asked question after question, but nana knew nothing of him, she declared, though he had followed her for five days. mme lerat looked at the man out of the corners of her eyes. "you must tell me everything," she said. while they talked they went from shop to shop, and their arms grew full of small packages, but they hurried back, still talking of the gentleman. "it may be a good thing," said mme lerat, "if his intentions are only honorable." the workwomen ate their breakfast on their knees; they were in no hurry, either, to return to their work, when suddenly leonie uttered a low hiss, and like magic each girl was busy. mme titreville entered the room and again made her rounds. mme lerat did not allow her niece after this day to set foot on the street without her. nana at first was inclined to rebel, but, on the whole, it rather flattered her vanity to be guarded like a treasure. they had discovered that the man who followed her with such persistency was a manufacturer of buttons, and one night the aunt went directly up to him and told him that he was behaving in a most improper manner. he bowed and, turning on his heel, departed--not angrily, by any means--and the next day he did as usual. one day, however, he deliberately walked between the aunt and the niece and said something to nana in a low voice. this frightened mme lerat, who went at once to her brother and told him the whole story, whereupon he flew into a violent rage, shook the girl until her teeth chattered and talked to her as if she were the vilest of the vile. "let her be!" said gervaise with all a woman's sense. "let her be! don't you see that you are putting all sorts of things into her head?" and it was quite true; he had put ideas into her head and had taught her some things she did not know before, which was very astonishing. one morning he saw her with something in a paper. it was _poudre de riz_, which, with a most perverted taste, she was plastering upon her delicate skin. he rubbed the whole of the powder into her hair until she looked like a miller's daughter. another time she came in with red ribbons to retrim her old hat; he asked her furiously where she got them. whenever he saw her with a bit of finery her father flew at her with insulting suspicion and angry violence. she defended herself and her small possessions with equal violence. one day he snatched from her a little cornelian heart and ground it to dust under his heel. she stood looking on, white and stern; for two years she had longed for this heart. she said to herself that she would not bear such treatment long. coupeau occasionally realized that he had made a mistake, but the mischief was done. he went every morning with nana to the shop door and waited outside for five minutes to be sure that she had gone in. but one morning, having stopped to talk with a friend on the corner for some time, he saw her come out again and vanish like a flash around the corner. she had gone up two flights higher than the room where she worked and had sat down on the stairs until she thought him well out of the way. when he went to mme lerat she told him that she washed her hands of the whole business; she had done all she could, and now he must take care of his daughter himself. she advised him to marry the girl at once or she would do worse. all the people in the neighborhood knew nana's admirer by sight. he had been in the courtyard several times, and once he had been seen on the stairs. the lorilleuxs threatened to move away if this sort of thing went on, and mme boche expressed great pity for this poor gentleman whom this scamp of a girl was leading by the nose. at first nana thought the whole thing a great joke, but at the end of a month she began to be afraid of him. often when she stopped before the jeweler's he would suddenly appear at her side and ask her what she wanted. she did not care so much for jewelry or ornaments as she did for many other things. sometimes as the mud was spattered over her from the wheels of a carriage she grew faint and sick with envious longings to be better dressed, to go to the theater, to have a pretty room all to herself. she longed to see another side of life, to know something of its pleasures. the stranger invariably appeared at these moments, but she always turned and fled, so great was her horror of him. but when winter came existence became well-nigh intolerable. each evening nana was beaten, and when her father was tired of this amusement her mother scolded. they rarely had anything to eat and were always cold. if the girl bought some trifling article of dress it was taken from her. no! this life could not last. she no longer cared for her father. he had thoroughly disgusted her, and now her mother drank too. gervaise went to the assommoir nightly--for her husband, she said--and remained there. when nana saw her mother sometimes as she passed the window, seated among a crowd of men, she turned livid with rage, because youth has little patience with the vice of intemperance. it was a dreary life for her--a comfortless home and a drunken father and mother. a saint on earth could not have remained there; that she knew very well, and she said she would make her escape some fine day, and then perhaps her parents would be sorry and would admit that they had pushed her out of the nest. one saturday nana, coming in, found her mother and father in a deplorable condition--coupeau lying across the bed and gervaise sitting in a chair, swaying to and fro. she had forgotten the dinner, and one untrimmed candle lighted the dismal scene. "is that you, girl?" stammered gervaise. "well, your father will settle with you!" nana did not reply. she looked around the cheerless room, at the cold stove, at her parents. she did not step across the threshold. she turned and went away. and she did not come back! the next day when her father and mother were sober, they each reproached the other for nana's flight. this was really a terrible blow to gervaise, who had no longer the smallest motive for self-control, and she abandoned herself at once to a wild orgy that lasted three days. coupeau gave his daughter up and smoked his pipe quietly. occasionally, however, when eating his dinner, he would snatch up a knife and wave it wildly in the air, crying out that he was dishonored and then, laying it down as suddenly, resumed eating his soup. in this great house, whence each month a girl or two took flight, this incident astonished no one. the lorilleuxs were rather triumphant at the success of their prophecy. lantier defended nana. "of course," he said, "she has done wrong, but bless my heart, what would you have? a girl as pretty as that could not live all her days in such poverty!" "you know nothing about it!" cried mme lorilleux one evening when they were all assembled in the room of the concierge. "wooden legs sold her daughter out and out. i know it! i have positive proof of what i say. the time that the old gentleman was seen on the stairs he was going to pay the money. nana and he were seen together at the ambigu the other night! i tell you, i know it!" they finished their coffee. this tale might or might not be true; it was not improbable, at all events. and after this it was circulated and generally believed in the _quartier_ that gervaise had sold her daughter. the clearstarcher, meanwhile, was going from bad to worse. she had been dismissed from mme fauconnier's and in the last few weeks had worked for eight laundresses, one after the other--dismissed from all for her untidiness. as she seemed to have lost all skill in ironing, she went out by the day to wash and by degrees was entrusted with only the roughest work. this hard labor did not tend to beautify her either. she continued to grow stouter and stouter in spite of her scanty food and hard labor. her womanly pride and vanity had all departed. lantier never seemed to see her when they met by chance, and she hardly noticed that the liaison which had stretched along for so many years had ended in a mutual disenchantment. lantier had done wisely, so far as he was concerned, in counseling virginie to open the kind of shop she had. he adored sweets and could have lived on pralines and gumdrops, sugarplums and chocolate. sugared almonds were his especial delight. for a year his principal food was bonbons. he opened all the jars, boxes and drawers when he was left alone in the shop; and often, with five or six persons standing around, he would take off the cover of a jar on the counter and put in his hand and crunch down an almond. the cover was not put on again, and the jar was soon empty. it was a habit of his, they all said; besides, he was subject to a tickling in his throat! he talked a great deal to poisson of an invention of his which was worth a fortune--an umbrella and hat in one; that is to say, a hat which, at the first drops of a shower, would expand into an umbrella. lantier suggested to virginie that she should have gervaise come in once each week to wash the floors, shop and the rooms. this she did and received thirty sous each time. gervaise appeared on saturday mornings with her bucket and brush, without seeming to suffer a single pang at doing this menial work in the house where she had lived as mistress. one saturday gervaise had hard work. it had rained for three days, and all the mud of the streets seemed to have been brought into the shop. virginie stood behind the counter with collar and cuffs trimmed with lace. near her on a low chair lounged lantier, and he was, as usual, eating candy. "really, madame coupeau," cried virginie, "can't you do better than that? you have left all the dirt in the corners. don't you see? oblige me by doing that over again." gervaise obeyed. she went back to the corner and scrubbed it again. she was on her hands and knees, with her sleeves rolled up over her arms. her old skirt clung close to her stout form, and the sweat poured down her face. "the more elbow grease she uses, the more she shines," said lantier sententiously with his mouth full. virginie, leaning back in her chair with the air of a princess, followed the progress of the work with half-closed eyes. "a little more to the right. remember, those spots must all be taken out. last saturday, you know, i was not pleased." and then lantier and virginie fell into a conversation, while gervaise crawled along the floor in the dirt at their feet. mme poisson enjoyed this, for her cat's eyes sparkled with malicious joy, and she glanced at lantier with a smile. at last she was avenged for that mortification at the lavatory, which had for years weighed heavy on her soul. "by the way," said lantier, addressing himself to gervaise, "i saw nana last night." gervaise started to her feet with her brush in her hand. "yes, i was coming down la rue des martyrs. in front of me was a young girl on the arm of an old gentleman. as i passed i glanced at her face and assure you that it was nana. she was well dressed and looked happy." "ah!" said gervaise in a low, dull voice. lantier, who had finished one jar, now began another. "what a girl that is!" he continued. "imagine that she made me a sign to follow with the most perfect self-possession. she got rid of her old gentleman in a cafe and beckoned me to the door. she asked me to tell her about everybody." "ah!" repeated gervaise. she stood waiting. surely this was not all. her daughter must have sent her some especial message. lantier ate his sugarplums. "i would not have looked at her," said virginie. "i sincerely trust, if i should meet her, that she would not speak to me for, really, it would mortify me beyond expression. i am sorry for you, madame gervaise, but the truth is that poisson arrests every day a dozen just such girls." gervaise said nothing; her eyes were fixed on vacancy. she shook her head slowly, as if in reply to her own thoughts. "pray make haste," exclaimed virginie fretfully. "i do not care to have this scrubbing going on until midnight." gervaise returned to her work. with her two hands clasped around the handle of the brush she pushed the water before her toward the door. after this she had only to rinse the floor after sweeping the dirty water into the gutter. when all was accomplished she stood before the counter waiting for her money. when virginie tossed it toward her she did not take it up instantly. "then she said nothing else?" gervaise asked. "she?" lantier exclaimed. "who is she? ah yes, i remember. nana! no, she said nothing more." and gervaise went away with her thirty sous in her hand, her skirts dripping and her shoes leaving the mark of their broad soles on the sidewalk. in the _quartier_ all the women who drank like her took her part and declared she had been driven to intemperance by her daughter's misconduct. she, too, began to believe this herself and assumed at times a tragic air and wished she were dead. unquestionably she had suffered from nana's departure. a mother does not like to feel that her daughter will leave her for the first person who asks her to do so. but she was too thoroughly demoralized to care long, and soon she had but one idea: that nana belonged to her. had she not a right to her own property? she roamed the streets day after day, night after night, hoping to see the girl. that year half the _quartier_ was being demolished. all one side of the rue des poissonniers lay flat on the ground. lantier and poisson disputed day after day on these demolitions. the one declared that the emperor wanted to build palaces and drive the lower classes out of paris, while poisson, white with rage, said the emperor would pull down the whole of paris merely to give work to the people. gervaise did not like the improvements, either, or the changes in the dingy _quartier_, to which she was accustomed. it was, in fact, a little hard for her to see all these embellishments just when she was going downhill so fast over the piles of brick and mortar, while she was wandering about in search of nana. she heard of her daughter several times. there are always plenty of people to tell you things you do not care to hear. she was told that nana had left her elderly friend for the sake of some young fellow. she heard, too, that nana had been seen at a ball in the grand salon, rue de la chapelle, and coupeau and she began to frequent all these places, one after another, whenever they had the money to spend. but at the end of a month they had forgotten nana and went for their own pleasure. they sat for hours with their elbows on a table, which shook with the movements of the dancers, amused by the sight. one november night they entered the grand salon, as much to get warm as anything else. outside it was hailing, and the rooms were naturally crowded. they could not find a table, and they stood waiting until they could establish themselves. coupeau was directly in the mouth of the passage, and a young man in a frock coat was thrown against him. the youth uttered an exclamation of disgust as he began to dust off his coat with his handkerchief. the blouse worn by coupeau was assuredly none of the cleanest. "look here, my good fellow," cried coupeau angrily, "those airs are very unnecessary. i would have you to know that the blouse of a workingman can do your coat no harm if it has touched it!" the young man turned around and looked at coupeau from head to foot. "learn," continued the angry workman, "that the blouse is the only wear for a man!" gervaise endeavored to calm her husband, who, however, tapped his ragged breast and repeated loudly: "the only wear for a man, i tell you!" the youth slipped away and was lost in the crowd. coupeau tried to find him, but it was quite impossible; the crowd was too great. the orchestra was playing a quadrille, and the dancers were bringing up the dust from the floor in great clouds, which obscured the gas. "look!" said gervaise suddenly. "what is it?" "look at that velvet bonnet!" quite at the left there was a velvet bonnet, black with plumes, only too suggestive of a hearse. they watched these nodding plumes breathlessly. "do you not know that hair?" murmured gervaise hoarsely. "i am sure it is she!" in one second coupeau was in the center of the crowd. yes, it was nana, and in what a costume! she wore a ragged silk dress, stained and torn. she had no shawl over her shoulders to conceal the fact that half the buttonholes on her dress were burst out. in spite of all her shabbiness the girl was pretty and fresh. nana, of course, danced on unsuspiciously. her airs and graces were beyond belief. she curtsied to the very ground and then in a twinkling threw her foot over her partner's head. a circle was formed, and she was applauded vociferously. at this moment coupeau fell on his daughter. "don't try and keep me back," he said, "for have her i will!" nana turned and saw her father and mother. coupeau discovered that his daughter's partner was the young man for whom he had been looking. gervaise pushed him aside and walked up to nana and gave her two cuffs on her ears. one sent the plumed hat on the side; the other left five red marks on that pale cheek. the orchestra played on. nana neither wept nor moved. the dancers began to grow very angry. they ordered the coupeau party to leave the room. "go," said gervaise, "and do not attempt to leave us, for so sure as you do you will be given in charge of a policeman." the young man had prudently disappeared. nana's old life now began again, for after the girl had slept for twelve hours on a stretch, she was very gentle and sweet for a week. she wore a plain gown and a simple hat and declared she would like to work at home. she rose early and took a seat at her table by five o'clock the first morning and tried to roll her violet stems, but her fingers had lost their cunning in the six months in which they had been idle. then the gluepot dried up; the petals and the paper were dusty and spotted; the mistress of the establishment came for her tools and materials and made more than one scene. nana relapsed into utter indolence, quarreling with her mother from morning until night. of course an end must come to this, so one fine evening the girl disappeared. the lorilleuxs, who had been greatly amused by the repentance and return of their niece, now nearly died laughing. if she returned again they would advise the coupeaus to put her in a cage like a canary. the coupeaus pretended to be rather pleased, but in their hearts they raged, particularly as they soon learned that nana was frequently seen in the _quartier_. gervaise declared this was done by the girl to annoy them. nana adorned all the balls in the vicinity, and the coupeaus knew that they could lay their hands on her at any time they chose, but they did not choose and they avoided meeting her. but one night, just as they were going to bed, they heard a rap on the door. it was nana, who came to ask as coolly as possible if she could sleep there. what a state she was in! all rags and dirt. she devoured a crust of dried bread and fell asleep with a part of it in her hand. this continued for some time, the girl coming and going like a will-o'-the-wisp. weeks and months would elapse without a sign from her, and then she would reappear without a word to say where she had been, sometimes in rags and sometimes well dressed. finally her parents began to take these proceedings as a matter of course. she might come in, they said, or stay out, just as she pleased, provided she kept the door shut. only one thing exasperated gervaise now, and that was when her daughter appeared with a bonnet and feathers and a train. this she would not endure. when nana came to her it must be as a simple workingwoman! none of this dearly bought finery should be exhibited there, for these trained dresses had created a great excitement in the house. one day gervaise reproached her daughter violently for the life she led and finally, in her rage, took her by the shoulder and shook her. "let me be!" cried the girl. "you are the last person to talk to me in that way. you did as you pleased. why can't i do the same?" "what do you mean?" stammered the mother. "i have never said anything about it because it was none of my business, but do you think i did not know where you were when my father lay snoring? let me alone. it was you who set me the example." gervaise turned away pale and trembling, while nana composed herself to sleep again. coupeau's life was a very regular one--that is to say, he did not drink for six months and then yielded to temptation, which brought him up with a round turn and sent him to sainte-anne's. when he came out he did the same thing, so that in three years he was seven times at sainte-anne's, and each time he came out the fellow looked more broken and less able to stand another orgy. the poison had penetrated his entire system. he had grown very thin; his cheeks were hollow and his eyes inflamed. those who knew his age shuddered as they saw him pass, bent and decrepit as a man of eighty. the trembling of his hands had so increased that some days he was obliged to use them both in raising his glass to his lips. this annoyed him intensely and seemed to be the only symptom of his failing health which disturbed him. he sometimes swore violently at these unruly members and at others sat for hours looking at these fluttering hands as if trying to discover by what strange mechanism they were moved. and one night gervaise found him sitting in this way with great tears pouring down his withered cheeks. the last summer of his life was especially trying to coupeau. his voice was entirely changed; he was deaf in one ear, and some days he could not see and was obliged to feel his way up and downstairs as if he were blind. he suffered from maddening headaches, and sudden pains would dart through his limbs, causing him to snatch at a chair for support. sometimes after one of these attacks his arm would be paralyzed for twenty-four hours. he would lie in bed with even his head wrapped up, silent and moody, like some suffering animal. then came incipient madness and fever--tearing everything to pieces that came in his way--or he would weep and moan, declaring that no one loved him, that he was a burden to his wife. one evening when his wife and daughter came in he was not in his bed; in his place lay the bolster carefully tucked in. they found him at last crouched on the floor under the bed, with his teeth chattering with cold and fear. he told them he had been attacked by assassins. the two women coaxed him back to bed as if he had been a baby. coupeau knew but one remedy for all this, and that was a good stout morning dram. his memory had long since fled; his brain had softened. when nana appeared after an absence of six weeks he thought she had been on an errand around the corner. she met him in the street, too, very often now, without fear, for he passed without recognizing her. one night in the autumn nana went out, saying she wanted some baked pears from the fruiterer's. she felt the cold weather coming on, and she did not care to sit before a cold stove. the winter before she went out for two sous' worth of tobacco and came back in a month's time; they thought she would do the same now, but they were mistaken. winter came and went, as did the spring, and even when june arrived they had seen and heard nothing of her. she was evidently comfortable somewhere, and the coupeaus, feeling certain that she would never return, had sold her bed; it was very much in their way, and they could drink up the six francs it brought. one morning virginie called to gervaise as the latter passed the shop and begged her to come in and help a little, as lantier had had two friends to supper the night before, and gervaise washed the dishes while lantier sat in the shop smoking. presently he said: "oh, gervaise, i saw nana the other night." virginie, who was behind the counter, opening and shutting drawer after drawer, with a face that lengthened as she found each empty, shook her fist at him indignantly. she had begun to think he saw nana very often. she did not speak, but mme lerat, who had just come in, said with a significant look: "and where did you see her?" "oh, in a carriage," answered lantier with a laugh. "and i was on the sidewalk." he turned toward gervaise and went on: "yes, she was in a carriage, dressed beautifully. i did not recognize her at first, but she kissed her hand to me. her friend this time must be a vicomte at the least. she looked as happy as a queen." gervaise wiped the plate in her hands, rubbing it long and carefully, though it had long since been dry. virginie, with wrinkled brows, wondered how she could pay two notes which fell due the next day, while lantier, fat and hearty from the sweets he had devoured, asked himself if these drawers and jars would be filled up again or if the ruin he anticipated was so near at hand that he would be compelled to pull up stakes at once. there was not another praline for him to crunch, not even a gumdrop. when gervaise went back to her room she found coupeau sitting on the side of the bed, weeping and moaning. she took a chair near by and looked at him without speaking. "i have news for you," she said at last. "your daughter has been seen. she is happy and comfortable. would that i were in her place!" coupeau was looking down on the floor intently. he raised his head and said with an idiotic laugh: "do as you please, my dear; don't let me be any hindrance to you. when you are dressed up you are not so bad looking after all." chapter xii poverty and degradation the weather was intensely cold about the middle of january. gervaise had not been able to pay her rent, due on the first. she had little or no work and consequently no food to speak of. the sky was dark and gloomy and the air heavy with the coming of a storm. gervaise thought it barely possible that her husband might come in with a little money. after all, everything is possible, and he had said that he would work. gervaise after a little, by dint of dwelling on this thought, had come to consider it a certainty. yes, coupeau would bring home some money, and they would have a good, hot, comfortable dinner. as to herself, she had given up trying to get work, for no one would have her. this did not much trouble her, however, for she had arrived at that point when the mere exertion of moving had become intolerable to her. she now lay stretched on the bed, for she was warmer there. gervaise called it a bed. in reality it was only a pile of straw in the corner, for she had sold her bed and all her furniture. she occasionally swept the straw together with a broom, and, after all, it was neither dustier nor dirtier than everything else in the place. on this straw, therefore, gervaise now lay with her eyes wide open. how long, she wondered, could people live without eating? she was not hungry, but there was a strange weight at the pit of her stomach. her haggard eyes wandered about the room in search of anything she could sell. she vaguely wished someone would buy the spider webs which hung in all the corners. she knew them to be very good for cuts, but she doubted if they had any market value. tired of this contemplation, she got up and took her one chair to the window and looked out into the dingy courtyard. her landlord had been there that day and declared he would wait only one week for his money, and if it were not forthcoming he would turn them into the street. it drove her wild to see him stand in his heavy overcoat and tell her so coldly that he would pack her off at once. she hated him with a vindictive hatred, as she did her fool of a husband and the lorilleuxs and poissons. in fact, she hated everyone on that especial day. unfortunately people can't live without eating, and before the woman's famished eyes floated visions of food. not of dainty little dishes. she had long since ceased to care for those and ate all she could get without being in the least fastidious in regard to its quality. when she had a little money she bought a bullock's heart or a bit of cheese or some beans, and sometimes she begged from a restaurant and made a sort of panada of the crusts they gave her, which she cooked on a neighbor's stove. she was quite willing to dispute with a dog for a bone. once the thought of such things would have disgusted her, but at that time she did not--for three days in succession--go without a morsel of food. she remembered how last week coupeau had stolen a half loaf of bread and sold it, or rather exchanged it, for liquor. she sat at the window, looking at the pale sky, and finally fell asleep. she dreamed that she was out in a snowstorm and could not find her way home. she awoke with a start and saw that night was coming on. how long the days are when one's stomach is empty! she waited for coupeau and the relief he would bring. the clock struck in the next room. could it be possible? was it only three? then she began to cry. how could she ever wait until seven? after another half-hour of suspense she started up. yes, they might say what they pleased, but she, at least, would try to borrow ten sous from the lorilleuxs. there was a continual borrowing of small sums in this corridor during the winter, but no matter what was the emergency no one ever dreamed of applying to the lorilleuxs. gervaise summoned all her courage and rapped at the door. "come in!" cried a sharp voice. how good it was there! warm and bright with the glow of the forge. and gervaise smelled the soup, too, and it made her feel faint and sick. "ah, it is you, is it?" said mme lorilleux. "what do you want?" gervaise hesitated. the application for ten sous stuck in her throat, because she saw boche seated by the stove. "what do you want?" asked lorilleux, in his turn. "have you seen coupeau?" stammered gervaise. "i thought he was here." his sister answered with a sneer that they rarely saw coupeau. they were not rich enough to offer him as many glasses of wine as he wanted in these days. gervaise stammered out a disconnected sentence. he had promised to come home. she needed food; she needed money. a profound silence followed. mme lorilleux fanned her fire, and her husband bent more closely over his work, while boche smiled with an expectant air. "if i could have ten sous," murmured gervaise. the silence continued. "if you would lend them to me," said gervaise, "i would give them back in the morning." mme lorilleux turned and looked her full in the face, thinking to herself that if she yielded once the next day it would be twenty sous, and who could tell where it would stop? "but, my dear," she cried, "you know we have no money and no prospect of any; otherwise, of course, we would oblige you." "certainly," said lorilleux, "the heart is willing, but the pockets are empty." gervaise bowed her head, but she did not leave instantly. she looked at the gold wire on which her sister-in-law was working and at that in the hands of lorilleux and thought that it would take a mere scrap to give her a good dinner. on that day the room was very dirty and filled with charcoal dust, but she saw it resplendent with riches like the shop of a money-changer, and she said once more in a low, soft voice: "i will bring back the ten sous. i will, indeed!" tears were in her eyes, but she was determined not to say that she had eaten nothing for twenty-four hours. "i can't tell you how much i need it," she continued. the husband and wife exchanged a look. wooden legs begging at their door! well! well! who would have thought it? why had they not known it was she when they rashly called out, "come in?" really, they could not allow such people to cross their threshold; there was too much that was valuable in the room. they had several times distrusted gervaise; she looked about so queerly, and now they would not take their eyes off her. gervaise went toward lorilleux as she spoke. "take care!" he said roughly. "you will carry off some of the particles of gold on the soles of your shoes. it looks really as if you had greased them!" gervaise drew back. she leaned against the _etagere_ for a moment and, seeing that her sister-in-law's eyes were fixed on her hands, she opened them and said in a gentle, weary voice--the voice of a woman who had ceased to struggle: "i have taken nothing. you can look for yourself." and she went away; the warmth of the place and the smell of the soup were unbearable. the lorilleuxs shrugged their shoulders as the door closed. they hoped they had seen the last of her face. she had brought all her misfortunes on her own head, and she had, therefore, no right to expect any assistance from them. boche joined in these animadversions, and all three considered themselves avenged for the blue shop and all the rest. "i know her!" said mme lorilleux. "if i had lent her the ten sous she wanted she would have spent it in liquor." gervaise crawled down the corridor with slipshod shoes and slouching shoulders, but at her door she hesitated; she could not go in: she was afraid. she would walk up and down a little--that would keep her warm. as she passed she looked in at father bru, but to her surprise he was not there, and she asked herself with a pang of jealousy if anyone could possibly have asked him out to dine. when she reached the bijards' she heard a groan. she went in. "what is the matter?" she said. the room was very clean and in perfect order. lalie that very morning had swept and arranged everything. in vain did the cold blast of poverty blow through that chamber and bring with it dirt and disorder. lalie was always there; she cleaned and scrubbed and gave to everything a look of gentility. there was little money but much cleanliness within those four walls. the two children were cutting out pictures in a corner, but lalie was in bed, lying very straight and pale, with the sheet pulled over her chin. "what is the matter?" asked gervaise anxiously. lalie slowly lifted her white lids and tried to speak. "nothing," she said faintly; "nothing, i assure you!" then as her eyes closed she added: "i am only a little lazy and am taking my ease." but her face bore the traces of such frightful agony that gervaise fell on her knees by the side of the bed. she knew that the child had had a cough for a month, and she saw the blood trickling from the corners of her mouth. "it is not my fault," lalie murmured. "i thought i was strong enough, and i washed the floor. i could not finish the windows though. everything but those are clean. but i was so tired that i was obliged to lie down----" she interrupted herself to say: "please see that my children are not cutting themselves with the scissors." she started at the sound of a heavy step on the stairs. her father noisily pushed open the door. as usual he had drunk too much, and in his eyes blazed the lurid flames kindled by alcohol. when he saw lalie lying down he walked to the corner and took up the long whip, from which he slowly unwound the lash. "this is a good joke!" he said. "the idea of your daring to go to bed at this hour. come, up with you!" he snapped the whip over the bed, and the child murmured softly: "do not strike me, papa. i am sure you will be sorry if you do. do not strike me!" "up with you!" he cried. "up with you!" then she answered faintly: "i cannot, for i am dying." gervaise had snatched the whip from bijard, who stood with his under jaw dropped, glaring at his daughter. what could the little fool mean? whoever heard of a child dying like that when she had not even been sick? oh, she was lying! "you will see that i am telling you the truth," she replied. "i did not tell you as long as i could help it. be kind to me now, papa, and say good-by as if you loved me." bijard passed his hand over his eyes. she did look very strangely--her face was that of a grown woman. the presence of death in that cramped room sobered him suddenly. he looked around with the air of a man who had been suddenly awakened from a dream. he saw the two little ones clean and happy and the room neat and orderly. he fell into a chair. "dear little mother!" he murmured. "dear little mother!" this was all he said, but it was very sweet to lalie, who had never been spoiled by overpraise. she comforted him. she told him how grieved she was to go away and leave him before she had entirely brought up her children. he would watch over them, would he not? and in her dying voice she gave him some little details in regard to their clothes. he--the alcohol having regained its power--listened with round eyes of wonder. after a long silence lalie spoke again: "we owe four francs and seven sous to the baker. he must be paid. madame goudron has an iron that belongs to us; you must not forget it. this evening i was not able to make the soup, but there are bread and cold potatoes." as long as she breathed the poor little mite continued to be the mother of the family. she died because her breast was too small to contain so great a heart, and that he lost this precious treasure was entirely her father's fault. he, wretched creature, had kicked her mother to death and now, just as surely, murdered his daughter. gervaise tried to keep back her tears. she held lalie's hands, and as the bedclothes slipped away she rearranged them. in doing so she caught a glimpse of the poor little figure. the sight might have drawn tears from a stone. lalie wore only a tiny chemise over her bruised and bleeding flesh; marks of a lash striped her sides; a livid spot was on her right arm, and from head to foot she was one bruise. gervaise was paralyzed at the sight. she wondered, if there were a god above, how he could have allowed the child to stagger under so heavy a cross. "madame coupeau," murmured the child, trying to draw the sheet over her. she was ashamed, ashamed for her father. gervaise could not stay there. the child was fast sinking. her eyes were fixed on her little ones, who sat in the corner, still cutting out their pictures. the room was growing dark, and gervaise fled from it. ah, what an awful thing life was! and how gladly would she throw herself under the wheels of an omnibus, if that might end it! almost unconsciously gervaise took her way to the shop where her husband worked or, rather, pretended to work. she would wait for him and get the money before he had a chance to spend it. it was a very cold corner where she stood. the sounds of the carriages and footsteps were strangely muffled by reason of the fast-falling snow. gervaise stamped her feet to keep them from freezing. the people who passed offered few distractions, for they hurried by with their coat collars turned up to their ears. but gervaise saw several women watching the door of the factory quite as anxiously as herself--they were wives who, like herself, probably wished to get hold of a portion of their husbands' wages. she did not know them, but it required no introduction to understand their business. the door of the factory remained firmly shut for some time. then it opened to allow the egress of one workman; then two, three, followed, but these were probably those who, well behaved, took their wages home to their wives, for they neither retreated nor started when they saw the little crowd. one woman fell on a pale little fellow and, plunging her hand into his pocket, carried off every sou of her husband's earnings, while he, left without enough to pay for a pint of wine, went off down the street almost weeping. some other men appeared, and one turned back to warn a comrade, who came gamely and fearlessly out, having put his silver pieces in his shoes. in vain did his wife look for them in his pockets; in vain did she scold and coax--he had no money, he declared. then came another noisy group, elbowing each other in their haste to reach a cabaret, where they could drink away their week's wages. these fellows were followed by some shabby men who were swearing under their breath at the trifle they had received, having been tipsy and absent more than half the week. but the saddest sight of all was the grief of a meek little woman in black, whose husband, a tall, good-looking fellow, pushed her roughly aside and walked off down the street with his boon companions, leaving her to go home alone, which she did, weeping her very heart out as she went. gervaise still stood watching the entrance. where was coupeau? she asked some of the men, who teased her by declaring that he had just gone by the back door. she saw by this time that coupeau had lied to her, that he had not been at work that day. she also saw that there was no dinner for her. there was not a shadow of hope--nothing but hunger and darkness and cold. she toiled up la rue des poissonniers when she suddenly heard coupeau's voice and, glancing in at the window of a wineshop, she saw him drinking with mes-bottes, who had had the luck to marry the previous summer a woman with some money. he was now, therefore, well clothed and fed and altogether a happy mortal and had coupeau's admiration. gervaise laid her hands on her husband's shoulders as he left the cabaret. "i am hungry," she said softly. "hungry, are you? well then, eat your fist and keep the other for tomorrow." "shall i steal a loaf of bread?" she asked in a dull, dreary tone. mes-bottes smoothed his chin and said in a conciliatory voice: "no, no! don't do that; it is against the law. but if a woman manages----" coupeau interrupted him with a coarse laugh. yes, a woman, if she had any sense, could always get along, and it was her own fault if she starved. and the two men walked on toward the outer boulevard. gervaise followed them. again she said: "i am hungry. you know i have had nothing to eat. you must find me something." he did not answer, and she repeated her words in a tone of agony. "good god!" he exclaimed, turning upon her furiously. "what can i do? i have nothing. be off with you, unless you want to be beaten." he lifted his fist; she recoiled and said with set teeth: "very well then; i will go and find some man who has a sou." coupeau pretended to consider this an excellent joke. yes of course she could make a conquest; by gaslight she was still passably goodlooking. if she succeeded he advised her to dine at the capucin, where there was very good eating. she turned away with livid lips; he called after her: "bring some dessert with you, for i love cake. and perhaps you can induce your friend to give me an old coat, for i swear it is cold tonight." gervaise, with this infernal mirth ringing in her ears, hurried down the street. she was determined to take this desperate step. she had only a choice between that and theft, and she considered that she had a right to dispose of herself as she pleased. the question of right and wrong did not present itself very clearly to her eyes. "when one is starving is hardly the time," she said to herself, "to philosophize." she walked slowly up and down the boulevard. this part of paris was crowded now with new buildings, between whose sculptured facades ran narrow lanes leading to haunts of squalid misery, which were cheek by jowl with splendor and wealth. it seemed strange to gervaise that among this crowd who elbowed her there was not one good christian to divine her situation and slip some sous into her hand. her head was dizzy, and her limbs would hardly bear her weight. at this hour ladies with hats and well-dressed gentlemen who lived in these fine new houses were mingled with the people--with the men and women whose faces were pale and sickly from the vitiated air of the workshops in which they passed their lives. another day of toil was over, but the days came too often and were too long. one hardly had time to turn over in one's sleep when the everlasting grind began again. gervaise went with the crowd. no one looked at her, for the men were all hurrying home to their dinner. suddenly she looked up and beheld the hotel boncoeur. it was empty, the shutters and doors covered with placards and the whole facade weather-stained and decaying. it was there in that hotel that the seeds of her present life had been sown. she stood still and looked up at the window of the room she had occupied and recalled her youth passed with lantier and the manner in which he had left her. but she was young then and soon recovered from the blow. that was twenty years ago, and now what was she? the sight of the place made her sick, and she turned toward montmartre. she passed crowds of workwomen with little parcels in their hands and children who had been sent to the baker's, carrying four-pound loaves of bread as tall as themselves, which looked like shining brown dolls. by degrees the crowd dispersed, and gervaise was almost alone. everyone was at dinner. she thought how delicious it would be to lie down and never rise again--to feel that all toil was over. and this was the end of her life! gervaise, amid the pangs of hunger, thought of some of the fete days she had known and remembered that she had not always been miserable. once she was pretty, fair and fresh. she had been a kind and admired mistress in her shop. gentlemen came to it only to see her, and she vaguely wondered where all this youth and this beauty had fled. again she looked up; she had reached the abattoirs, which were now being torn down; the fronts were taken away, showing the dark holes within, the very stones of which reeked with blood. farther on was the hospital with its high, gray walls, with two wings opening out like a huge fan. a door in the wall was the terror of the whole _quartier_--the door of the dead, it was called--through which all the bodies were carried. she hurried past this solid oak door and went down to the railroad bridge, under which a train had just passed, leaving in its rear a floating cloud of smoke. she wished she were on that train which would take her into the country, and she pictured to herself open spaces and the fresh air and expanse of blue sky; perhaps she could live a new life there. as she thought this her weary eyes began to puzzle out in the dim twilight the words on a printed handbill pasted on one of the pillars of the arch. she read one--an advertisement offering fifty francs for a lost dog. someone must have loved the creature very much. gervaise turned back again. the street lamps were being lit and defined long lines of streets and avenues. the restaurants were all crowded, and people were eating and drinking. before the assommoir stood a crowd waiting their turn and room within, and as a respectable tradesman passed he said with a shake of the head that many a man would be drunk that night in paris. and over this scene hung the dark sky, low and clouded. gervaise wished she had a few sous: she would, in that case, have gone into this place and drunk until she ceased to feel hungry, and through the window she watched the still with an angry consciousness that all her misery and all her pain came from that. if she had never touched a drop of liquor all might have been so different. she started from her reverie; this was the hour of which she must take advantage. men had dined and were comparatively amiable. she looked around her and toward the trees where--under the leafless branches--she saw more than one female figure. gervaise watched them, determined to do what they did. her heart was in her throat; it seemed to her that she was dreaming a bad dream. she stood for some fifteen minutes; none of the men who passed looked at her. finally she moved a little and spoke to one who, with his hands in his pockets, was whistling as he walked. "sir," she said in a low voice, "please listen to me." the man looked at her from head to foot and went on whistling louder than before. gervaise grew bolder. she forgot everything except the pangs of hunger. the women under the trees walked up and down with the regularity of wild animals in a cage. "sir," she said again, "please listen." but the man went on. she walked toward the hotel boncoeur again, past the hospital, which was now brilliantly lit. there she turned and went back over the same ground--the dismal ground between the slaughterhouses and the place where the sick lay dying. with these two places she seemed to feel bound by some mysterious tie. "sir, please listen!" she saw her shadow on the ground as she stood near a street lamp. it was a grotesque shadow--grotesque because of her ample proportions. her limp had become, with time and her additional weight, a very decided deformity, and as she moved the lengthening shadow of herself seemed to be creeping along the sides of the houses with bows and curtsies of mock reverence. never before had she realized the change in herself. she was fascinated by this shadow. it was very droll, she thought, and she wondered if the men did not think so too. "sir, please listen!" it was growing late. man after man, in a beastly state of intoxication, reeled past her; quarrels and disputes filled the air. gervaise walked on, half asleep. she was conscious of little except that she was starving. she wondered where her daughter was and what she was eating, but it was too much trouble to think, and she shivered and crawled on. as she lifted her face she felt the cutting wind, accompanied by the snow, fine and dry, like gravel. the storm had come. people were hurrying past her, but she saw one man walking slowly. she went toward him. "sir, please listen!" the man stopped. he did not seem to notice what she said but extended his hand and murmured in a low voice: "charity, if you please!" the two looked at each other. merciful heavens! it was father bru begging and mme coupeau doing worse. they stood looking at each other--equals in misery. the aged workman had been trying to make up his mind all the evening to beg, and the first person he stopped was a woman as poor as himself! this was indeed the irony of fate. was it not a pity to have toiled for fifty years and then to beg his bread? to have been one of the most flourishing laundresses in paris and then to make her bed in the gutter? they looked at each other once more, and without a word each went their own way through the fast-falling snow, which blinded gervaise as she struggled on, the wind wrapping her thin skirts around her legs so that she could hardly walk. suddenly an absolute whirlwind struck her and bore her breathless and helpless along--she did not even know in what direction. when at last she was able to open her eyes she could see nothing through the blinding snow, but she heard a step and saw the outlines of a man's figure. she snatched him by the blouse. "sir," she said, "please listen." the man turned. it was goujet. ah, what had she done to be thus tortured and humiliated? was god in heaven an angry god always? this was the last dreg of bitterness in her cup. she saw her shadow: her limp, she felt, made her walk like an intoxicated woman, which was indeed hard, when she had not swallowed a drop. goujet looked at her while the snow whitened his yellow beard. "come!" he said. and he walked on, she following him. neither spoke. poor mme goujet had died in october of acute rheumatism, and her son continued to reside in the same apartment. he had this night been sitting with a sick friend. he entered, lit a lamp and turned toward gervaise, who stood humbly on the threshold. "come in!" he said in a low voice, as if his mother could have heard him. the first room was that of mme goujet, which was unchanged since her death. near the window stood her frame, apparently ready for the old lady. the bed was carefully made, and she could have slept there had she returned from the cemetery to spend a night with her son. the room was clean, sweet and orderly. "come in," repeated goujet. gervaise entered with the air of a woman who is startled at finding herself in a respectable place. he was pale and trembling. they crossed his mother's room softly, and when gervaise stood within his own he closed the door. it was the same room in which he had lived ever since she knew him--small and almost virginal in its simplicity. gervaise dared not move. goujet snatched her in his arms, but she pushed him away faintly. the stove was still hot, and a dish was on the top of it. gervaise looked toward it. goujet understood. he placed the dish on the table, poured her out some wine and cut a slice of bread. "thank you," she said. "how good you are!" she trembled to that degree that she could hardly hold her fork. hunger gave her eyes the fierceness of a famished beast and to her head the tremulous motion of senility. after eating a potato she burst into tears but continued to eat, with the tears streaming down her cheeks and her chin quivering. "will you have some more bread?" he asked. she said no; she said yes; she did not know what she said. and he stood looking at her in the clear light of the lamp. how old and shabby she was! the heat was melting the snow on her hair and clothing, and water was dripping from all her garments. her hair was very gray and roughened by the wind. where was the pretty white throat he so well remembered? he recalled the days when he first knew her, when her skin was so delicate and she stood at her table, briskly moving the hot irons to and fro. he thought of the time when she had come to the forge and of the joy with which he would have welcomed her then to his room. and now she was there! she finished her bread amid great silent tears and then rose to her feet. goujet took her hand. "i love you, madame gervaise; i love you still," he cried. "do not say that," she exclaimed, "for it is impossible." he leaned toward her. "will you allow me to kiss you?" he asked respectfully. she did not know what to say, so great was her emotion. he kissed her gravely and solemnly and then pressed his lips upon her gray hair. he had never kissed anyone since his mother's death, and gervaise was all that remained to him of the past. he turned away and, throwing himself on his bed, sobbed aloud. gervaise could not endure this. she exclaimed: "i love you, monsieur goujet, and i understand. farewell!" and she rushed through mme goujet's room and then through the street to her home. the house was all dark, and the arched door into the courtyard looked like huge, gaping jaws. could this be the house where she once desired to reside? had she been deaf in those days, not to have heard that wail of despair which pervaded the place from top to bottom? from the day when she first set her foot within the house she had steadily gone downhill. yes, it was a frightful way to live--so many people herded together, to become the prey of cholera or vice. she looked at the courtyard and fancied it a cemetery surrounded by high walls. the snow lay white within it. she stepped over the usual stream from the dyer's, but this time the stream was black and opened for itself a path through the white snow. the stream was the color of her thoughts. but she remembered when both were rosy. as she toiled up the six long flights in the darkness she laughed aloud. she recalled her old dream--to work quietly, have plenty to eat, a little home to herself, where she could bring up her children, never to be beaten, and to die in her bed! it was droll how things had turned out. she worked no more; she had nothing to eat; she lived amid dirt and disorder. her daughter had gone to the bad, and her husband beat her whenever he pleased. as for dying in her bed, she had none. should she throw herself out of the window and find one on the pavement below? she had not been unreasonable in her wishes, surely. she had not asked of heaven an income of thirty thousand francs or a carriage and horses. this was a queer world! and then she laughed again as she remembered that she had once said that after she had worked for twenty years she would retire into the country. yes, she would go into the country, for she should soon have her little green corner in pere-lachaise. her poor brain was disturbed. she had bidden an eternal farewell to goujet. they would never see each other again. all was over between them--love and friendship too. as she passed the bijards' she looked in and saw lalie lying dead, happy and at peace. it was well with the child. "she is lucky," muttered gervaise. at this moment she saw a gleam of light under the undertaker's door. she threw it wide open with a wild desire that he should take her as well as lalie. bazonge had come in that night more tipsy than usual and had thrown his hat and cloak in the corner, while he lay in the middle of the floor. he started up and called out: "shut that door! and don't stand there--it is too cold. what do you want?" then gervaise, with arms outstretched, not knowing or caring what she said, began to entreat him with passionate vehemence: "oh, take me!" she cried. "i can bear it no longer. take me, i implore you!" and she knelt before him, a lurid light blazing in her haggard eyes. father bazonge, with garments stained by the dust of the cemetery, seemed to her as glorious as the sun. but the old man, yet half asleep, rubbed his eyes and could not understand her. "what are you talking about?" he muttered. "take me," repeated gervaise, more earnestly than before. "do you remember one night when i rapped on the partition? afterward i said i did not, but i was stupid then and afraid. but i am not afraid now. here, take my hands--they are not cold with terror. take me and put me to sleep, for i have but this one wish now." bazonge, feeling that it was not proper to argue with a lady, said: "you are right. i have buried three women today, who would each have given me a jolly little sum out of gratitude, if they could have put their hands in their pockets. but you see, my dear woman, it is not such an easy thing you are asking of me." "take me!" cried gervaise. "take me! i want to go away!" "but there is a certain little operation first, you know----" and he pretended to choke and rolled up his eyes. gervaise staggered to her feet. he, too, rejected her and would have nothing to do with her. she crawled into her room and threw herself on her straw. she was sorry she had eaten anything and delayed the work of starvation. chapter xiii the hospital the next day gervaise received ten francs from her son etienne, who had steady work. he occasionally sent her a little money, knowing that there was none too much of that commodity in his poor mother's pocket. she cooked her dinner and ate it alone, for coupeau did not appear, nor did she hear a word of his whereabouts for nearly a week. finally a printed paper was given her which frightened her at first, but she was soon relieved to find that it simply conveyed to her the information that her husband was at sainte-anne's again. gervaise was in no way disturbed. coupeau knew the way back well enough; he would return in due season. she soon heard that he and mes-bottes had spent the whole week in dissipation, and she even felt a little angry that they had not seen fit to offer her a glass of wine with all their feasting and carousing. on sunday, as gervaise had a nice little repast ready for the evening, she decided that an excursion would give her an appetite. the letter from the asylum stared her in the face and worried her. the snow had melted; the sky was gray and soft, and the air was fresh. she started at noon, as the days were now short and sainte-anne's was a long distance off, but as there were a great many people in the street, she was amused. when she reached the hospital she heard a strange story. it seems that coupeau--how, no one could say--had escaped from the hospital and had been found under the bridge. he had thrown himself over the parapet, declaring that armed men were driving him with the point of their bayonets. one of the nurses took gervaise up the stairs. at the head she heard terrific howls which froze the marrow in her bones. "it is he!" said the nurse. "he? whom do you mean?" "i mean your husband. he has gone on like that ever since day before yesterday, and he dances all the time too. you will see!" ah, what a sight it was! the cell was cushioned from the floor to the ceiling, and on the floor were mattresses on which coupeau danced and howled in his ragged blouse. the sight was terrific. he threw himself wildly against the window and then to the other side of the cell, shaking hands as if he wished to break them off and fling them in defiance at the whole world. these wild motions are sometimes imitated, but no one who has not seen the real and terrible sight can imagine its horror. "what is it? what is it?" gasped gervaise. a house surgeon, a fair and rosy youth, was sitting, calmly taking notes. the case was a peculiar one and had excited a great deal of attention among the physicians attached to the hospital. "you can stay awhile," he said, "but keep very quiet. he will not recognize you, however." coupeau, in fact, did not seem to notice his wife, who had not yet seen his face. she went nearer. was that really he? she never would have known him with his bloodshot eyes and distorted features. his skin was so hot that the air was heated around him and was as if it were varnished--shining and damp with perspiration. he was dancing, it is true, but as if on burning plowshares; not a motion seemed to be voluntary. gervaise went to the young surgeon, who was beating a tune on the back of his chair. "will he get well, sir?" she said. the surgeon shook his head. "what is he saying? hark! he is talking now." "just be quiet, will you?" said the young man. "i wish to listen." coupeau was speaking fast and looking all about, as if he were examining the underbrush in the bois de vincennes. "where is it now?" he exclaimed and then, straightening himself, he looked off into the distance. "it is a fair," he exclaimed, "and lanterns in the trees, and the water is running everywhere: fountains, cascades and all sorts of things." he drew a long breath, as if enjoying the delicious freshness of the air. by degrees, however, his features contracted again with pain, and he ran quickly around the wall of his cell. "more trickery," he howled. "i knew it!" he started back with a hoarse cry; his teeth chattered with terror. "no, i will not throw myself over! all that water would drown me! no, i will not!" "i am going," said gervaise to the surgeon. "i cannot stay another moment." she was very pale. coupeau kept up his infernal dance while she tottered down the stairs, followed by his hoarse voice. how good it was to breathe the fresh air outside! that evening everyone in the huge house in which coupeau had lived talked of his strange disease. the concierge, crazy to hear the details, condescended to invite gervaise to take a glass of cordial, forgetting that he had turned a cold shoulder upon her for many weeks. mme lorilleux and mme poisson were both there also. boche had heard of a cabinetmaker who had danced the polka until he died. he had drunk absinthe. gervaise finally, not being able to make them understand her description, asked for the table to be moved and there, in the center of the loge, imitated her husband, making frightful leaps and horrible contortions. "yes, that was what he did!" and then everybody said it was not possible that man could keep up such violent exercise for even three hours. gervaise told them to go and see if they did not believe her. but mme lorilleux declared that nothing would induce her to set foot within sainte-anne's, and virginie, whose face had grown longer and longer with each successive week that the shop got deeper into debt, contented herself with murmuring that life was not always gay--in fact, in her opinion, it was a pretty dismal thing. as the wine was finished, gervaise bade them all good night. when she was not speaking she had sat with fixed, distended eyes. coupeau was before them all the time. the next day she said to herself when she rose that she would never go to the hospital again; she could do no good. but as midday arrived she could stay away no longer and started forth, without a thought of the length of the walk, so great were her mingled curiosity and anxiety. she was not obliged to ask a question; she heard the frightful sounds at the very foot of the stairs. the keeper, who was carrying a cup of tisane across the corridor, stopped when he saw her. "he keeps it up well!" he said. she went in but stood at the door, as she saw there were people there. the young surgeon had surrendered his chair to an elderly gentleman wearing several decorations. he was the chief physician of the hospital, and his eyes were like gimlets. gervaise tried to see coupeau over the bald head of that gentleman. her husband was leaping and dancing with undiminished strength. the perspiration poured more constantly from his brow now; that was all. his feet had worn holes in the mattress with his steady tramp from window to wall. gervaise asked herself why she had come back. she had been accused the evening before of exaggerating the picture, but she had not made it strong enough. the next time she imitated him she could do it better. she listened to what the physicians were saying: the house surgeon was giving the details of the night with many words which she did not understand, but she gathered that coupeau had gone on in the same way all night. finally he said this was the wife of the patient. wherefore the surgeon in chief turned and interrogated her with the air of a police judge. "did this man's father drink?" "a little, sir. just as everybody does. he fell from a roof when he had been drinking and was killed." "did his mother drink?" "yes sir--that is, a little now and then. he had a brother who died in convulsions, but the others are very healthy." the surgeon looked at her and said coldly: "you drink too?" gervaise attempted to defend herself and deny the accusation. "you drink," he repeated, "and see to what it leads. someday you will be here, and like this." she leaned against the wall, utterly overcome. the physician turned away. he knelt on the mattress and carefully watched coupeau; he wished to see if his feet trembled as much as his hands. his extremities vibrated as if on wires. the disease was creeping on, and the peculiar shivering seemed to be under the skin--it would ease for a minute or two and then begin again. the belly and the shoulders trembled like water just on the point of boiling. coupeau seemed to suffer more than the evening before. his complaints were curious and contradictory. a million pins were pricking him. there was a weight under the skin; a cold, wet animal was crawling over him. then there were other creatures on his shoulder. "i am thirsty," he groaned; "so thirsty." the house surgeon took a glass of lemonade from a tray and gave it to him. he seized the glass in both hands, drank one swallow, spilling the whole of it at the same time. he at once spat it out in disgust. "it is brandy!" he exclaimed. then the surgeon, on a sign from his chief, gave him some water, and coupeau did the same thing. "it is brandy!" he cried. "brandy! oh, my god!" for twenty-four hours he had declared that everything he touched to his lips was brandy, and with tears begged for something else, for it burned his throat, he said. beef tea was brought to him; he refused it, saying it smelled of alcohol. he seemed to suffer intense and constant agony from the poison which he vowed was in the air. he asked why people were allowed to rub matches all the time under his nose, to choke him with their vile fumes. the physicians watched coupeau with care and interest. the phantoms which had hitherto haunted him by night now appeared before him at midday. he saw spiders' webs hanging from the wall as large as the sails of a man-of-war. then these webs changed to nets, whose meshes were constantly contracting only to enlarge again. these nets held black balls, and they, too, swelled and shrank. suddenly he cried out: "the rats! oh, the rats!" the balls had been transformed to rats. the vile beasts found their way through the meshes of the nets and swarmed over the mattress and then disappeared as suddenly as they came. the rats were followed by a monkey, who went in and came out from the wall, each time so near his face that coupeau started back in disgust. all this vanished in the twinkling of an eye. he apparently thought the walls were unsteady and about to fall, for he uttered shriek after shriek of agony. "fire! fire!" he screamed. "they can't stand long. they are shaking! fire! fire! the whole heavens are bright with the light! help! help!" his shrieks ended in a convulsed murmur. he foamed at the mouth. the surgeon in chief turned to the assistant. "you keep the temperature at forty degrees?" he asked. "yes sir." a dead silence ensued. then the surgeon shrugged his shoulders. "well, continue the same treatment--beef tea, milk, lemonade and quinine as directed. do not leave him, and send for me if there is any change." and he left the room, gervaise following close at his heels, seeking an opportunity of asking him if there was no hope. but he stalked down the corridor with so much dignity that she dared not approach him. she stood for a moment, undecided whether she should go back to coupeau or not, but hearing him begin again the lamentable cry for water: "water, not brandy!" she hurried on, feeling that she could endure no more that day. in the streets the galloping horses made her start with a strange fear that all the inmates of sainte-anne's were at her heels. she remembered what the physician had said, with what terrors he had threatened her, and she wondered if she already had the disease. when she reached the house the concierge and all the others were waiting and called her into the loge. was coupeau still alive? they asked. boche seemed quite disturbed at her answer, as he had made a bet that he would not live twenty-four hours. everyone was astonished. mme lorilleux made a mental calculation: "sixty hours," she said. "his strength is extraordinary." then boche begged gervaise to show them once more what coupeau did. the demand became general, and it was pointed out to her that she ought not to refuse, for there were two neighbors there who had not seen her representation the night previous and who had come in expressly to witness it. they made a space in the center of the room, and a shiver of expectation ran through the little crowd. gervaise was very reluctant. she was really afraid--afraid of making herself ill. she finally made the attempt but drew back again hastily. no, she could not; it was quite impossible. everyone was disappointed, and virginie went away. then everyone began to talk of the poissons. a warrant had been served on them the night before. poisson was to lose his place. as to lantier, he was hovering around a woman who thought of taking the shop and meant to sell hot tripe. lantier was in luck, as usual. as they talked someone caught sight of gervaise and pointed her out to the others. she was at the very back of the loge, her feet and hands trembling, imitating coupeau, in fact. they spoke to her. she stared wildly about, as if awaking from a dream, and then left the room. the next day she left the house at noon, as she had done before. and as she entered sainte-anne's she heard the same terrific sounds. when she reached the cell she found coupeau raving mad! he was fighting in the middle of the cell with invisible enemies. he tried to hide himself; he talked and he answered, as if there were twenty persons. gervaise watched him with distended eyes. he fancied himself on a roof, laying down the sheets of zinc. he blew the furnace with his mouth, and he went down on his knees and made a motion as if he had soldering irons in his hand. he was troubled by his shoes: it seemed as if he thought they were dangerous. on the next roofs stood persons who insulted him by letting quantities of rats loose. he stamped here and there in his desire to kill them and the spiders too! he pulled away his clothing to catch the creatures who, he said, intended to burrow under his skin. in another minute he believed himself to be a locomotive and puffed and panted. he darted toward the window and looked down into the street as if he were on a roof. "look!" he said. "there is a traveling circus. i see the lions and the panthers making faces at me. and there is clemence. good god, man, don't fire!" and he gesticulated to the men who, he said, were pointing their guns at him. he talked incessantly, his voice growing louder and louder, higher and higher. "ah, it is you, is it? but please keep your hair out of my mouth." and he passed his hand over his face as if to take away the hair. "who is it?" said the keeper. "my wife, of course." he looked at the wall, turning his back to gervaise, who felt very strange, and looked at the wall to see if she were there! he talked on. "you look very fine. where did you get that dress? come here and let me arrange it for you a little. you devil! there he is again!" and he leaped at the wall, but the soft cushions threw him back. "whom do you see?" asked the young doctor. "lantier! lantier!" gervaise could not endure the eyes of the young man, for the scene brought back to her so much of her former life. coupeau fancied, as he had been thrown back from the wall in front, that he was now attacked in the rear, and he leaped over the mattress with the agility of a cat. his respiration grew shorter and shorter, his eyes starting from their sockets. "he is killing her!" he shrieked. "killing her! just see the blood!" he fell back against the wall with his hands wide open before him, as if he were repelling the approach of some frightful object. he uttered two long, low groans and then fell flat on the mattress. "he is dead! he is dead!" moaned gervaise. the keeper lifted coupeau. no, he was not dead; his bare feet quivered with a regular motion. the surgeon in chief came in, bringing two colleagues. the three men stood in grave silence, watching the man for some time. they uncovered him, and gervaise saw his shoulders and back. the tremulous motion had now taken complete possession of the body as well as the limbs, and a strange ripple ran just under the skin. "he is asleep," said the surgeon in chief, turning to his colleagues. coupeau's eyes were closed, and his face twitched convulsively. coupeau might sleep, but his feet did nothing of the kind. gervaise, seeing the doctors lay their hands on coupeau's body, wished to do the same. she approached softly and placed her hand on his shoulder and left it there for a minute. what was going on there? a river seemed hurrying on under that skin. it was the liquor of the assommoir, working like a mole through muscle, nerves, bone and marrow. the doctors went away, and gervaise, at the end of another hour, said to the young surgeon: "he is dead, sir." but the surgeon, looking at the feet, said: "no," for those poor feet were still dancing. another hour, and yet another passed. suddenly the feet were stiff and motionless, and the young surgeon turned to gervaise. "he is dead," he said. death alone had stopped those feet. when gervaise went back she was met at the door by a crowd of people who wished to ask her questions, she thought. "he is dead," she said quietly as she moved on. but no one heard her. they had their own tale to tell then. how poisson had nearly murdered lantier. poisson was a tiger, and he ought to have seen what was going on long before. and boche said the woman had taken the shop and that lantier was, as usual, in luck again, for he adored tripe. in the meantime gervaise went directly to mme lerat and mme lorilleux and said faintly: "he is dead--after four days of horror." then the two sisters were in duty bound to pull out their handkerchiefs. their brother had lived a most dissolute life, but then he was their brother. boche shrugged his shoulders and said in an audible voice: "pshaw! it is only one drunkard the less!" after this day gervaise was not always quite right in her mind, and it was one of the attractions of the house to see her act coupeau. but her representations were often involuntary. she trembled at times from head to foot and uttered little spasmodic cries. she had taken the disease in a modified form at sainte-anne's from looking so long at her husband. but she never became altogether like him in the few remaining months of her existence. she sank lower day by day. as soon as she got a little money from any source whatever she drank it away at once. her landlord decided to turn her out of the room she occupied, and as father bru was discovered dead one day in his den under the stairs, m. marescot allowed her to take possession of his quarters. it was there, therefore, on the old straw bed, that she lay waiting for death to come. apparently even mother earth would have none of her. she tried several times to throw herself out of the window, but death took her by bits, as it were. in fact, no one knew exactly when she died or exactly what she died of. they spoke of cold and hunger. but the truth was she died of utter weariness of life, and father bazonge came the day she was found dead in her den. under his arm he carried a coffin, and he was very tipsy and as gay as a lark. "it is foolish to be in a hurry, because one always gets what one wants finally. i am ready to give you all your good pleasure when your time comes. some want to go, and some want to stay. and here is one who wanted to go and was kept waiting." and when he lifted gervaise in his great, coarse hands he did it tenderly. and as he laid her gently in her coffin he murmured between two hiccups: "it is i--my dear, it is i," said this rough consoler of women. "it is i. be happy now and sleep quietly, my dear!" the end. l'assommoir by emile zola chapter i. gervaise had waited up for lantier until two in the morning. then, shivering from having remained in a thin loose jacket, exposed to the fresh air at the window, she had thrown herself across the bed, drowsy, feverish, and her cheeks bathed in tears. for a week past, on leaving the "two-headed calf," where they took their meals, he had sent her home with the children and never reappeared himself till late at night, alleging that he had been in search of work. that evening, while watching for his return, she thought she had seen him enter the dancing-hall of the "grand-balcony," the ten blazing windows of which lighted up with the glare of a conflagration the dark expanse of the exterior boulevards; and five or six paces behind him, she had caught sight of little adele, a burnisher, who dined at the same restaurant, swinging her hands, as if she had just quitted his arm so as not to pass together under the dazzling light of the globes at the door. when, towards five o'clock, gervaise awoke, stiff and sore, she broke forth into sobs. lantier had not returned. for the first time he had slept away from home. she remained seated on the edge of the bed, under the strip of faded chintz, which hung from the rod fastened to the ceiling by a piece of string. and slowly, with her eyes veiled by tears, she glanced round the wretched lodging, furnished with a walnut chest of drawers, minus one drawer, three rush-bottomed chairs, and a little greasy table, on which stood a broken water-jug. there had been added, for the children, an iron bedstead, which prevented any one getting to the chest of drawers, and filled two-thirds of the room. gervaise's and lantier's trunk, wide open, in one corner, displayed its emptiness, and a man's old hat right at the bottom almost buried beneath some dirty shirts and socks; whilst, against the walls, above the articles of furniture, hung a shawl full of holes, and a pair of trousers begrimed with mud, the last rags which the dealers in second-hand clothes declined to buy. in the centre of the mantel-piece, lying between two odd zinc candle-sticks, was a bundle of pink pawn-tickets. it was the best room of the hotel, the first floor room, looking on to the boulevard. the two children were sleeping side by side, with their heads on the same pillow. claude, aged eight years, was breathing quietly, with his little hands thrown outside the coverlet; while etienne, only four years old, was smiling, with one arm round his brother's neck. and bare-footed, without thinking to again put on the old shoes that had fallen on the floor, she resumed her position at the window, her eyes searching the pavements in the distance. the hotel was situated on the boulevard de la chapelle, to the left of the barriere poissonniere. it was a building of two stories high, painted a red, of the color of wine dregs, up to the second floor, and with shutters all rotted by the rain. over a lamp with starred panes of glass, one could manage to read, between the two windows, the words, "hotel boncoeur, kept by marsoullier," painted in big yellow letters, several pieces of which the moldering of the plaster had carried away. the lamp preventing her seeing, gervaise raised herself on tiptoe, still holding the handkerchief to her lips. she looked to the right, towards the boulevard rochechouart, where groups of butchers, in aprons smeared with blood, were hanging about in front of the slaughter-houses; and the fresh breeze wafted occasionally a stench of slaughtered beasts. looking to the left, she scanned a long avenue that ended nearly in front of her, where the white mass of the lariboisiere hospital was then in course of construction. slowly, from one end of the horizon to the other, she followed the octroi wall, behind which she sometimes heard, during night time, the shrieks of persons being murdered; and she searchingly looked into the remote angles, the dark corners, black with humidity and filth, fearing to discern there lantier's body, stabbed to death. she looked at the endless gray wall that surrounded the city with its belt of desolation. when she raised her eyes higher, she became aware of a bright burst of sunlight. the dull hum of the city's awakening already filled the air. craning her neck to look at the poissonniere gate, she remained for a time watching the constant stream of men, horses, and carts which flooded down from the heights of montmartre and la chapelle, pouring between the two squat octroi lodges. it was like a herd of plodding cattle, an endless throng widened by sudden stoppages into eddies that spilled off the sidewalks into the street, a steady procession of laborers on their way back to work with tools slung over their back and a loaf of bread under their arm. this human inundation kept pouring down into paris to be constantly swallowed up. gervaise leaned further out at the risk of falling when she thought she recognized lantier among the throng. she pressed the handkerchief tighter against her mouth, as though to push back the pain within her. the sound of a young and cheerful voice caused her to leave the window. "so the old man isn't here, madame lantier?" "why, no, monsieur coupeau," she replied, trying to smile. coupeau, a zinc-worker who occupied a ten franc room on the top floor, having seen the door unlocked, had walked in as friends will do. "you know," he continued, "i'm now working over there in the hospital. what beautiful may weather, isn't it? the air is rather sharp this morning." and he looked at gervaise's face, red with weeping. when he saw that the bed had not been slept in, he shook his head gently; then he went to the children's couch where they were sleeping, looking as rosy as cherubs, and, lowering his voice, he said, "come, the old man's not been home, has he? don't worry yourself, madame lantier. he's very much occupied with politics. when they were voting for eugene sue the other day, he was acting almost crazy. he has very likely spent the night with some friends blackguarding crapulous bonaparte." "no, no," she murmured with an effort. "you don't think that. i know where lantier is. you see, we have our little troubles like the rest of the world!" coupeau winked his eye, to indicate he was not a dupe of this falsehood; and he went off, after offering to fetch her milk, if she did not care to go out: she was a good and courageous woman, and might count upon him on any day of trouble. as soon as he was gone, gervaise again returned to the window. at the barriere, the tramp of the drove still continued in the morning air: locksmiths in short blue blouses, masons in white jackets, house painters in overcoats over long smocks. from a distance the crowd looked like a chalky smear of neutral hue composed chiefly of faded blue and dingy gray. when one of the workers occasionally stopped to light his pipe the others kept plodding past him, without sparing a laugh or a word to a comrade. with cheeks gray as clay, their eyes were continually drawn toward paris which was swallowing them one by one. at both corners of the rue des poissonniers however, some of the men slackened their pace as they neared the doors of the two wine-dealers who were taking down their shutters; and, before entering, they stood on the edge of the pavement, looking sideways over paris, with no strength in their arms and already inclined for a day of idleness. inside various groups were already buying rounds of drinks, or just standing around, forgetting their troubles, crowding up the place, coughing, spitting, clearing their throats with sip after sip. gervaise was watching pere colombe's wineshop to the left of the street, where she thought she had seen lantier, when a stout woman, bareheaded and wearing an apron called to her from the middle of the roadway: "hey, madame lantier, you're up very early!" gervaise leaned out. "why! it's you, madame boche! oh! i've got a lot of work to-day!" "yes, things don't do themselves, do they?" the conversation continued between roadway and window. madame boche was concierge of the building where the "two-headed calf" was on the ground floor. gervaise had waited for lantier more than once in the concierge's lodge, so as not to be alone at table with all the men who ate at the restaurant. madame boche was going to a tailor who was late in mending an overcoat for her husband. she mentioned one of her tenants who had come in with a woman the night before and kept everybody awake past three in the morning. she looked at gervaise with intense curiosity. "is monsieur lantier, then, still in bed?" she asked abruptly. "yes, he's asleep," replied gervaise, who could not avoid blushing. madame boche saw the tears come into her eyes; and, satisfied no doubt, she turned to go, declaring men to be a cursed, lazy set. as she went off, she called back: "it's this morning you go to the wash-house, isn't it? i've something to wash, too. i'll keep you a place next to me, and we can chat together." then, as if moved with sudden pity, she added: "my poor little thing, you had far better not remain there; you'll take harm. you look quite blue with cold." gervaise still obstinately remained at the window during two mortal hours, till eight o'clock. now all the shops had opened. only a few work men were still hurrying along. the working girls now filled the boulevard: metal polishers, milliners, flower sellers, shivering in their thin clothing. in small groups they chattered gaily, laughing and glancing here and there. occasionally there would be one girl by herself, thin, pale, serious-faced, picking her way along the city wall among the puddles and the filth. after the working girls, the office clerks came past, breathing upon their chilled fingers and munching penny rolls. some of them are gaunt young fellows in ill-fitting suits, their tired eyes still fogged from sleep. others are older men, stooped and tottering, with faces pale and drawn from long hours of office work and glancing nervously at their watches for fear of arriving late. in time the boulevards settle into their usual morning quiet. old folks come out to stroll in the sun. tired young mothers in bedraggled skirts cuddle babies in their arms or sit on a bench to change diapers. children run, squealing and laughing, pushing and shoving. then gervaise felt herself choking, dizzy with anguish, all hopes gone; it seemed to her that everything was ended, even time itself, and that lantier would return no more. her eyes vacantly wandered from the old slaughter-house, foul with butchery and with stench, to the new white hospital which, through the yawning openings of its ranges of windows, disclosed the naked wards, where death was preparing to mow. in front of her on the other side of the octroi wall the bright heavens dazzled her, with the rising sun which rose higher and higher over the vast awaking city. the young woman was seated on a chair, no longer crying, and with her hands abandoned on her lap, when lantier quietly entered the room. "it's you! it's you!" she cried, rising to throw herself upon his neck. "yes, it's me. what of it?" he replied. "you are not going to begin any of your nonsense, i hope!" he had pushed her aside. then, with a gesture of ill-humor he threw his black felt hat to the chest of drawers. he was a young fellow of twenty-six years of age, short and very dark, with a handsome figure, and slight moustaches which his hand was always mechanically twirling. he wore a workman's overalls and an old soiled overcoat, which he had belted tightly at the waist, and he spoke with a strong provencal accent. gervaise, who had fallen back on her chair, gently complained, in short sentences: "i've not had a wink of sleep. i feared some harm had happened to you. where have you been? where did you spend the night? for heaven's sake! don't do it again, or i shall go crazy. tell me auguste, where have you been?" "where i had business, of course," he returned shrugging his shoulders. "at eight o'clock, i was at la glaciere, with my friend who is to start a hat factory. we sat talking late, so i preferred to sleep there. now, you know, i don't like being spied upon, so just shut up!" the young woman recommenced sobbing. the loud voices and the rough movements of lantier, who upset the chairs, had awakened the children. they sat up in bed, half naked, disentangling their hair with their tiny hands, and, hearing their mother weep, they uttered terrible screams, crying also with their scarcely open eyes. "ah! there's the music!" shouted lantier furiously. "i warn you, i'll take my hook! and it will be for good, this time. you won't shut up? then, good morning! i'll return to the place i've just come from." he had already taken his hat from off the chest of drawers. but gervaise threw herself before him, stammering: "no, no!" and she hushed the little ones' tears with her caresses, smoothed their hair, and soothed them with soft words. the children, suddenly quieted, laughing on their pillow, amused themselves by punching each other. the father however, without even taking off his boots, had thrown himself on the bed looking worn out, his face bearing signs of having been up all night. he did not go to sleep, he lay with his eyes wide open, looking round the room. "it's a mess here!" he muttered. and after observing gervaise a moment, he malignantly added: "don't you even wash yourself now?" gervaise was twenty-two, tall and slim with fine features, but she was already beginning to show the strain of her hard life. she seemed to have aged ten years from the hours of agonized weeping. lantier's mean remark made her mad. "you're not fair," she said spiritedly. "you well know i do all i can. it's not my fault we find ourselves here. i would like to see you, with two children, in a room where there's not even a stove to heat some water. when we arrived in paris, instead of squandering your money, you should have made a home for us at once, as you promised." "listen!" lantier exploded. "you cracked the nut with me; it doesn't become you to sneer at it now!" apparently not listening, gervaise went on with her own thought. "if we work hard we can get out of the hole we're in. madame fauconnier, the laundress on rue neuve, will start me on monday. if you work with your friend from la glaciere, in six months we will be doing well. we'll have enough for decent clothes and a place we can call our own. but we'll have to stick with it and work hard." lantier turned over towards the wall, looking greatly bored. then gervaise lost her temper. "yes, that's it, i know the love of work doesn't trouble you much. you're bursting with ambition, you want to be dressed like a gentleman. you don't think me nice enough, do you, now that you've made me pawn all my dresses? listen, auguste, i didn't intend to speak of it, i would have waited a bit longer, but i know where you spent the night; i saw you enter the 'grand-balcony' with that trollop adele. ah! you choose them well! she's a nice one, she is! she does well to put on the airs of a princess! she's been the ridicule of every man who frequents the restaurant." at a bound lantier sprang from the bed. his eyes had become as black as ink in his pale face. with this little man, rage blew like a tempest. "yes, yes, of every man who frequents the restaurant!" repeated the young woman. "madame boche intends to give them notice, she and her long stick of a sister, because they've always a string of men after them on the staircase." lantier raised his fists; then, resisting the desire of striking her, he seized hold of her by the arms, shook her violently and sent her sprawling upon the bed of the children, who recommenced crying. and he lay down again, mumbling, like a man resolving on something that he previously hesitated to do: "you don't know what you've done, gervaise. you've made a big mistake; you'll see." for an instant the children continued sobbing. their mother, who remained bending over the bed, held them both in her embrace, and kept repeating the same words in a monotonous tone of voice. "ah! if it weren't for you! my poor little ones! if it weren't for you! if it weren't for you!" stretched out quietly, his eyes raised to the faded strip of chintz, lantier no longer listened, but seemed to be buried in a fixed idea. he remained thus for nearly an hour, without giving way to sleep, in spite of the fatigue which weighed his eyelids down. he finally turned toward gervaise, his face set hard in determination. she had gotten the children up and dressed and had almost finished cleaning the room. the room looked, as always, dark and depressing with its sooty black ceiling and paper peeling from the damp walls. the dilapidated furniture was always streaked and dirty despite frequent dustings. gervaise, devouring her grief, trying to assume a look of indifference, hurried over her work. lantier watched as she tidied her hair in front of the small mirror hanging near the window. while she washed herself he looked at her bare arms and shoulders. he seemed to be making comparisons in his mind as his lips formed a grimace. gervaise limped with her right leg, though it was scarcely noticeable except when she was tired. to-day, exhausted from remaining awake all night, she was supporting herself against the wall and dragging her leg. neither one spoke, they had nothing more to say. lantier seemed to be waiting, while gervaise kept busy and tried to keep her countenance expressionless. finally, while she was making a bundle of the dirty clothes thrown in a corner, behind the trunk, he at length opened his lips and asked: "what are you doing there? where are you going?" she did not answer at first. then, when he furiously repeated his question, she made up her mind, and said: "i suppose you can see for yourself. i'm going to wash all this. the children can't live in filth." he let her pick up two or three handkerchiefs. and, after a fresh pause, he resumed: "have you got any money?" at these words she stood up and looked him full in the face, without leaving go of the children's dirty clothes, which she held in her hand. "money! and where do you think i can have stolen any? you know well enough that i got three francs the day before yesterday on my black skirt. we've lunched twice off it, and money goes quick at the pork-butcher's. no, you may be quite sure i've no money. i've four sous for the wash-house. i don't have an extra income like some women." he let this allusion pass. he had moved off the bed, and was passing in review the few rags hanging about the room. he ended by taking up the pair of trousers and the shawl, and searching the drawers, he added two chemises and a woman's loose jacket to the parcel; then, he threw the whole bundle into gervaise's arms, saying: "here, go and pop this." "don't you want me to pop the children as well?" asked she. "eh! if they lent on children, it would be a fine riddance!" she went to the pawn-place, however. when she returned at the end of half an hour, she laid a hundred sou piece on the mantel-shelf, and added the ticket to the others, between the two candlesticks. "that's what they gave me," said she. "i wanted six francs, but i couldn't manage it. oh! they'll never ruin themselves. and there's always such a crowd there!" lantier did not pick up the five franc piece directly. he would rather that she got change, so as to leave her some of it. but he decided to slip it into his waistcoat pocket, when he noticed a small piece of ham wrapped up in paper, and the remains of a loaf on the chest of drawers. "i didn't dare go to the milkwoman's, because we owe her a week," explained gervaise. "but i shall be back early; you can get some bread and some chops whilst i'm away, and then we'll have lunch. bring also a bottle of wine." he did not say no. their quarrel seemed to be forgotten. the young woman was completing her bundle of dirty clothes. but when she went to take lantier's shirts and socks from the bottom of the trunk, he called to her to leave them alone. "leave my things, d'ye hear? i don't want 'em touched!" "what's it you don't want touched?" she asked, rising up. "i suppose you don't mean to put these filthy things on again, do you? they must be washed." she studied his boyishly handsome face, now so rigid that it seemed nothing could ever soften it. he angrily grabbed his things from her and threw them back into the trunk, saying: "just obey me, for once! i tell you i won't have 'em touched!" "but why?" she asked, turning pale, a terrible suspicion crossing her mind. "you don't need your shirts now, you're not going away. what can it matter to you if i take them?" he hesitated for an instant, embarrassed by the piercing glance she fixed upon him. "why--why--" stammered he, "because you go and tell everyone that you keep me, that you wash and mend. well! it worries me, there! attend to your own business and i'll attend to mine, washerwomen don't work for dogs." she supplicated, she protested she had never complained; but he roughly closed the trunk and sat down upon it, saying, "no!" to her face. he could surely do as he liked with what belonged to him! then, to escape from the inquiring looks she leveled at him, he went and laid down on the bed again, saying that he was sleepy, and requesting her not to make his head ache with any more of her row. this time indeed, he seemed to fall asleep. gervaise, for a while, remained undecided. she was tempted to kick the bundle of dirty clothes on one side, and to sit down and sew. but lantier's regular breathing ended by reassuring her. she took the ball of blue and the piece of soap remaining from her last washing, and going up to the little ones who were quietly playing with some old corks in front of the window, she kissed them, and said in a low voice: "be very good, don't make any noise; papa's asleep." when she left the room, claude's and etienne's gentle laughter alone disturbed the great silence beneath the blackened ceiling. it was ten o'clock. a ray of sunshine entered by the half open window. on the boulevard, gervaise turned to the left, and followed the rue neuve de la goutte-d'or. as she passed madame fauconnier's shop, she slightly bowed her head. the wash-house she was bound for was situated towards the middle of the street, at the part where the roadway commenced to ascend. the rounded, gray contours of the three large zinc wash tanks, studded with rivets, rose above the flat-roofed building. behind them was the drying room, a high second story, closed in on all sides by narrow-slatted lattices so that the air could circulate freely, and through which laundry could be seen hanging on brass wires. the steam engine's smokestack exhaled puffs of white smoke to the right of the water tanks. gervaise was used to puddles and did not bother to tuck her skirts up before making her way through the doorway, which was cluttered with jars of bleaching water. she was already acquainted with the mistress of the wash-house, a delicate little woman with red, inflamed eyes, who sat in a small glazed closet with account books in front of her, bars of soap on shelves, balls of blue in glass bowls, and pounds of soda done up in packets; and, as she passed, she asked for her beetle and her scouring-brush, which she had left to be taken care of the last time she had done her washing there. then, after obtaining her number, she entered the wash-house. it was an immense shed, with large clear windows, and a flat ceiling, showing the beams supported on cast-iron pillars. pale rays of light passed through the hot steam, which remained suspended like a milky fog. smoke arose from certain corners, spreading about and covering the recesses with a bluish veil. a heavy moisture hung around, impregnated with a soapy odor, a damp insipid smell, continuous though at moments overpowered by the more potent fumes of the chemicals. along the washing-places, on either side of the central alley, were rows of women, with bare arms and necks, and skirts tucked up, showing colored stockings and heavy lace-up shoes. they were beating furiously, laughing, leaning back to call out a word in the midst of the din, or stooping over their tubs, all of them brutal, ungainly, foul of speech, and soaked as though by a shower, with their flesh red and reeking. all around the women continuously flowed a river from hot-water buckets emptied with a sudden splash, cold-water faucets left dripping, soap suds spattering, and the dripping from rinsed laundry which was hung up. it splashed their feet and drained away across the sloping flagstones. the din of the shouting and the rhythmic beating was joined by the patter of steady dripping. it was slightly muffled by the moisture-soaked ceiling. meanwhile, the steam engine could be heard as it puffed and snorted ceaselessly while cloaked in its white mist. the dancing vibration of its flywheel seemed to regulate the volume of the noisy turbulence. gervaise passed slowly along the alley, looking to the right and left, carrying her laundry bundle under one arm, with one hip thrust high and limping more than usual. she was jostled by several women in the hubbub. "this way, my dear!" cried madame boche, in her loud voice. then, when the young woman had joined her at the very end on the left, the concierge, who was furiously rubbing a dirty sock, began to talk incessantly, without leaving off her work. "put your things there, i've kept your place. oh, i sha'n't be long over what i've got. boche scarcely dirties his things at all. and you, you won't be long either, will you? your bundle's quite a little one. before twelve o'clock we shall have finished, and we can go off to lunch. i used to send my things to a laundress in the rue poulet, but she destroyed everything with her chlorine and her brushes; so now i do the washing myself. it's so much saved; it only costs the soap. i say, you should have put those shirts to soak. those little rascals of children, on my word! one would think their bodies were covered with soot." gervaise, having undone her bundle, was spreading out the little ones' shirts, and as madame boche advised her to take a pailful of lye, she answered, "oh, no! warm water will do. i'm used to it." she had sorted her laundry with several colored pieces to one side. then, after filling her tub with four pails of cold water from the tap behind her, she plunged her pile of whites into it. "you're used to it?" repeated madame boche. "you were a washerwoman in your native place, weren't you, my dear?" gervaise, with her sleeves pushed back, displayed the graceful arms of a young blonde, as yet scarcely reddened at the elbows, and started scrubbing her laundry. she spread a shirt out on the narrow rubbing board which was water-bleached and eroded by years of use. she rubbed soap into the shirt, turned it over, and soaped the other side. before replying to madame boche she grasped her beetle and began to pound away so that her shouted phrases were punctuated with loud and rhythmic thumps. "yes, yes, a washerwoman--when i was ten--that's twelve years ago--we used to go to the river--it smelt nicer there than it does here--you should have seen, there was a nook under the trees, with clear running water--you know, at plassans--don't you know plassans?--it's near marseilles." "how you go at it!" exclaimed madame boche, amazed at the strength of her blows. "you could flatten out a piece of iron with your little lady-like arms." the conversation continued in a very high volume. at times, the concierge, not catching what was said, was obliged to lean forward. all the linen was beaten, and with a will! gervaise plunged it into the tub again, and then took it out once more, each article separately, to rub it over with soap a second time and brush it. with one hand she held the article firmly on the plank; with the other, which grasped the short couch-grass brush, she extracted from the linen a dirty lather, which fell in long drips. then, in the slight noise caused by the brush, the two women drew together, and conversed in a more intimate way. "no, we're not married," resumed gervaise. "i don't hide it. lantier isn't so nice for any one to care to be his wife. if it weren't for the children! i was fourteen and he was eighteen when we had our first one. it happened in the usual way, you know how it is. i wasn't happy at home. old man macquart would kick me in the tail whenever he felt like it, for no reason at all. i had to have some fun outside. we might have been married, but--i forget why--our parents wouldn't consent." she shook her hands, which were growing red in the white suds. "the water's awfully hard in paris." madame boche was now washing only very slowly. she kept leaving off, making her work last as long as she could, so as to remain there, to listen to that story, which her curiosity had been hankering to know for a fortnight past. her mouth was half open in the midst of her big, fat face; her eyes, which were almost at the top of her head, were gleaming. she was thinking, with the satisfaction of having guessed right. "that's it, the little one gossips too much. there's been a row." then, she observed out loud, "he isn't nice, then?" "don't mention it!" replied gervaise. "he used to behave very well in the country; but, since we've been in paris, he's been unbearable. i must tell you that his mother died last year and left him some money--about seventeen hundred francs. he would come to paris, so, as old macquart was forever knocking me about without warning, i consented to come away with him. we made the journey with two children. he was to set me up as a laundress, and work himself at his trade of a hatter. we should have been very happy; but, you see, lantier's ambitious and a spendthrift, a fellow who only thinks of amusing himself. in short, he's not worth much. on arriving, we went to the hotel montmartre, in the rue montmartre. and then there were dinners, and cabs, and the theatre; a watch for himself and a silk dress for me, for he's not unkind when he's got the money. you understand, he went in for everything, and so well that at the end of two months we were cleaned out. it was then that we came to live at the hotel boncoeur, and that this horrible life began." she interrupted herself. a lump had suddenly risen in her throat, and she could scarcely restrain her tears. she had finished brushing the things. "i must go and fetch my hot water," she murmured. but madame boche, greatly disappointed at this break off in the disclosures, called to the wash-house boy, who was passing, "my little charles, kindly get madame a pail of hot water; she's in a hurry." the youth took the bucket and brought it back filled. gervaise paid him; it was a sou the pailful. she poured the hot water into the tub, and soaped the things a last time with her hands, leaning over them in a mass of steam, which deposited small beads of grey vapor in her light hair. "here put some soda in, i've got some by me," said the concierge, obligingly. and she emptied into gervaise's tub what remained of a bag of soda which she had brought with her. she also offered her some of the chemical water, but the young woman declined it; it was only good for grease and wine stains. "i think he's rather a loose fellow," resumed madame boche, returning to lantier, but without naming him. gervaise, bent almost double, her hands all shriveled, and thrust in amongst the clothes, merely tossed her head. "yes, yes," continued the other, "i have noticed several little things--" but she suddenly interrupted herself, as gervaise jumped up, with a pale face, and staring wildly at her. then she exclaimed, "oh, no! i don't know anything! he likes to laugh a bit, i think, that's all. for instance, you know the two girls who lodge at my place, adele and virginie. well, he larks about with 'em, but he just flirts for sport." the young woman standing before her, her face covered with perspiration, the water dripping from her arms, continued to stare at her with a fixed and penetrating look. then the concierge got excited, giving herself a blow on the chest, and pledging her word of honor, she cried: "i know nothing, i mean it when i say so!" then calming herself, she added in a gentle voice, as if speaking to a person on whom loud protestations would have no effect, "i think he has a frank look about the eyes. he'll marry you, my dear, i'm sure of it." gervaise wiped her forehead with her wet hand. shaking her head again, she pulled another garment out of the water. both of them kept silence for a moment. the wash-house was quieting down, for eleven o'clock had struck. half of the washerwomen were perched on the edge of their tubs, eating sausages between slices of bread and drinking from open bottles of wine. only housewives who had come to launder small bundles of family linen were hurrying to finish. occasional beetle blows could still be heard amid the subdued laughter and gossip half-choked by the greedy chewing of jawbones. the steam engine never stopped. its vibrant, snorting voice seemed to fill the entire hall, though not one of the women even heard it. it was like the breathing of the wash-house, its hot breath collecting under the ceiling rafters in an eternal floating mist. the heat was becoming intolerable. through the tall windows on the left sunlight was streaming in, touching the steamy vapors with opalescent tints of soft pinks and grayish blues. charles went from window to window, letting down the heavy canvas awnings. then he crossed to the shady side to open the ventilators. he was applauded by cries and hand clapping and a rough sort of gaiety spread around. soon even the last of the beetle-pounding stopped. with full mouths, the washerwomen could only make gestures. it became so quiet that the grating sound of the fireman shoveling coal into the engine's firebox could be heard at regular intervals from far at the other end. gervaise was washing her colored things in the hot water thick with lather, which she had kept for the purpose. when she had finished, she drew a trestle towards her and hung across it all the different articles; the drippings from which made bluish puddles on the floor; and she commenced rinsing. behind her, the cold water tap was set running into a vast tub fixed to the ground, and across which were two wooden bars whereon to lay the clothes. high up in the air were two other bars for the things to finish dripping on. "we're almost finished, and not a bad job," said madame boche. "i'll wait and help you wring all that." "oh! it's not worth while; i'm much obliged though," replied the young woman, who was kneading with her hands and sousing the colored things in some clean water. "if i'd any sheets, it would be another thing." but she had, however, to accept the concierge's assistance. they were wringing between them, one at each end, a woolen skirt of a washed-out chestnut color, from which dribbled a yellowish water, when madame boche exclaimed: "why, there's tall virginie! what has she come here to wash, when all her wardrobe that isn't on her would go into a pocket handkerchief?" gervaise jerked her head up. virginie was a girl of her own age, taller than she was, dark and pretty in spite of her face being rather long and narrow. she had on an old black dress with flounces, and a red ribbon round her neck; and her hair was done up carefully, the chignon being enclosed in a blue silk net. she stood an instant in the middle of the central alley, screwing up her eyes as though seeking someone; then, when she caught sight of gervaise, she passed close to her, erect, insolent, and with a swinging gait, and took a place in the same row, five tubs away from her. "there's a freak for you!" continued madame boche in a lower tone of voice. "she never does any laundry, not even a pair of cuffs. a seamstress who doesn't even sew on a loose button! she's just like her sister, the brass burnisher, that hussy adele, who stays away from her job two days out of three. nobody knows who their folks are or how they make a living. though, if i wanted to talk . . . what on earth is she scrubbing there? a filthy petticoat. i'll wager it's seen some lovely sights, that petticoat!" madame boche was evidently trying to make herself agreeable to gervaise. the truth was she often took a cup of coffee with adele and virginia, when the girls had any money. gervaise did not answer, but hurried over her work with feverish hands. she had just prepared her blue in a little tub that stood on three legs. she dipped in the linen things, and shook them an instant at the bottom of the colored water, the reflection of which had a pinky tinge; and after wringing them lightly, she spread them out on the wooden bars up above. during the time she was occupied with this work, she made a point of turning her back on virginie. but she heard her chuckles; she could feel her sidelong glances. virginie appeared only to have come there to provoke her. at one moment, gervaise having turned around, they both stared into each other's faces. "leave her alone," whispered madame boche. "you're not going to pull each other's hair out, i hope. when i tell you there's nothing to it! it isn't her, anyhow!" at this moment, as the young woman was hanging up the last article of clothing, there was a sound of laughter at the door of the wash-house. "here are two brats who want their mamma!" cried charles. all the women leant forward. gervaise recognized claude and etienne. as soon as they caught sight of her, they ran to her through the puddles, the heels of their unlaced shoes resounding on the flagstones. claude, the eldest, held his little brother by the hand. the women, as they passed them, uttered little exclamations of affection as they noticed their frightened though smiling faces. and they stood there, in front of their mother, without leaving go of each other's hands, and holding their fair heads erect. "has papa sent you?" asked gervaise. but as she stooped to tie the laces of etienne's shoes, she saw the key of their room on one of claude's fingers, with the brass number hanging from it. "why, you've brought the key!" she said, greatly surprised. "what's that for?" the child, seeing the key which he had forgotten on his finger, appeared to recollect, and exclaimed in his clear voice: "papa's gone away." "he's gone to buy the lunch, and told you to come here to fetch me?" claude looked at his brother, hesitated, no longer recollecting. then he resumed all in a breath: "papa's gone away. he jumped off the bed, he put all the things in the trunk, he carried the trunk down to a cab. he's gone away." gervaise, who was squatting down, slowly rose to her feet, her face ghastly pale. she put her hands to her cheeks and temples, as though she felt her head was breaking; and she could find only these words, which she repeated twenty times in the same tone of voice: "ah! good heavens!--ah! good heavens!--ah! good heavens!" madame boche, however, also questioned the child, quite delighted at the chance of hearing the whole story. "come, little one, you must tell us just what happened. it was he who locked the door and who told you to bring the key, wasn't it?" and, lowering her voice, she whispered in claude's ear: "was there a lady in the cab?" the child again got confused. then he recommenced his story in a triumphant manner: "he jumped off the bed, he put all the things in the trunk. he's gone away." then, when madame boche let him go, he drew his brother in front of the tap, and they amused themselves by turning on the water. gervaise was unable to cry. she was choking, leaning back against her tub, her face still buried in her hands. brief shudders rocked her body and she wailed out long sighs while pressing her hands tighter against her eyes, as though abandoning herself to the blackness of desolation, a dark, deep pit into which she seemed to be falling. "come, my dear, pull yourself together!" murmured madame boche. "if you only knew! if you only knew!" said she at length very faintly. "he sent me this morning to pawn my shawl and my chemises to pay for that cab." and she burst out crying. the memory of the events of that morning and of her trip to the pawn-place tore from her the sobs that had been choking her throat. that abominable trip to the pawn-place was the thing that hurt most in all her sorrow and despair. tears were streaming down her face but she didn't think of using her handkerchief. "be reasonable, do be quiet, everyone's looking at you," madame boche, who hovered round her, kept repeating. "how can you worry yourself so much on account of a man? you loved him, then, all the same, did you, my poor darling? a little while ago you were saying all sorts of things against him; and now you're crying for him, and almost breaking your heart. dear me, how silly we all are!" then she became quite maternal. "a pretty little woman like you! can it be possible? one may tell you everything now, i suppose. well! you recollect when i passed under your window, i already had my suspicions. just fancy, last night, when adele came home, i heard a man's footsteps with hers. so i thought i would see who it was. i looked up the staircase. the fellow was already on the second landing; but i certainly recognized monsieur lantier's overcoat. boche, who was on the watch this morning, saw him tranquilly nod adieu. he was with adele, you know. virginie has a situation now, where she goes twice a week. only it's highly imprudent all the same, for they've only one room and an alcove, and i can't very well say where virginie managed to sleep." she interrupted herself an instant, turned round, and then resumed, subduing her loud voice: "she's laughing at seeing you cry, that heartless thing over there. i'd stake my life that her washing's all a pretence. she's packed off the other two, and she's come here so as to tell them how you take it." gervaise removed her hands from her face and looked. when she beheld virginie in front of her, amidst three or four women, speaking low and staring at her, she was seized with a mad rage. her arms in front of her, searching the ground, she stumbled forward a few paces. trembling all over, she found a bucket full of water, grabbed it with both hands, and emptied it at virginie. "the virago!" yelled tall virginie. she had stepped back, and her boots alone got wet. the other women, who for some minutes past had all been greatly upset by gervaise's tears, jostled each other in their anxiety to see the fight. some, who were finishing their lunch, got on the tops of their tubs. others hastened forward, their hands smothered with soap. a ring was formed. "ah! the virago!" repeated tall virginie. "what's the matter with her? she's mad!" gervaise, standing on the defensive, her chin thrust out, her features convulsed, said nothing, not having yet acquired the paris gift of street gab. the other continued: "get out! this girl's tired of wallowing about in the country; she wasn't twelve years old when the soldiers were at her. she even lost her leg serving her country. that leg's rotting off." the lookers-on burst out laughing. virginie, seeing her success, advanced a couple of steps, drawing herself up to her full height, and yelling louder than ever: "here! come a bit nearer, just to see how i'll settle you! don't you come annoying us here. do i even know her, the hussy? if she'd wetted me, i'd have pretty soon shown her battle, as you'd have seen. let her just say what i've ever done to her. speak, you vixen; what's been done to you?" "don't talk so much," stammered gervaise. "you know well enough. some one saw my husband last night. and shut up, because if you don't i'll most certainly strangle you." "her husband! that's a good one! as if cripples like her had husbands! if he's left you it's not my fault. surely you don't think i've stolen him, do you? he was much too good for you and you made him sick. did you keep him on a leash? has anyone here seen her husband? there's a reward." the laughter burst forth again. gervaise contented herself with continually murmuring in a low tone of voice: "you know well enough, you know well enough. it's your sister. i'll strangle her--your sister." "yes, go and try it on with my sister," resumed virginie sneeringly. "ah! it's my sister! that's very likely. my sister looks a trifle different to you; but what's that to me? can't one come and wash one's clothes in peace now? just dry up, d'ye hear, because i've had enough of it!" but it was she who returned to the attack, after giving five or six strokes with her beetle, intoxicated by the insults she had been giving utterance to, and worked up into a passion. she left off and recommenced again, speaking in this way three times: "well, yes! it's my sister. there now, does that satisfy you? they adore each other. you should just see them bill and coo! and he's left you with your children. those pretty kids with scabs all over their faces! you got one of them from a gendarme, didn't you? and you let three others die because you didn't want to pay excess baggage on your journey. it's your lantier who told us that. ah! he's been telling some fine things; he'd had enough of you!" "you dirty jade! you dirty jade! you dirty jade!" yelled gervaise, beside herself, and again seized with a furious trembling. she turned round, looking once more about the ground; and only observing the little tub, she seized hold of it by the legs, and flung the whole of the bluing at virginie's face. "the beast! she's spoilt my dress!" cried the latter, whose shoulder was sopping wet and whose left hand was dripping blue. "just wait, you wretch!" in her turn she seized a bucket, and emptied it over gervaise. then a formidable battle began. they both ran along the rows of tubs, seized hold of the pails that were full, and returned to dash the contents at each other's heads. and each deluge was accompanied by a volley of words. gervaise herself answered now: "there, you scum! you got it that time. it'll help to cool you." "ah! the carrion! that's for your filth. wash yourself for once in your life." "yes, yes, i'll wash the salt out of you, you cod!" "another one! brush your teeth, fix yourself up for your post to-night at the corner of the rue belhomme." they ended by having to refill the buckets at the water taps, continuing to insult each other the while. the initial bucketfuls were so poorly aimed as to scarcely reach their targets, but they soon began to splash each other in earnest. virginie was the first to receive a bucketful in the face. the water ran down, soaking her back and front. she was still staggering when another caught her from the side, hitting her left ear and drenching her chignon which then came unwound into a limp, bedraggled string of hair. gervaise was hit first in the legs. one pail filled her shoes full of water and splashed up to her thighs. two more wet her even higher. soon both of them were soaked from top to bottom and it was impossible to count the hits. their clothes were plastered to their bodies and they looked shrunken. water was dripping everywhere as from umbrellas in a rainstorm. "they look jolly funny!" said the hoarse voice of one of the women. everyone in the wash-house was highly amused. a good space was left to the combatants, as nobody cared to get splashed. applause and jokes circulated in the midst of the sluice-like noise of the buckets emptied in rapid succession! on the floor the puddles were running one into another, and the two women were wading in them up to their ankles. virginie, however, who had been meditating a treacherous move, suddenly seized hold of a pail of lye, which one of her neighbors had left there and threw it. the same cry arose from all. everyone thought gervaise was scalded; but only her left foot had been slightly touched. and, exasperated by the pain, she seized a bucket, without troubling herself to fill it this time, and threw it with all her might at the legs of virginie, who fell to the ground. all the women spoke together. "she's broken one of her limbs!" "well, the other tried to cook her!" "she's right, after all, the blonde one, if her man's been taken from her!" madame boche held up her arms to heaven, uttering all sorts of exclamations. she had prudently retreated out of the way between two tubs; and the children, claude and etienne, crying, choking, terrified, clung to her dress with the continuous cry of "mamma! mamma!" broken by their sobs. when she saw virginie fall she hastened forward, and tried to pull gervaise away by her skirt, repeating the while, "come now, go home! be reasonable. on my word, it's quite upset me. never was such a butchery seen before." but she had to draw back and seek refuge again between the two tubs, with the children. virginie had just flown at gervaise's throat. she squeezed her round the neck, trying to strangle her. the latter freed herself with a violent jerk, and in her turn hung on to the other's hair, as though she was trying to pull her head off. the battle was silently resumed, without a cry, without an insult. they did not seize each other round the body, they attacked each other's faces with open hands and clawing fingers, pinching, scratching whatever they caught hold of. the tall, dark girl's red ribbon and blue silk hair net were torn off. the body of her dress, giving way at the neck, displayed a large portion of her shoulder; whilst the blonde, half stripped, a sleeve gone from her loose white jacket without her knowing how, had a rent in her underlinen, which exposed to view the naked line of her waist. shreds of stuff flew in all directions. it was from gervaise that the first blood was drawn, three long scratches from the mouth to the chin; and she sought to protect her eyes, shutting them at every grab the other made, for fear of having them torn out. no blood showed on virginie as yet. gervaise aimed at her ears, maddened at not being able to reach them. at length she succeeded in seizing hold of one of the earrings--an imitation pear in yellow glass--which she pulled out and slit the ear, and the blood flowed. "they're killing each other! separate them, the vixens!" exclaimed several voices. the other women had drawn nearer. they formed themselves into two camps. some were cheering the combatants on as the others were trembling and turning their heads away saying that it was making them sick. a large fight nearly broke out between the two camps as the women called each other names and brandished their fists threateningly. three loud slaps rang out. madame boche, meanwhile, was trying to discover the wash-house boy. "charles! charles! wherever has he got to?" and she found him in the front rank, looking on with his arms folded. he was a big fellow, with an enormous neck. he was laughing and enjoying the sight of the skin which the two women displayed. the little blonde was as fat as a quail. it would be fun if her chemise burst open. "why," murmured he, blinking his eye, "she's got a strawberry birthmark under her arm." "what! you're there!" cried madame boche, as she caught sight of him. "just come and help us separate them. you can easily separate them, you can!" "oh, no! thank you, not if i know it," said he coolly. "to get my eye scratched like i did the other day, i suppose! i'm not here for that sort of thing; i have enough to do without that. don't be afraid, a little bleeding does 'em good; it'll soften 'em." the concierge then talked of fetching the police; but the mistress of the wash-house, the delicate young woman with the red, inflamed eyes, would not allow her to do this. she kept saying: "no, no, i won't; it'll compromise my establishment." the struggle on the ground continued. all on a sudden, virginie raised herself up on her knees. she had just gotten hold of a beetle and held it on high. she had a rattle in her throat and in an altered voice, she exclaimed, "here's something that'll settle you! get your dirty linen ready!" gervaise quickly thrust out her hand, and also seized a beetle, and held it up like a club; and she too spoke in a choking voice, "ah! you want to wash. let me get hold of your skin that i may beat it into dish-cloths!" for a moment they remained there, on their knees, menacing each other. their hair all over their faces, their breasts heaving, muddy, swelling with rage, they watched one another, as they waited and took breath. gervaise gave the first blow. her beetle glided off virginie's shoulder, and she at once threw herself on one side to avoid the latter's beetle, which grazed her hip. then, warming to their work they struck at each other like washerwomen beating clothes, roughly, and in time. whenever there was a hit, the sound was deadened, so that one might have thought it a blow in a tub full of water. the other women around them no longer laughed. several had gone off saying that it quite upset them; those who remained stretched out their necks, their eyes lighted up with a gleam of cruelty, admiring the pluck displayed. madame boche had led claude and etienne away, and one could hear at the other end of the building the sound of their sobs, mingled with the sonorous shocks of the two beetles. but gervaise suddenly yelled. virginie had caught her a whack with all her might on her bare arm, just above the elbow. a large red mark appeared, the flesh at once began to swell. then she threw herself upon virginie, and everyone thought she was going to beat her to death. "enough! enough!" was cried on all sides. her face bore such a terrible expression, that no one dared approach her. her strength seemed to have increased tenfold. she seized virginie round the waist, bent her down and pressed her face against the flagstones. raising her beetle she commenced beating as she used to beat at plassans, on the banks of the viorne, when her mistress washed the clothes of the garrison. the wood seemed to yield to the flesh with a damp sound. at each whack a red weal marked the white skin. "oh, oh!" exclaimed the boy charles, opening his eyes to their full extent and gloating over the sight. laughter again burst forth from the lookers-on, but soon the cry, "enough! enough!" recommenced. gervaise heard not, neither did she tire. she examined her work, bent over it, anxious not to leave a dry place. she wanted to see the whole of that skin beaten, covered with contusions. and she talked, seized with a ferocious gaiety, recalling a washerwoman's song, "bang! bang! margot at her tub. bang! bang! beating rub-a-dub. bang! bang! tries to wash her heart. bang! bang! black with grief to part." and then she resumed, "that's for you, that's for your sister. that's for lantier. when you next see them, you can give them that. attention! i'm going to begin again. that's for lantier, that's for your sister. that's for you. bang! bang! margot at her tub. bang! bang! beating rub-a-dub--" the others were obliged to drag virginie away from her. the tall, dark girl, her face bathed in tears and purple with shame, picked up her things and hastened away. she was vanquished. gervaise slipped on the sleeve of her jacket again, and fastened up her petticoats. her arm pained her a good deal, and she asked madame boche to place her bundle of clothes on her shoulder. the concierge referred to the battle, spoke of her emotions, and talked of examining the young woman's person, just to see. "you may, perhaps, have something broken. i heard a tremendous blow." but gervaise wanted to go home. she made no reply to the pitying remarks and noisy ovation of the other women who surrounded her, erect in their aprons. when she was laden she gained the door, where the children awaited her. "two hours, that makes two sous," said the mistress of the wash-house, already back at her post in the glazed closet. why two sous? she no longer understood that she was asked to pay for her place there. then she gave the two sous; and limping very much beneath the weight of the wet clothes on her shoulder, the water dripping from off her, her elbow black and blue, her cheek covered with blood, she went off, dragging claude and etienne with her bare arms, whilst they trotted along on either side of her, still trembling, and their faces besmeared with their tears. once she was gone, the wash-house resumed its roaring tumult. the washerwomen had eaten their bread and drunk their wine. their faces were lit up and their spirits enlivened by the fight between gervaise and virginie. the long lines of tubs were astir again with the fury of thrashing arms, of craggy profiles, of marionettes with bent backs and slumping shoulders that twisted and jerked violently as though on hinges. conversations went on from one end to the other in loud voices. laughter and coarse remarks crackled through the ceaseless gurgling of the water. faucets were sputtering, buckets spilling, rivulets flowing underneath the rows of washboards. throughout the huge shed rising wisps of steam reflected a reddish tint, pierced here and there by disks of sunlight, golden globes that had leaked through holes in the awnings. the air was stiflingly warm and odorous with soap. suddenly the hall was filled with a white mist. the huge copper lid of the lye-water kettle was rising mechanically along a notched shaft, and from the gaping copper hollow within its wall of bricks came whirling clouds of vapor. meanwhile, at one side the drying machines were hard at work; within their cast-iron cylinders bundles of laundry were being wrung dry by the centrifugal force of the steam engine, which was still puffing, steaming, jolting the wash-house with the ceaseless labor of its iron limbs. when gervaise turned into the entry of the hotel boncoeur, her tears again mastered her. it was a dark, narrow passage, with a gutter for the dirty water running alongside the wall; and the stench which she again encountered there caused her to think of the fortnight she had passed in the place with lantier--a fortnight of misery and quarrels, the recollection of which was now a bitter regret. it seemed to bring her abandonment home to her. upstairs the room was bare, in spite of the sunshine which entered through the open window. that blaze of light, that kind of dancing golden dust, exposed the lamentable condition of the blackened ceiling, and of the walls half denuded of paper, all the more. the only thing left hanging in the room was a woman's small neckerchief, twisted like a piece of string. the children's bedstead, drawn into the middle of the apartment, displayed the chest of drawers, the open drawers of which exposed their emptiness. lantier had washed himself and had used up the last of the pomatum--two sous' worth of pomatum in a playing card; the greasy water from his hands filled the basin. and he had forgotten nothing. the corner which until then had been filled by the trunk seemed to gervaise an immense empty space. even the little mirror which hung on the window-fastening was gone. when she made this discovery, she had a presentiment. she looked on the mantel-piece. lantier had taken away the pawn tickets; the pink bundle was no longer there, between the two odd zinc candlesticks. she hung her laundry over the back of a chair and just stood there, gazing around at the furniture. she was so dulled and bewildered that she could no longer cry. she had only one sou left. then, hearing claude and etienne laughing merrily by the window, their troubles already forgotten, she went to them and put her arms about them, losing herself for a moment in contemplation of that long gray avenue where, that very morning, she had watched the awakening of the working population, of the immense work-shop of paris. at this hour immense heat was rising from the pavement and from all the furnaces in the factories, setting alight a reflecting oven over the city and beyond the octroi wall. out upon this very pavement, into this furnace blast, she had been tossed, alone with her little ones. as she glanced up and down the boulevard, she was seized with a dull dread that her life would be fixed there forever, between a slaughter-house and a hospital. chapter ii. three weeks later, towards half-past eleven, one beautiful sunshiny day, gervaise and coupeau, the zinc-worker, were each partaking of a plum preserved in brandy, at "l'assommoir" kept by pere colombe. coupeau, who had been smoking a cigarette on the pavement, had prevailed on her to go inside as she returned from taking home a customer's washing; and her big square laundress's basket was on the floor beside her, behind the little zinc covered table. pere colombe's l'assommoir was at the corner of rue des poissonniers and boulevard de rochechouart. the sign, in tall blue letters stretching from one end to the other said: distillery. two dusty oleanders planted in half casks stood beside the doorway. a long bar with its tin measuring cups was on the left as you entered. the large room was decorated with casks painted a gay yellow, bright with varnish, and gleaming with copper taps and hoops. on the shelves above the bar were liquor bottles, jars of fruit preserved in brandy, and flasks of all shapes. they completely covered the wall and were reflected in the mirror behind the bar as colorful spots of apple green, pale gold, and soft brown. the main feature of the establishment, however, was the distilling apparatus. it was at the rear, behind an oak railing in a glassed-in area. the customers could watch its functioning, long-necked still-pots, copper worms disappearing underground, a devil's kitchen alluring to drink-sodden work men in search of pleasant dreams. l'assommoir was nearly empty at the lunch hour. pere colombe, a heavy man of forty, was serving a ten year old girl who had asked him to place four sous' worth of brandy into her cup. a shaft of sunlight came through the entrance to warm the floor which was always damp from the smokers' spitting. from everything, the casks, the bar, the entire room, a liquorish odor arose, an alcoholic aroma which seemed to thicken and befuddle the dust motes dancing in the sunlight. coupeau was making another cigarette. he was very neat, in a short blue linen blouse and cap, and was laughing and showing his white teeth. with a projecting under jaw and a slightly snub nose, he had handsome chestnut eyes, and the face of a jolly dog and a thorough good fellow. his coarse curly hair stood erect. his skin still preserved the softness of his twenty-six years. opposite to him, gervaise, in a thin black woolen dress, and bareheaded, was finishing her plum which she held by the stalk between the tips of her fingers. they were close to the street, at the first of the four tables placed alongside the barrels facing the bar. when the zinc-worker had lit his cigarette, he placed his elbows on the table, thrust his face forward, and for an instant looked without speaking at the young woman, whose pretty fair face had that day the milky transparency of china. then, alluding to a matter known to themselves alone, and already discussed between them, he simply asked in a low voice: "so it's to be 'no'? you say 'no'?" "oh! most decidedly 'no' monsieur coupeau," quietly replied gervaise with a smile. "i hope you're not going to talk to me about that here. you know you promised me you would be reasonable. had i known, i wouldn't have let you treat me." coupeau kept silence, looking at her intently with a boldness. she sat still, at ease and friendly. at the end of a brief silence she added: "you can't really mean it. i'm an old woman; i've a big boy eight years old. whatever could we two do together?" "why!" murmured coupeau, blinking his eyes, "what the others do, of course, get married!" she made a gesture of feeling annoyed. "oh! do you think it's always pleasant? one can very well see you've never seen much of living. no, monsieur coupeau, i must think of serious things. burdening oneself never leads to anything, you know! i've two mouths at home which are never tired of swallowing, i can tell you! how do you suppose i can bring up my little ones, if i only sit here talking indolently? and listen, besides that, my misfortune has been a famous lesson to me. you know i don't care a bit about men now. they won't catch me again for a long while." she spoke with such cool objectivity that it was clear she had resolved this in her mind, turning it about thoroughly. coupeau was deeply moved and kept repeating: "i feel so sorry for you. it causes me a great deal of pain." "yes, i know that," resumed she, "and i am sorry, monsieur coupeau. but you mustn't take it to heart. if i had any idea of enjoying myself, _mon dieu!_, i would certainly rather be with you than anyone else. you're a good boy and gentle. only, where's the use, as i've no inclination to wed? i've been for the last fortnight, now, at madame fauconnier's. the children go to school. i've work, i'm contented. so the best is to remain as we are, isn't it?" and she stooped down to take her basket. "you're making me talk; they must be expecting me at the shop. you'll easily find someone else prettier than i, monsieur coupeau, and who won't have two boys to drag about with her." he looked at the clock inserted in the frame-work of the mirror, and made her sit down again, exclaiming: "don't be in such a hurry! it's only eleven thirty-five. i've still twenty-five minutes. you don't have to be afraid that i shall do anything foolish; there's the table between us. so you detest me so much that you won't stay and have a little chat with me." she put her basket down again, so as not to disoblige him; and they conversed like good friends. she had eaten her lunch before going out with the laundry. he had gulped down his soup and beef hurriedly to be able to wait for her. all the while she chatted amiably, gervaise kept looking out the window at the activity on the street. it was now unusually crowded with the lunch time rush. everywhere were hurried steps, swinging arms, and pushing elbows. some late comers, hungry and angry at being kept extra long at the job, rushed across the street into the bakery. they emerged with a loaf of bread and went three doors farther to the two-headed calf to gobble down a six-sou meat dish. next door to the bakery was a grocer who sold fried potatoes and mussels cooked with parsley. a procession of girls went in to get hot potatoes wrapped in paper and cups of steaming mussels. other pretty girls bought bunches of radishes. by leaning a bit, gervaise could see into the sausage shop from which children issued, holding a fried chop, a sausage or a piece of hot blood pudding wrapped in greasy paper. the street was always slick with black mud, even in clear weather. a few laborers had already finished their lunch and were strolling aimlessly about, their open hands slapping their thighs, heavy from eating, slow and peaceful amid the hurrying crowd. a group formed in front of the door of l'assommoir. "say, bibi-the-smoker," demanded a hoarse voice, "aren't you going to buy us a round of _vitriol_?" five laborers came in and stood by the bar. "ah! here's that thief, pere colombe!" the voice continued. "we want the real old stuff, you know. and full sized glasses, too." pere colombe served them as three more laborers entered. more blue smocks gathered on the street corner and some pushed their way into the establishment. "you're foolish! you only think of the present," gervaise was saying to coupeau. "sure, i loved him, but after the disgusting way in which he left me--" they were talking of lantier. gervaise had not seen him again; she thought he was living with virginie's sister at la glaciere, in the house of that friend who was going to start a hat factory. she had no thought of running after him. she had been so distressed at first that she had thought of drowning herself in the river. but now that she had thought about it, everything seemed to be for the best. lantier went through money so fast, that she probably never could have raised her children properly. oh, she'd let him see his children, all right, if he bothered to come round. but as far as she was concerned, she didn't want him to touch her, not even with his finger tips. she told all this to coupeau just as if her plan of life was well settled. meanwhile, coupeau never forgot his desire to possess her. he made a jest of everything she said, turning it into ribaldry and asking some very direct questions about lantier. but he proceeded so gaily and which such a smile that she never thought of being offended. "so, you're the one who beat him," said he at length. "oh! you're not kind. you just go around whipping people." she interrupted him with a hearty laugh. it was true, though, she had whipped virginie's tall carcass. she would have delighted in strangling someone on that day. she laughed louder than ever when coupeau told her that virginie, ashamed at having shown so much cowardice, had left the neighborhood. her face, however, preserved an expression of childish gentleness as she put out her plump hands, insisting she wouldn't even harm a fly. she began to tell coupeau about her childhood at plassans. she had never cared overmuch for men; they had always bored her. she was fourteen when she got involved with lantier. she had thought it was nice because he said he was her husband and she had enjoyed playing a housewife. she was too soft-hearted and too weak. she always got passionately fond of people who caused her trouble later. when she loved a man, she wasn't thinking of having fun in the present; she was dreaming about being happy and living together forever. and as coupeau, with a chuckle, spoke of her two children, saying they hadn't come from under a bolster, she slapped his fingers; she added that she was, no doubt made on the model of other women; women thought of their home, slaved to keep the place clean and tidy, and went to bed too tired at night not to go to sleep at once. besides, she resembled her mother, a stout laboring woman who died at her work and who had served as beast of burden to old macquart for more than twenty years. her mother's shoulders had been heavy enough to smash through doors, but that didn't prevent her from being soft-hearted and madly attracted to people. and if she limped a little, she no doubt owed that to the poor woman, whom old macquart used to belabor with blows. her mother had told her about the times when macquart came home drunk and brutally bruised her. she had probably been born with her lame leg as a result of one of those times. "oh! it's scarcely anything, it's hardly perceptible," said coupeau gallantly. she shook her head; she knew well enough that it could be seen; at forty she would look broken in two. then she added gently, with a slight laugh: "it's a funny fancy of yours to fall in love with a cripple." with his elbows still on the table, he thrust his face closer to hers and began complimenting her in rather dubious language as though to intoxicate her with his words. but she kept shaking her head "no," and didn't allow herself to be tempted although she was flattered by the tone of his voice. while listening, she kept looking out the window, seeming to be fascinated by the interesting crowd of people passing. the shops were now almost empty. the grocer removed his last panful of fried potatoes from the stove. the sausage man arranged the dishes scattered on his counter. great bearded workmen were as playful as young boys, clumping along in their hobnailed boots. other workmen were smoking, staring up into the sky and blinking their eyes. factory bells began to ring in the distance, but the workers, in no hurry, relit their pipes. later, after being tempted by one wineshop after another, they finally decided to return to their jobs, but were still dragging their feet. gervaise amused herself by watching three workmen, a tall fellow and two short ones who turned to look back every few yards; they ended by descending the street, and came straight to pere colombe's l'assommoir. "ah, well," murmured she, "there're three fellows who don't seem inclined for work!" "why!" said coupeau, "i know the tall one, it's my-boots, a comrade of mine." pere colombe's l'assommoir was now full. you had to shout to be heard. fists often pounded on the bar, causing the glasses to clink. everyone was standing, hands crossed over belly or held behind back. the drinking groups crowded close to one another. some groups, by the casks, had to wait a quarter of an hour before being able to order their drinks of pere colombe. "hallo! it's that aristocrat, young cassis!" cried my-boots, bringing his hand down roughly on coupeau's shoulder. "a fine gentleman, who smokes paper, and wears shirts! so we want to do the grand with our sweetheart; we stand her little treats!" "shut up! don't bother me!" replied coupeau, greatly annoyed. but the other added, with a chuckle, "right you are! we know what's what, my boy. muffs are muffs, that's all!" he turned his back after leering terribly as he looked at gervaise. the latter drew back, feeling rather frightened. the smoke from the pipes, the strong odor of all those men, ascended in the air, already foul with the fumes of alcohol; and she felt a choking sensation in her throat, and coughed slightly. "oh, what a horrible thing it is to drink!" said she in a low voice. and she related that formerly at plassans she used to drink anisette with her mother. but on one occasion it nearly killed her, and that disgusted her with it; now, she could never touch any liqueurs. "you see," added she, pointing to her glass, "i've eaten my plum; only i must leave the juice, because it would make me ill." for himself, coupeau couldn't understand how anyone could drink glass after glass of cheap brandy. a brandied plum occasionally could not hurt, but as for cheap brandy, absinthe and the other strong stuff, no, not for him, no matter how much his comrades teased him about it. he stayed out on the sidewalk when his friends went into low establishments. coupeau's father had smashed his head open one day when he fell from the eaves of no. on rue coquenard. he was drunk. this memory keeps coupeau's entire family from the drink. every time coupeau passed that spot, he thought he would rather lick up water from the gutter than accept a free drink in a bar. he would always say: "in our trade, you have to have steady legs." gervaise had taken up her basket again. she did not rise from her seat however, but held the basket on her knees, with a vacant look in her eyes and lost in thought, as though the young workman's words had awakened within her far-off thoughts of existence. and she said again, slowly, and without any apparent change of manner: "_mon dieu_! i'm not ambitious; i don't ask for much. my desire is to work in peace, always to have bread to eat and a decent place to sleep in, you know; with a bed, a table, and two chairs, nothing more. if i can, i'd like to raise my children to be good citizens. also, i'd like not to be beaten up, if i ever again live with a man. it's not my idea of amusement." she pondered, thinking if there was anything else she wanted, but there wasn't anything of importance. then, after a moment she went on, "yes, when one reaches the end, one might wish to die in one's bed. for myself, having trudged through life, i should like to die in my bed, in my own home." and she rose from her seat. coupeau, who cordially approved her wishes, was already standing up, anxious about the time. but they did not leave yet. gervaise was curious enough to go to the far end of the room for a look at the big still behind the oak railing. it was chugging away in the little glassed-in courtyard. coupeau explained its workings to her, pointing at the different parts of the machinery, showing her the trickling of the small stream of limpid alcohol. not a single gay puff of steam was coming forth from the endless coils. the breathing could barely be heard. it sounded muffled as if from underground. it was like a sombre worker, performing dark deeds in the bright daylight, strong but silent. my-boots, accompanied by his two comrades, came to lean on the railing until they could get a place at the bar. he laughed, looking at the machine. _tonnerre de dieu_, that's clever. there's enough stuff in its big belly to last for weeks. he wouldn't mind if they just fixed the end of the tube in his mouth, so he could feel the fiery spirits flowing down to his heels like a river. it would be better than the tiny sips doled out by pere colombe! his two comrades laughed with him, saying that my-boots was quite a guy after all. the huge still continued to trickle forth its alcoholic sweat. eventually it would invade the bar, flow out along the outer boulevards, and inundate the immense expanse of paris. gervaise stepped back, shivering. she tried to smile as she said: "it's foolish, but that still and the liquor gives me the creeps." then, returning to the idea she nursed of a perfect happiness, she resumed: "now, ain't i right? it's much the nicest isn't it--to have plenty of work, bread to eat, a home of one's own, and to be able to bring up one's children and to die in one's bed?" "and never to be beaten," added coupeau gaily. "but i would never beat you, if you would only try me, madame gervaise. you've no cause for fear. i don't drink and then i love you too much. come, shall it be marriage? i'll get you divorced and make you my wife." he was speaking low, whispering at the back of her neck while she made her way through the crowd of men with her basket held before her. she kept shaking her head "no." yet she turned around to smile at him, apparently happy to know that he never drank. yes, certainly, she would say "yes" to him, except she had already sworn to herself never to start up with another man. eventually they reached the door and went out. when they left, l'assommoir was packed to the door, spilling its hubbub of rough voices and its heavy smell of vitriol into the street. my-boots could be heard railing at pere colombe, calling him a scoundrel and accusing him of only half filling his glass. he didn't have to come in here. he'd never come back. he suggested to his comrades a place near the barriere saint-denis where you drank good stuff straight. "ah," sighed gervaise when they reached the sidewalk. "you can breathe out here. good-bye, monsieur coupeau, and thank you. i must hurry now." he seized her hand as she started along the boulevard, insisting, "take a walk with me along rue de la goutte-d'or. it's not much farther for you. i've got to see my sister before going back to work. we'll keep each other company." in the end, gervaise agreed and they walked beside each other along the rue des poissonniers, although she did not take his arm. he told her about his family. his mother, an old vest-maker, now had to do housekeeping because her eyesight was poor. her birthday was the third of last month and she was sixty-two. he was the youngest. one of his sisters, a widow of thirty-six, worked in a flower shop and lived in the batignolles section, on rue des moines. the other sister was thirty years old now. she had married a deadpan chainmaker named lorilleux. that's where he was going now. they lived in a big tenement on the left side. he ate with them in the evenings; it saved a bit for all of them. but he had been invited out this evening and he was going to tell her not to expect him. gervaise, who was listening to him, suddenly interrupted him to ask, with a smile: "so you're called 'young cassis,' monsieur coupeau?" "oh!" replied he, "it's a nickname my mates have given me because i generally drink 'cassis' when they force me to accompany them to the wineshop. it's no worse to be called young cassis than my-boots, is it?" "of course not. young cassis isn't an ugly name," observed the young woman. and she questioned him about his work. he was still working there, behind the octroi wall at the new hospital. oh! there was no want of work, he would not be finished there for a year at least. there were yards and yards of gutters! "you know," said he, "i can see the hotel boncoeur when i'm up there. yesterday you were at the window, and i waved my arms, but you didn't notice me." they had already gone about a hundred paces along the rue de la goutte-d'or, when he stood still and raising his eyes, said: "that's the house. i was born farther on, at no. . but this house is, all the same, a fine block of masonry! it's as big as a barrack inside!" gervaise looked up, examining the facade. on the street side, the tenement had five stories, each with fifteen windows, whose black shutters with their broken slats gave an air of desolation to the wide expanse of wall. four shops occupied the ground floor. to the right of the entrance, a large, greasy hash house, and to the left, a coal dealer, a notions seller, and an umbrella merchant. the building appeared even larger than it was because it had on each side a small, low building which seemed to lean against it for support. this immense, squared-off building was outlined against the sky. its unplastered side walls were as bare as prison walls, except for rows of roughly jutting stones which suggested jaws full of decayed teeth yawning vacantly. gervaise was gazing at the entrance with interest. the high, arched doorway rose to the second floor and opened onto a deep porch, at the end of which could be seen the pale daylight of a courtyard. this entranceway was paved like the street, and down the center flowed a streamlet of pink-stained water. "come in," said coupeau, "no one will eat you." gervaise wanted to wait for him in the street. however, she could not resist going through the porch as far as the concierge's room on the right. and there, on the threshold, she raised her eyes. inside, the building was six stories high, with four identical plain walls enclosing the broad central court. the drab walls were corroded by yellowish spots and streaked by drippings from the roof gutters. the walls went straight up to the eaves with no molding or ornament except the angles on the drain pipes at each floor. here the sink drains added their stains. the glass window panes resembled murky water. mattresses of checkered blue ticking were hanging out of several windows to air. clothes lines stretched from other windows with family washing hanging to dry. on a third floor line was a baby's diaper, still implanted with filth. this crowded tenement was bursting at the seams, spilling out poverty and misery through every crevice. each of the four walls had, at ground level, a narrow entrance, plastered without a trace of woodwork. this opened into a vestibule containing a dirt-encrusted staircase which spiraled upward. they were each labeled with one of the first four letters of the alphabet painted on the wall. several large work-shops with weather-blackened skylights were scattered about the court. near the concierge's room was the dyeing establishment responsible for the pink streamlet. puddles of water infested the courtyard, along with wood shavings and coal cinders. grass and weeds grew between the paving stones. the unforgiving sunlight seemed to cut the court into two parts. on the shady side was a dripping water tap with three small hens scratching for worms with their filth-smeared claws. gervaise slowly gazed about, lowering her glance from the sixth floor to the paving stones, then raising it again, surprised at the vastness, feeling as it were in the midst of a living organ, in the very heart of a city, and interested in the house, as though it were a giant before her. "is madame seeking for any one?" called out the inquisitive concierge, emerging from her room. the young woman explained that she was waiting for a friend. she returned to the street; then as coupeau did not come, she went back to the courtyard seized with the desire to take another look. she did not think the house ugly. amongst the rags hanging from the windows she discovered various cheerful touches--a wall-flower blooming in a pot, a cage of chirruping canaries, shaving-glasses shining like stars in the depth of the shadow. a carpenter was singing in his work-shop, accompanied by the whining of his plane. the blacksmith's hammers were ringing rhythmically. in contrast to the apparent wretched poverty, at nearly every open window appeared the begrimed faces of laughing children. women with peaceful faces could be seen bent over their sewing. the rooms were empty of men who had gone back to work after lunch. the whole tenement was tranquil except for the sounds from the work-shops below which served as a sort of lullaby that went on, unceasingly, always the same. the only thing she did not like was the courtyard's dampness. she would want rooms at the rear, on the sunny side. gervaise took a few more steps into the courtyard, inhaling the characteristic odor of the slums, comprised of dust and rotten garbage. but the sharp odor of the waste water from the dye shop was strong, and gervaise thought it smelled better here than at the hotel boncoeur. she chose a window for herself, the one at the far left with a small window box planted with scarlet runners. "i'm afraid i've kept you waiting rather a long time," said coupeau, whom she suddenly heard close beside her. "they always make an awful fuss whenever i don't dine with them, and it was worse than ever to-day as my sister had bought some veal." and as gervaise had slightly started with surprise, he continued glancing around in his turn: "you were looking at the house. it's always all let from the top to the bottom. there are three hundred lodgers, i think. if i had any furniture, i would have secured a small room. one would be comfortable here, don't you think so?" "yes, one would be comfortable," murmured gervaise. "in our street at plassans there weren't near so many people. look, that's pretty--that window up on the fifth floor, with the scarlet runners." the zinc-worker's obstinate desire made him ask her once more whether she would or she wouldn't. they could rent a place here as soon as they found a bed. she hurried out the arched entranceway, asking him not to start that subject again. there was as much chance of this building collapsing as there was of her sleeping under the same blanket with him. still, when coupeau left her in front of madame fauconnier's shop, he was allowed to hold her hand for a moment. for a month the young woman and the zinc-worker were the best of friends. he admired her courage, when he beheld her half killing herself with work, keeping her children tidy and clean, and yet finding time at night to do a little sewing. often other women were hopelessly messy, forever nibbling or gadding about, but she wasn't like them at all. she was much too serious. then she would laugh, and modestly defend herself. it was her misfortune that she had not always been good, having been with a man when only fourteen. then too, she had often helped her mother empty a bottle of anisette. but she had learned a few things from experience. he was wrong to think of her as strong-willed; her will power was very weak. she had always let herself be pushed into things because she didn't want to hurt someone's feelings. her one hope now was to live among decent people, for living among bad people was like being hit over the head. it cracks your skull. whenever she thought of the future, she shivered. everything she had seen in life so far, especially when a child, had given her lessons to remember. coupeau, however, chaffed her about her gloomy thoughts, and brought back all her courage by trying to pinch her hips. she pushed him away from her, and slapped his hands, whilst he called out laughingly that, for a weak woman, she was not a very easy capture. he, who always joked about everything did not trouble himself regarding the future. one day followed another, that was all. there would always be somewhere to sleep and a bite to eat. the neighborhood seemed decent enough to him, except for a gang of drunkards that ought to be cleaned out of the gutters. coupeau was not a bad sort of fellow. he sometimes had really sensible things to say. he was something of a dandy with his parisian working man's gift for banter, a regular gift of gab, and besides, he was attractive. they had ended by rendering each other all sorts of services at the hotel boncoeur. coupeau fetched her milk, ran her errands, carried her bundles of clothes; often of an evening, as he got home first from work, he took the children for a walk on the exterior boulevard. gervaise, in return for his polite attentions, would go up into the narrow room at the top of the house where he slept, and see to his clothes, sewing buttons on his blue linen trousers, and mending his linen jackets. a great familiarity existed between them. she was never bored when he was around. the gay songs he sang amused her, and so did his continuous banter of jokes and jibes characteristic of the paris streets, this being still new to her. on coupeau's side, this continual familiarity inflamed him more and more until it began to seriously bother him. he began to feel tense and uneasy. he continued with his foolish talk, never failing to ask her, "when will it be?" she understood what he meant and teased him. he would then come to visit her carrying his bedroom slippers, as if he were moving in. she joked about it and continued calmly without blushing at the allusions with which he was always surrounding her. she stood for anything from him as long as he didn't get rough. she only got angry once when he pulled a strand of her hair while trying to force a kiss from her. towards the end of june, coupeau lost his liveliness. he became most peculiar. gervaise, feeling uneasy at some of his glances, barricaded herself in at night. then, after having sulked ever since the sunday, he suddenly came on the tuesday night about eleven o'clock and knocked at her room. she would not open to him; but his voice was so gentle and so trembling that she ended by removing the chest of drawers she had pushed against the door. when he entered, she thought he was ill; he looked so pale, his eyes were so red, and the veins on his face were all swollen. and he stood there, stuttering and shaking his head. no, no, he was not ill. he had been crying for two hours upstairs in his room; he wept like a child, biting his pillow so as not to be heard by the neighbors. for three nights past he had been unable to sleep. it could not go on like that. "listen, madame gervaise," said he, with a swelling in his throat and on the point of bursting out crying again; "we must end this, mustn't we? we'll go and get married. it's what i want. i've quite made up my mind." gervaise showed great surprise. she was very grave. "oh! monsieur coupeau," murmured she, "whatever are you thinking of? you know i've never asked you for that. i didn't care about it--that was all. oh, no, no! it's serious now; think of what you're saying, i beg of you." but he continued to shake his head with an air of unalterable resolution. he had already thought it all over. he had come down because he wanted to have a good night. she wasn't going to send him back to weep again he supposed! as soon as she said "yes," he would no longer bother her, and she could go quietly to bed. he only wanted to hear her say "yes." they could talk it over on the morrow. "but i certainly can't say 'yes' just like that," resumed gervaise. "i don't want you to be able to accuse me later on of having incited you to do a foolish thing. you shouldn't be so insistent, monsieur coupeau. you can't really be sure that you're in love with me. if you didn't see me for a week, it might fade away. sometimes men get married and then there's day after day, stretching out into an entire lifetime, and they get pretty well bored by it all. sit down there; i'm willing to talk it over at once." then until one in the morning, in the dark room and by the faint light of a smoky tallow candle which they forgot to snuff, they talked of their marriage, lowering their voices so as not to wake the two children, claude and etienne, who were sleeping, both heads on the same pillow. gervaise kept pointing out the children to coupeau, what a funny kind of dowry they were. she really shouldn't burden him with them. besides, what would the neighbors say? she'd feel ashamed for him because everyone knew about the story of her life and her lover. they wouldn't think it decent if they saw them getting married barely two months later. coupeau replied by shrugging his shoulders. he didn't care about the neighbors! he never bothered about their affairs. so, there was lantier before him, well, so what? what's so bad about that? she hadn't been constantly bringing men upstairs, as some women did, even rich ladies! the children would grow up, they'd raise them right. never had he known before such a woman, such sound character, so good-hearted. anyway, she could have been anything, a streetwalker, ugly, lazy and good-for-nothing, with a whole gang of dirty kids, and so what? he wanted her. "yes, i want you," he repeated, bringing his hand down on his knee with a continuos hammering. "you understand, i want you. there's nothing to be said to that, is there?" little by little, gervaise gave way. her emotions began to take control when faced with his encompassing desire. still, with her hands in her lap and her face suffused with a soft sweetness, she hesitantly offered objections. from outside, through the half-open window, a lovely june night breathed in puffs of sultry air, disturbing the candle with its long wick gleaming red like a glowing coal. in the deep silence of the sleeping neighborhood the only sound was the infantile weeping of a drunkard lying in the middle of the street. far away, in the back room of some restaurant, a violin was playing a dance tune for some late party. coupeau was silent. then, knowing she had no more arguments, he smiled, took hold of her hands and pulled her toward him. she was in one of those moments of weakness she so greatly mistrusted, persuaded at last, too emotionally stirred to refuse anything or to hurt anyone's feelings. coupeau didn't realize that she was giving way. he held her wrists so tightly as to almost crush them. together they breathed a long sigh that to both of them meant a partial satisfaction of their desire. "you'll say 'yes,' won't you," asked he. "how you worry me!" she murmured. "you wish it? well then, 'yes.' ah! we're perhaps doing a very foolish thing." he jumped up, and, seizing her round the waist, kissed her roughly on the face, at random. then, as this caress caused a noise, he became anxious, and went softly and looked at claude and etienne. "hush, we must be careful," said he in a whisper, "and not wake the children. good-bye till to-morrow." and he went back to his room. gervaise, all in a tremble, remained seated on the edge of her bed, without thinking of undressing herself for nearly an hour. she was touched; she felt that coupeau was very honorable; for at one moment she had really thought it was all over, and that he would forget her. the drunkard below, under the window, was now hoarsely uttering the plaintive cry of some lost animal. the violin in the distance had left off its saucy tune and was now silent. during the following days coupeau sought to get gervaise to call some evening on his sister in the rue de la goutte-d'or; but the young woman, who was very timid, showed a great dread of this visit to the lorilleux. she knew that coupeau had a lingering fear of that household, even though he certainly wasn't dependent on his sister, who wasn't even the oldest of the family. mamma coupeau would certainly give her consent at once, as she never refused her only son anything. the thing was that the lorilleuxs were supposed to be earning ten francs a day or more and that gave them a certain authority. coupeau would never dare to get married unless his wife was acceptable to them. "i have spoken to them of you, they know our plans," explained he to gervaise. "come now! what a child you are! let's call on them this evening. i've warned you, haven't i? you'll find my sister rather stiff. lorilleux, too, isn't always very amiable. in reality they are greatly annoyed, because if i marry, i shall no longer take my meals with them, and it'll be an economy the less. but that doesn't matter, they won't turn you out. do this for me, it's absolutely necessary." these words only frightened gervaise the more. one saturday evening, however, she gave in. coupeau came for her at half-past eight. she had dressed herself in a black dress, a crape shawl with yellow palms, and a white cap trimmed with a little cheap lace. during the six weeks she had been working, she had saved the seven francs for the shawl, and the two and a half francs for the cap; the dress was an old one cleaned and made up afresh. "they're expecting you," said coupeau to her, as they went round by the rue des poissonniers. "oh! they're beginning to get used to the idea of my being married. they seem nice indeed, to-night. and you know if you've never seen gold chains made, it'll amuse you to watch them. they just happen to have a pressing order for monday." "they've got gold in their room?" asked gervaise. "i should think so; there's some on the walls, on the floor, in fact everywhere." they had passed the arched doorway and crossed the courtyard. the lorilleuxs lived on the sixth floor, staircase b. coupeau laughingly told her to hold the hand-rail tight and not to leave go of it. she looked up, and blinked her eyes, as she perceived the tall hollow tower of the staircase, lighted by three gas jets, one on every second landing; the last one, right up at the top looked like a star twinkling in a black sky, whilst the other two cast long flashes of light, of fantastic shapes, among the interminable windings of the stairs. "by jove!" said the zinc-worker as he reached the first floor, smiling, "there's a strong smell of onion soup. someone's having onion soup, i'm sure." staircase b, with its gray, dirty steps and hand-rail, its scratched walls and chipped plaster, was full of strong kitchen odors. long corridors, echoing with noise, led away from each landing. doors, painted yellow, gaped open, smeared black around the latch from dirty hands. a sink on each landing gave forth a fetid humidity, adding its stench to the sharp flavor of the cooking of onions. from the basement, all the way to the sixth floor, you could hear dishes clattering, saucepans being rinsed, pots being scraped and scoured. on the first floor gervaise saw a half-opened door with the word "designer" written on it in large letters. inside were two men sitting by a table, the dishes cleared away from its oilcloth cover, arguing furiously amid a cloud of pipe smoke. the second and third floors were quieter, and through cracks in the woodwork only such sounds filtered as the rhythm of a cradle rocking, the stifled crying of a child, a woman's voice sounding like the dull murmur of running water with no words distinct. gervaise read the various signs on the doors giving the names of the occupants: "madame gaudron, wool-carder" and "monsieur madinier, cardboard boxes." there was a fight in progress on the fourth floor: a stomping of feet that shook the floor, furniture banged around, a racket of curses and blows; but this did not bother the neighbors opposite, who were playing cards with their door opened wide to admit more air. when gervaise reached the fifth floor, she had to stop to take a breath; she was not used to going up so high; that wall for ever turning, the glimpses she had of the lodgings following each other, made her head ache. anyway, there was a family almost blocking the landing: the father washing the dishes over a small earthenware stove near the sink and the mother sitting with her back to the stair-rail and cleaning the baby before putting it to bed. coupeau kept urging gervaise along, and they finally reached the sixth floor. he encouraged her with a smile; they had arrived! she had been hearing a voice all the way up from the bottom and she was gazing upward, wondering where it could be coming from, a voice so clear and piercing that it had dominated all the other sounds. it came from a little old woman in an attic room who sang while putting dresses on cheap dolls. when a tall girl came by with a pail of water and entered a nearby apartment, gervaise saw a tumbled bed on which a man was sprawled, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. as the door closed behind her, gervaise saw the hand-written card: "mademoiselle clemence, ironing." now that she had finally made it to the top, her legs weary and her breath short, gervaise leaned over the railing to look down. now it was the gaslight on the first floor which seemed a distant star at the bottom of a narrow well six stories deep. all the odors and all the murmurings of the immense variety of life within the tenement came up to her in one stifling breath that flushed her face as she hazarded a worried glance down into the gulf below. "we're not there yet," said coupeau. "oh! it's quite a journey!" he had gone down a long corridor on the left. he turned twice, the first time also to the left, the second time to the right. the corridor still continued branching off, narrowing between walls full of crevices, with plaster peeling off, and lighted at distant intervals by a slender gas-jet; and the doors all alike, succeeded each other the same as the doors of a prison or a convent, and nearly all open, continued to display homes of misery and work, which the hot june evening filled with a reddish mist. at length they reached a small passage in complete darkness. "we're here," resumed the zinc-worker. "be careful, keep to the wall; there are three steps." and gervaise carefully took another ten steps in the obscurity. she stumbled and then counted the three steps. but at the end of the passage coupeau had opened a door, without knocking. a brilliant light spread over the tiled floor. they entered. it was a narrow apartment, and seemed as if it were the continuation of the corridor. a faded woolen curtain, raised up just then by a string, divided the place in two. the first part contained a bedstead pushed beneath an angle of the attic ceiling, a cast-iron stove still warm from the cooking of the dinner, two chairs, a table and a wardrobe, the cornice of which had had to be sawn off to make it fit in between the door and the bedstead. the second part was fitted up as a work-shop; at the end, a narrow forge with its bellows; to the right, a vise fixed to the wall beneath some shelves on which pieces of old iron lay scattered; to the left near the window, a small workman's bench, encumbered with greasy and very dirty pliers, shears and microscopical saws, all very dirty and grimy. "it's us!" cried coupeau advancing as far as the woolen curtain. but no one answered at first. gervaise, deeply affected, moved especially by the thought that she was about to enter a place full of gold, stood behind the zinc-worker, stammering and venturing upon nods of her head by way of bowing. the brilliant light, a lamp burning on the bench, a brazier full of coals flaring in the forge, increased her confusion still more. she ended however, by distinguishing madame lorilleux--little, red-haired and tolerably strong, pulling with all the strength of her short arms, and with the assistance of a big pair of pincers, a thread of black metal which she passed through the holes of a draw-plate fixed to the vise. seated in front of the bench, lorilleux, quite as small of stature, but more slender in the shoulders, worked with the tips of his pliers, with the vivacity of a monkey, at a labor so minute, that it was impossible to follow it between his scraggy fingers. it was the husband who first raised his head--a head with scanty locks, the face of the yellow tinge of old wax, long, and with an ailing expression. "ah! it's you; well, well!" murmured he. "we're in a hurry you know. don't come into the work-room, you'd be in our way. stay in the bedroom." and he resumed his minute task, his face again in the reflection of a glass globe full of green-colored water, through which the lamp shed a circle of bright light over his work. "take the chairs!" called out madame lorilleux in her turn. "it's that lady, isn't it? very well, very well!" she had rolled the wire and she carried it to the forge, and then, reviving the fire of the brazier with a large wooden fan, she proceeded to temper the wire before passing it through the last holes of the draw-plate. coupeau moved the chairs forward and seated gervaise by the curtain. the room was so narrow that he could not sit beside her, so he sat behind her, leaning over her shoulder to explain the work in progress. gervaise was intimidated by this strange reception and felt uneasy. she had a buzzing in her ears and couldn't hear clearly. she thought the wife looked older than her thirty years and not very neat with her hair in a pigtail dangling down the back of her loosely worn wrapper. the husband, who was only a year older, appeared already an old man with mean, thin lips, as he sat there working in his shirt sleeves with his bare feet thrust into down at the heel slippers. gervaise was dismayed by the smallness of the shop, the grimy walls, the rustiness of the tools, and the black soot spread all over what looked like the odds and ends of a scrap-iron peddler's wares. "and the gold?" asked gervaise in a low voice. her anxious glances searched the corners and sought amongst all that filth for the resplendence she had dreamt of. but coupeau burst out laughing. "gold?" said he; "why there's some; there's some more, and there's some at your feet!" he pointed successively to the fine wire at which his sister was working, and to another roll of wire, similar to the ordinary iron wire, hanging against the wall close to the vise; then going down on all fours, he picked up, beneath the wooden screen which covered the tiled floor of the work-room, a piece of waste, a tiny fragment resembling the point of a rusty needle. but gervaise protested; that couldn't be gold, that blackish piece of metal as ugly as iron! he had to bite into the piece and show her the gleaming notch made by his teeth. then he continued his explanations: the employers provided the gold wire, already alloyed; the craftsmen first pulled it through the draw-plate to obtain the correct size, being careful to anneal it five or six times to keep it from breaking. it required a steady, strong hand, and plenty of practice. his sister would not let her husband touch the wire-drawing since he was subject to coughing spells. she had strong arms for it; he had seen her draw gold to the fineness of a hair. lorilleux, seized with a fit of coughing, almost doubled up on his stool. in the midst of the paroxysm, he spoke, and said in a choking voice, still without looking at gervaise, as though he was merely mentioning the thing to himself: "i'm making the herring-bone chain." coupeau urged gervaise to get up. she might draw nearer and see. the chainmaker consented with a grunt. he wound the wire prepared by his wife round a mandrel, a very thin steel rod. then he sawed gently, cutting the wire the whole length of the mandrel, each turn forming a link, which he soldered. the links were laid on a large piece of charcoal. he wetted them with a drop of borax, taken from the bottom of a broken glass beside him; and he made them red-hot at the lamp beneath the horizontal flame produced by the blow-pipe. then, when he had soldered about a hundred links he returned once more to his minute work, propping his hands against the edge of the _cheville_, a small piece of board which the friction of his hands had polished. he bent each link almost double with the pliers, squeezed one end close, inserted it in the last link already in place and then, with the aid of a point opened out again the end he had squeezed; and he did this with a continuous regularity, the links joining each other so rapidly that the chain gradually grew beneath gervaise's gaze, without her being able to follow, or well understand how it was done. "that's the herring-bone chain," said coupeau. "there's also the long link, the cable, the plain ring, and the spiral. but that's the herring-bone. lorilleux only makes the herring-bone chain." the latter chuckled with satisfaction. he exclaimed, as he continued squeezing the links, invisible between his black finger-nails. "listen to me, young cassis! i was making a calculation this morning. i commenced work when i was twelve years old, you know. well! can you guess how long a herring-bone chain i must have made up till to-day?" he raised his pale face, and blinked his red eye-lids. "twenty-six thousand feet, do you hear? two leagues! that's something! a herring-bone chain two leagues long! it's enough to twist round the necks of all the women of the neighborhood. and you know, it's still increasing. i hope to make it long enough to reach from paris to versailles." gervaise had returned to her seat, disenchanted and thinking everything very ugly. she smiled to be polite to the lorilleuxs. the complete silence about her marriage bothered her. it was the sole reason for her having come. the lorilleuxs were treating her as some stranger brought in by coupeau. when a conversation finally did get started, it concerned the building's tenants. madame lorilleux asked her husband if he had heard the people on the fourth floor having a fight. they fought every day. the husband usually came home drunk and the wife had her faults too, yelling in the filthiest language. then they spoke of the designer on the first floor, an uppity show-off with a mound of debts, always smoking, always arguing loudly with his friends. monsieur madinier's cardboard business was barely surviving. he had let two girl workers go yesterday. the business ate up all his money, leaving his children to run around in rags. and that madame gaudron was pregnant again; this was almost indecent at her age. the landlord was going to evict the coquets on the fifth floor. they owed nine months' rent, and besides, they insisted on lighting their stove out on the landing. last saturday the old lady on the sixth floor, mademoiselle remanjou, had arrived just in time to save the linguerlot child from being badly burned. mademoiselle clemence, one who took in ironing, well, she lived life as she pleased. she was so kind to animals though and had such a good heart that you couldn't say anything against her. it was a pity, a fine girl like her, the company she kept. she'd be walking the streets before long. "look, here's one," said lorilleux to his wife, giving her the piece of chain he had been working on since his lunch. "you can trim it." and he added, with the persistence of a man who does not easily relinquish a joke: "another four feet and a half. that brings me nearer to versailles." madame lorilleux, after tempering it again, trimmed it by passing it through the regulating draw-plate. then she put it in a little copper saucepan with a long handle, full of lye-water, and placed it over the fire of the forge. gervaise, again pushed forward by coupeau, had to follow this last operation. when the chain was thoroughly cleansed, it appeared a dull red color. it was finished, and ready to be delivered. "they're always delivered like that, in their rough state," the zinc-worker explained. "the polishers rub them afterwards with cloths." gervaise felt her courage failing her. the heat, more and more intense, was suffocating her. they kept the door shut, because lorilleux caught cold from the least draught. then as they still did not speak of the marriage, she wanted to go away and gently pulled coupeau's jacket. he understood. besides, he also was beginning to feel ill at ease and vexed at their affectation of silence. "well, we're off," said he. "we mustn't keep you from your work." he moved about for a moment, waiting, hoping for a word or some allusion or other. at length he decided to broach the subject himself. "i say, lorilleux, we're counting on you to be my wife's witness." the chainmaker pretended, with a chuckle, to be greatly surprised; whilst his wife, leaving her draw-plates, placed herself in the middle of the work-room. "so it's serious then?" murmured he. "that confounded young cassis, one never knows whether he is joking or not." "ah! yes, madame's the person involved," said the wife in her turn, as she stared rudely at gervaise. "_mon dieu!_ we've no advice to give you, we haven't. it's a funny idea to go and get married, all the same. anyhow, it's your own wish. when it doesn't succeed, one's only got oneself to blame, that's all. and it doesn't often succeed, not often, not often." she uttered these last words slower and slower, and shaking her head, she looked from the young woman's face to her hands, and then to her feet as though she had wished to undress her and see the very pores of her skin. she must have found her better than she expected. "my brother is perfectly free," she continued more stiffly. "no doubt the family might have wished--one always makes projects. but things take such funny turns. for myself, i don't want to have any unpleasantness. had he brought us the lowest of the low, i should merely have said: 'marry her and go to blazes!' he was not badly off though, here with us. he's fat enough; one can very well see he didn't fast much; and he always found his soup hot right on time. i say, lorilleux, don't you think madame's like therese--you know who i mean, that woman who used to live opposite, and who died of consumption?" "yes, there's a certain resemblance," replied the chainmaker. "and you've got two children, madame? now, i must admit i said to my brother: 'i can't understand how you can want to marry a woman who's got two children.' you mustn't be offended if i consult his interests; its only natural. you don't look strong either. don't you think, lorilleux, that madame doesn't look very strong?" "no, no, she's not strong." they did not mention her leg; but gervaise understood by their side glances, and the curling of their lips, that they were alluding to it. she stood before them, wrapped in her thin shawl with the yellow palms, replying in monosyllables, as though in the presence of her judges. coupeau, seeing she was suffering, ended by exclaiming: "all that's nothing to do with it. what you are talking about isn't important. the wedding will take place on saturday, july . i calculated by the almanac. is it settled? does it suit you?" "oh, it's all the same to us," said his sister. "there was no necessity to consult us. i shan't prevent lorilleux being witness. i only want peace and quiet." gervaise, hanging her head, not knowing what to do with herself had put the toe of her boot through one of the openings in the wooden screen which covered the tiled floor of the work-room; then afraid of having disturbed something when she had withdrawn it, she stooped down and felt about with her hand. lorilleux hastily brought the lamp, and he examined her fingers suspiciously. "you must be careful," said he, "the tiny bits of gold stick to the shoes, and get carried away without one knowing it." it was all to do with business. the employers didn't allow a single speck for waste. he showed her the rabbit's foot he used to brush off any flecks of gold left on the _cheville_ and the leather he kept on his lap to catch any gold that fell. twice weekly the shop was swept out carefully, the sweepings collected and burned and the ashes sifted. this recovered up to twenty-five or thirty francs' worth of gold a month. madame lorilleux could not take her eyes from gervaise's shoes. "there's no reason to get angry," murmured she with an amiable smile. "but, perhaps madame would not mind looking at the soles of her shoes." and gervaise, turning very red, sat down again, and holding up her feet showed that there was nothing clinging to them. coupeau had opened the door, exclaiming: "good-night!" in an abrupt tone of voice. he called to her from the corridor. then she in her turn went off, after stammering a few polite words: she hoped to see them again, and that they would all agree well together. both of the lorilleux had already gone back to their work at the far end of their dark hole of a work-room. madame lorilleux, her skin reflecting the red glow from the bed of coals, was drawing on another wire, each effort swelling her neck and making the strained muscles stand out like taut cords. her husband, hunched over beneath the greenish gleam of the globe was starting another length of chain, twisting each link with his pliers, pressing it on one side, inserting it into the next link above, opening it again with the pointed tool, continuously, mechanically, not wasting a motion, even to wipe the sweat from his face. when gervaise emerged from the corridor on to the landing, she could not help saying, with tears in her eyes: "that doesn't promise much happiness." coupeau shook his head furiously. he would get even with lorilleux for that evening. had anyone ever seen such a miserly fellow? to think that they were going to walk off with two or three grains of his gold dust! all the fuss they made was from pure avarice. his sister thought perhaps that he would never marry, so as to enable her to economize four sous on her dinner every day. however, it would take place all the same on july . he did not care a hang for them! nevertheless, gervaise still felt depressed. tormented by a foolish fearfulness, she peered anxiously into every dark shadow along the stair-rail as she descended. it was dark and deserted at this hour, lit only by a single gas jet on the second floor. in the shadowy depths of the dark pit, it gave a spot of brightness, even with its flame turned so low. it was now silent behind the closed doors; the weary laborers had gone to sleep after eating. however, there was a soft laugh from mademoiselle clemence's room and a ray of light shone through the keyhole of mademoiselle remanjou's door. she was still busy cutting out dresses for the dolls. downstairs at madame gaudron's, a child was crying. the sinks on the landings smelled more offensive than ever in the midst of the darkness and stillness. in the courtyard, gervaise turned back for a last look at the tenement as coupeau called out to the concierge. the building seemed to have grown larger under the moonless sky. the drip-drip of water from the faucet sounded loud in the quiet. gervaise felt that the building was threatening to suffocate her and a chill went through her body. it was a childish fear and she smiled at it a moment later. "watch your step," warned coupeau. to get to the entrance, gervaise had to jump over a wide puddle that had drained from the dye shop. the puddle was blue now, the deep blue of a summer sky. the reflections from the night light of the concierge sparkled in it like stars. chapter iii. gervaise did not want to have a wedding-party! what was the use of spending money? besides, she still felt somewhat ashamed; it seemed to her quite unnecessary to parade the marriage before the whole neighborhood. but coupeau cried out at that. one could not be married without having a feed. he did not care a button for the people of the neighborhood! nothing elaborate, just a short walk and a rabbit ragout in the first eating-house they fancied. no music with dessert. just a glass or two and then back home. the zinc-worker, chaffing and joking, at length got the young woman to consent by promising her that there should be no larks. he would keep his eye on the glasses, to prevent sunstrokes. then he organized a sort of picnic at five francs a head, at the "silver windmill," kept by auguste, on the boulevard de la chapelle. it was a small cafe with moderate charges and had a dancing place in the rear, beneath the three acacias in the courtyard. they would be very comfortable on the first floor. during the next ten days, he got hold of guests in the house where his sister lived in the rue de la goutte-d'or--monsieur madinier, mademoiselle remanjou, madame gaudron and her husband. he even ended by getting gervaise to consent to the presence of two of his comrades--bibi-the-smoker and my-boots. no doubt my-boots was a boozer; but then he had such a fantastic appetite that he was always asked to join those sort of gatherings, just for the sight of the caterer's mug when he beheld that bottomless pit swallowing his twelve pounds of bread. the young woman on her side, promised to bring her employer madame fauconnier and the boches, some very agreeable people. on counting, they found there would be fifteen to sit down to table, which was quite enough. when there are too many, they always wind up by quarrelling. coupeau however, had no money. without wishing to show off, he intended to behave handsomely. he borrowed fifty francs off his employer. out of that, he first of all purchased the wedding-ring--a twelve franc gold wedding-ring, which lorilleux procured for him at the wholesale price of nine francs. he then bought himself a frock coat, a pair of trousers and a waistcoat at a tailor's in the rue myrrha, to whom he gave merely twenty-five francs on account; his patent leather shoes and his hat were still good enough. when he had put by the ten francs for his and gervaise's share of the feast--the two children not being charged for--he had exactly six francs left--the price of a low mass at the altar of the poor. he had no liking for those black crows, the priests. it would gripe him to pay his last six francs to keep their whistles wet; however, a marriage without a mass wasn't a real marriage at all. going to the church himself, he bargained for a whole hour with a little old priest in a dirty cassock who was as sharp at dealing as a push-cart peddler. coupeau felt like boxing his ears. for a joke, he asked the priest if he didn't have a second-hand mass that would do for a modest young couple. the priest, mumbling that god would take small pleasure in blessing their union, finally let him have his mass for five francs. well after all, that meant twenty sous saved. gervaise also wanted to look decent. as soon as the marriage was settled, she made her arrangements, worked extra time in the evenings, and managed to put thirty francs on one side. she had a great longing for a little silk mantle marked thirteen francs in the rue du faubourg poissonniere. she treated herself to it, and then bought for ten francs of the husband of a washerwoman who had died in madame fauconnier's house a blue woolen dress, which she altered to fit herself. with the seven francs remaining she procured a pair of cotton gloves, a rose for her cap, and some shoes for claude, her eldest boy. fortunately the youngsters' blouses were passable. she spent four nights cleaning everything, and mending the smallest holes in her stockings and chemise. on friday night, the eve of the great day, gervaise and coupeau had still a good deal of running about to do up till eleven o'clock, after returning home from work. then before separating for the night they spent an hour together in the young woman's room, happy at being about to be released from their awkward position. in spite of the fact that they had originally resolved not to put themselves out to impress the neighbors, they had ended by taking it seriously and working themselves till they were weary. by the time they said "good-night," they were almost asleep on their feet. they breathed a great sigh of relief now that everything was ready. coupeau's witnesses were to be monsieur madinier and bibi-the-smoker. they were counting on lorilleux and boche for gervaise's witnesses. they were to go quietly to the mayor's office and the church, just the six of them, without a whole procession of people trailing behind them. the bridegroom's two sisters had even declared that they would stay home, their presence not being necessary. coupeau's mother, however, had sobbed and wailed, threatening to go ahead of them and hide herself in some corner of the church, until they had promised to take her along. the meeting of the guests was set for one o'clock at the silver windmill. from there, they would go to saint-denis, going out by railroad and returning on foot along the highway in order to work up an appetite. the party promised to be quite all right. saturday morning, while getting dressed, coupeau felt a qualm of uneasiness in view of the single franc in his pocket. he began to think that it was a matter of ordinary courtesy to offer a glass of wine and a slice of ham to the witnesses while awaiting dinner. also, there might be unforeseen expenses. so, after taking claude and etienne to stay with madame boche, who was to bring them to the dinner later that afternoon, he hurried over to the rue de la goutte-d'or to borrow ten francs from lorilleux. having to do that griped him immensely as he could guess the attitude his brother-in-law would take. the latter did grumble a bit, but ended by lending him two five-franc pieces. however, coupeau overheard his sister muttering under her breath, "this is a fine beginning." the ceremony at the mayor's was to take place at half-past ten. it was beautiful weather--a magnificent sun seemed to roast the streets. so as not to be stared at the bride and bridegroom, the old mother, and the four witnesses separated into two bands. gervaise walked in front with lorilleux, who gave her his arm; whilst monsieur madinier followed with mother coupeau. then, twenty steps behind on the opposite side of the way, came coupeau, boche, and bibi-the-smoker. these three were in black frock coats, walking erect and swinging their arms. boche's trousers were bright yellow. bibi-the-smoker didn't have a waistcoat so he was buttoned up to the neck with only a bit of his cravat showing. the only one in a full dress suit was monsieur madinier and passers-by gazed at this well-dressed gentleman escorting the huge bulk of mother coupeau in her green shawl and black bonnet with red ribbons. gervaise looked very gay and sweet in her dress of vivid blue and with her new silk mantle fitted tightly to her shoulders. she listened politely to the sneering remarks of lorilleux, who seemed buried in the depths of the immense overcoat he was wearing. from time to time, gervaise would turn her head a little to smile brightly at coupeau, who was rather uncomfortable under the hot sun in his new clothes. though they walked very slowly, they arrived at the mayor's quite half an hour too soon. and as the mayor was late, their turn was not reached till close upon eleven o'clock. they sat down on some chairs and waited in a corner of the apartment, looking by turns at the high ceiling and bare walls, talking low, and over-politely pushing back their chairs each time that one of the attendants passed. yet among themselves they called the mayor a sluggard, saying he must be visiting his blonde to get a massage for his gout, or that maybe he'd swallowed his official sash. however, when the mayor did put in his appearance, they rose respectfully in his honor. they were asked to sit down again and they had to wait through three other marriages. the hall was crowded with the three bourgeois wedding parties: brides all in white, little girls with carefully curled hair, bridesmaids wearing wide sashes, an endless procession of ladies and gentlemen dressed in their best and looking very stylish. when at length they were called, they almost missed being married altogether, bibi-the-smoker having disappeared. boche discovered him outside smoking his pipe. well! they were a nice lot inside there to humbug people about like that, just because one hadn't yellow kid gloves to shove under their noses! and the various formalities--the reading of the code, the different questions to be put, the signing of all the documents--were all got through so rapidly that they looked at each other with an idea that they had been robbed of a good half of the ceremony. gervaise, dizzy, her heart full, pressed her handkerchief to her lips. mother coupeau wept bitterly. all had signed the register, writing their names in big struggling letters with the exception of the bridegroom, who not being able to write, had put his cross. they each gave four sous for the poor. when an attendant handed coupeau the marriage certificate, the latter, prompted by gervaise who nudged his elbow, handed him another five sous. it was a fair walk from the mayor's office in the town hall to the church. the men stopped along the way to have a beer. mother coupeau and gervaise took cassis with water. then they had to trudge along the long street where the sun glared straight down without the relief of shade. when they arrived at the church they were hurried along and asked if they came so late in order to make a mockery of religion. a priest came forward, his face pale and resentful from having to delay his lunch. an altar boy in a soiled surplice ran before him. the mass went very fast, with the priest turning, bowing his head, spreading out his arms, making all the ritual gestures in haste while casting sidelong glances at the group. gervaise and coupeau, before the altar, were embarrassed, not knowing when they should kneel or rise or seat themselves, expecting some indication from the attendant. the witnesses, not knowing what was proper, remained standing during the ceremony. mother coupeau was weeping again and shedding her tears into the missal she had borrowed from a neighbor. meanwhile, the noon chimes had sounded and the church began to fill with noise from the shuffling feet of sacristans and the clatter of chairs being put back in place. the high altar was apparently being prepared for some special ceremony. thus, in the depths of this obscure chapel, amid the floating dust, the surly priest placed his withered hands on the bared heads of gervaise and coupeau, blessing their union amid a hubbub like that of moving day. the wedding party signed another registry, this time in the sacristy, and then found themselves out in the bright sunlight before the church doors where they stood for a moment, breathless and confused from having been carried along at such a break-neck speed. "voila!" said coupeau with an embarrassed laugh. "well, it sure didn't take long. they shove it at you so; it's like being at the painless dentist's who doesn't give you time to cry out. here you get a painless wedding!" "yes, it's a quick job," lorilleux smirked. "in five minutes you're tied together for the rest of your life. you poor young cassis, you've had it." the four witnesses whacked coupeau on the shoulders as he arched his back against the friendly blows. meanwhile gervaise was hugging and kissing mother coupeau, her eyes moist, a smile lighting her face. she replied reassuringly to the old woman's sobbing: "don't worry, i'll do my best. i want so much to have a happy life. if it doesn't work out it won't be my fault. anyhow, it's done now. it's up to us to get along together and do the best we can for each other." after that they went straight to the silver windmill. coupeau had taken his wife's arm. they walked quickly, laughing as though carried away, quite two hundred steps ahead of the others, without noticing the houses or the passers-by, or the vehicles. the deafening noises of the faubourg sounded like bells in their ears. when they reached the wineshop, coupeau at once ordered two bottles of wine, some bread and some slices of ham, to be served in the little glazed closet on the ground floor, without plates or table cloth, simply to have a snack. then, noticing that boche and bibi-the-smoker seemed to be very hungry, he had a third bottle brought, as well as a slab of brie cheese. mother coupeau was not hungry, being too choked up to be able to eat. gervaise found herself very thirsty, and drank several large glasses of water with a small amount of wine added. "i'll settle for this," said coupeau, going at once to the bar, where he paid four francs and five sous. it was now one o'clock and the other guests began to arrive. madame fauconnier, a fat woman, still good looking, first put in an appearance; she wore a chintz dress with a flowery pattern, a pink tie and a cap over-trimmed with flowers. next came mademoiselle remanjou, looking very thin in the eternal black dress which she seemed to keep on even when she went to bed; and the two gaudrons--the husband, like some heavy animal and almost bursting his brown jacket at the slightest movement, the wife, an enormous woman, whose figure indicated evident signs of an approaching maternity and whose stiff violet colored skirt still more increased her rotundity. coupeau explained that they were not to wait for my-boots; his comrade would join the party on the route de saint-denis. "well!" exclaimed madame lerat as she entered, "it'll pour in torrents soon! that'll be pleasant!" and she called everyone to the door of the wineshop to see the clouds as black as ink which were rising rapidly to the south of paris. madame lerat, eldest of the coupeaus, was a tall, gaunt woman who talked through her nose. she was unattractively dressed in a puce-colored robe that hung loosely on her and had such long dangling fringes that they made her look like a skinny poodle coming out of the water. she brandished her umbrella like a club. after greeting gervaise, she said, "you've no idea. the heat in the street is like a slap on the face. you'd think someone was throwing fire at you." everyone agreed that they knew the storm was coming. it was in the air. monsieur madinier said that he had seen it as they were coming out of the church. lorilleux mentioned that his corns were aching and he hadn't been able to sleep since three in the morning. a storm was due. it had been much too hot for three days in a row. "well, maybe it will just be a little mist," coupeau said several times, standing at the door and anxiously studying the sky. "now we have to wait only for my sister. we'll start as soon as she arrives." madame lorilleux was late. madame lerat had stopped by so they could come together, but found her only beginning to get dressed. the two sisters had argued. the widow whispered in her brother's ear, "i left her flat! she's in a dreadful mood. you'll see." and the wedding party had to wait another quarter of an hour, walking about the wineshop, elbowed and jostled in the midst of the men who entered to drink a glass of wine at the bar. now and again boche, or madame fauconnier, or bibi-the-smoker left the others and went to the edge of the pavement, looking up at the sky. the storm was not passing over at all; a darkness was coming on and puffs of wind, sweeping along the ground, raised little clouds of white dust. at the first clap of thunder, mademoiselle remanjou made the sign of the cross. all the glances were anxiously directed to the clock over the looking-glass; it was twenty minutes to two. "here it goes!" cried coupeau. "it's the angels who're weeping." a gush of rain swept the pavement, along which some women flew, holding down their skirts with both hands. and it was in the midst of this first shower that madame lorilleux at length arrived, furious and out of breath, and struggling on the threshold with her umbrella that would not close. "did any one ever see such a thing?" she exclaimed. "it caught me just at the door. i felt inclined to go upstairs again and take my things off. i should have been wise had i done so. ah! it's a pretty wedding! i said how it would be. i wanted to put it off till next saturday; and it rains because they wouldn't listen to me! so much the better, so much the better! i wish the sky would burst!" coupeau tried to pacify her without success. he wouldn't have to pay for her dress if it was spoilt! she had on a black silk dress in which she was nearly choking, the bodice, too tight fitting, was almost bursting the button-holes, and was cutting her across the shoulders; while the skirt only allowed her to take very short steps in walking. however, the ladies present were all staring at her, quite overcome by her costume. she appeared not to notice gervaise, who was sitting beside mother coupeau. she asked her husband for his handkerchief. then she went into a corner and very carefully wiped off the raindrops that had fallen on her silk dress. the shower had abruptly ceased. the darkness increased, it was almost like night--a livid night rent at times by large flashes of lightning. bibi-the-smoker said laughingly that it would certainly rain priests. then the storm burst forth with extreme violence. for half an hour the rain came down in bucketsful, and the thunder rumbled unceasingly. the men standing up before the door contemplated the grey veil of the downpour, the swollen gutters, the splashes of water caused by the rain beating into the puddles. the women, feeling frightened, had sat down again, holding their hands before their eyes. they no longer conversed, they were too upset. a jest boche made about the thunder, saying that st. peter was sneezing up there, failed to raise a smile. but, when the thunder-claps became less frequent and gradually died away in the distance, the wedding guests began to get impatient, enraged against the storm, cursing and shaking their fists at the clouds. a fine and interminable rain now poured down from the sky which had become an ashy grey. "it's past two o'clock," cried madame lorilleux. "we can't stop here for ever." mademoiselle remanjou, having suggested going into the country all the same, even though they went no farther than the moat of the fortifications, the others scouted the idea: the roads would be in a nice state, one would not even be able to sit down on the grass; besides, it did not seem to be all over yet, there might perhaps be another downpour. coupeau, who had been watching a workman, completely soaked, yet quietly walking along in the rain, murmured: "if that animal my-boots is waiting for us on the route de saint-denis, he won't catch a sunstroke." that made some of them laugh; but the general ill-humor increased. it was becoming ludicrous. they must decide on something unless they planned to sit there, staring at each other, until time for dinner. so for the next quarter of an hour, while the persistent rain continued, they tried to think of what to do. bibi-the-smoker suggested that they play cards. boche slyly suggesting a most amusing game, the game of true confessions. madame gaudron thought of going to eat onion tarts on the chaussee clignancourt. madame lerat wanted to hear some stories. gaudron said he wasn't a bit put out and thought they were quite well off where they were, out of the downpour. he suggested sitting down to dinner immediately. there was a discussion after each proposal. some said that this would put everybody to sleep or that that would make people think they were stupid. lorilleux had to get his word in. he finally suggested a walk along the outer boulevards to pere lachaise cemetery. they could visit the tomb of heloise and abelard. madame lorilleux exploded, no longer able to control herself. she was leaving, she was. were they trying to make fun of her? she got all dressed up and came out in the rain. and for what? to be wasting time in a wineshop. no, she had had enough of this wedding party. she'd rather be in her own home. coupeau and lorilleux had to get between her and the door to keep her from leaving. she kept telling them, "get out of my way! i am leaving, i tell you!" lorilleux finally succeeded in calming her down. coupeau went over to gervaise, who had been sitting quietly in a corner with mother coupeau and madame fauconnier. "you haven't suggested anything," he said to her. "oh! whatever they want," she replied, laughing. "i don't mind. we can go out or stay here." she seemed aglow with contentment. she had spoken to each guest as they arrived. she spoke sensibly, in her soft voice, not getting into any disagreements. during the downpour, she had sat with her eyes wide open, watching the lightning as though she could see the future in the sudden flashes. monsieur madinier had up to this time not proposed anything. he was leaning against the bar, with the tails of his dress coat thrust apart, while he fully maintained the important air of an employer. he kept on expectorating, and rolled his big eyes about. "_mon dieu_!" said he, "we might go to the museum." and he stroked his chin, as he blinkingly consulted the other members of the party. "there are antiquities, pictures, paintings, a whole heap of things. it is very instructive. perhaps you have never been there. oh! it is quite worth seeing at least once in a while." they looked at each other interrogatively. no, gervaise had never been; madame fauconnier neither, nor boche, nor the others. coupeau thought he had been one sunday, but he was not sure. they hesitated, however, when madame lorilleux, greatly impressed by monsieur madinier's importance, thought the suggestion a very worthy and respectable one. as they were wasting the day, and were all dressed up, they might as well go somewhere for their own instruction. everyone approved. then, as it still rained a little, they borrowed some umbrellas from the proprietor of the wineshop, old blue, green, and brown umbrellas, forgotten by different customers, and started off to the museum. the wedding party turned to the right, and descended into paris along the faubourg saint-denis. coupeau and gervaise again took the lead, almost running and keeping a good distance in front of the others. monsieur madinier now gave his arm to madame lorilleux, mother coupeau having remained behind in the wineshop on account of her old legs. then came lorilleux and madame lerat, boche and madame fauconnier, bibi-the-smoker and mademoiselle remanjou, and finally the two gaudrons. they were twelve and made a pretty long procession on the pavement. "i swear to you, we had nothing to do with it," madame lorilleux explained to monsieur madinier. "we don't even know how they met, or, we know only too well, but that's not for us to discuss. my husband even had to buy the wedding ring. we were scarcely out of bed this morning when he had to lend them ten francs. and, not a member of her family at her wedding, what kind of bride is that? she says she has a sister in paris who works for a pork butcher. why didn't she invite her?" she stopped to point at gervaise, who was limping awkwardly because of the slope of the pavement. "just look at her. clump-clump." "clump-clump" ran through the wedding procession. lorilleux laughed under his breath, and said they ought to call her that, but madame fauconnier stood up for gervaise. they shouldn't make fun of her; she was neat as a pin and did a good job when there was washing to be done. when the wedding procession came out of the faubourg saint-denis, they had to cross the boulevard. the street had been transformed into a morass of sticky mud by the storm. it had started to pour again and they had opened the assorted umbrellas. the women picked their way carefully through the mud, holding their skirts high as the men held the sorry-looking umbrellas over their heads. the procession stretched out the width of the street. "it's a masquerade!" yelled two street urchins. people turned to stare. these couples parading across the boulevard added a splash of vivid color against the damp background. it was a parade of a strange medley of styles showing fancy used clothing such as constitute the luxury of the poor. the gentlemen's hats caused the most merriment, old hats preserved for years in dark and dusty cupboards, in a variety of comical forms: tall ones, flattened ones, sharply peaked ones, hats with extraordinary brims, curled back or flat, too narrow or too wide. then at the very end, madame gaudron came along with her bright dress over her bulging belly and caused the smiles of the audience to grow even wider. the procession made no effort to hasten its progress. they were, in fact, rather pleased to attract so much attention and admiration. "look! here comes the bride!" one of the urchins shouted, pointing to madame gaudron. "oh! isn't it too bad! she must have swallowed something!" the entire wedding procession burst into laughter. bibi-the-smoker turned around and laughed. madame gaudron laughed the most of all. she wasn't ashamed as she thought more than one of the women watching had looked at her with envy. they turned into the rue de clery. then they took the rue du mail. on reaching the place des victoires, there was a halt. the bride's left shoe lace had come undone, and as she tied it up again at the foot of the statue of louis xiv., the couples pressed behind her waiting, and joking about the bit of calf of her leg that she displayed. at length, after passing down the rue croix-des-petits-champs, they reached the louvre. monsieur madinier politely asked to be their cicerone. it was a big place, and they might lose themselves; besides, he knew the best parts, because he had often come there with an artist, a very intelligent fellow from whom a large dealer bought designs to put on his cardboard boxes. down below, when the wedding party entered the assyrian museum, a slight shiver passed through it. the deuce! it was not at all warm there; the hall would have made a capital cellar. and the couples slowly advanced, their chins raised, their eyes blinking, between the gigantic stone figures, the black marble gods, dumb in their hieratic rigidity, and the monstrous beasts, half cats and half women, with death-like faces, attenuated noses, and swollen lips. they thought all these things very ugly. the stone carvings of the present day were a great deal better. an inscription in phoenician characters amazed them. no one could possibly have ever read that scrawl. but monsieur madinier, already up on the first landing with madame lorilleux, called to them, shouting beneath the vaulted ceiling: "come along! they're nothing, all those things! the things to see are on the first floor!" the severe barrenness of the staircase made them very grave. an attendant, superbly attired in a red waistcoat and a coat trimmed with gold lace, who seemed to be awaiting them on the landing, increased their emotion. it was with great respect, and treading as softly as possible, that they entered the french gallery. then, without stopping, their eyes occupied with the gilding of the frames, they followed the string of little rooms, glancing at the passing pictures too numerous to be seen properly. it would have required an hour before each, if they had wanted to understand it. what a number of pictures! there was no end to them. they must be worth a mint of money. right at the end, monsieur madinier suddenly ordered a halt opposite the "raft of the medusa" and he explained the subject to them. all deeply impressed and motionless, they uttered not a word. when they started off again, boche expressed the general feeling, saying it was marvellous. in the apollo gallery, the inlaid flooring especially astonished the party--a shining floor, as clear as a mirror, and which reflected the legs of the seats. mademoiselle remanjou kept her eyes closed, because she could not help thinking that she was walking on water. they called to madame gaudron to be careful how she trod on account of her condition. monsieur madinier wanted to show them the gilding and paintings of the ceiling; but it nearly broke their necks to look up above, and they could distinguish nothing. then, before entering the square salon, he pointed to a window, saying: "that's the balcony from which charles ix. fired on the people." he looked back to make sure the party was following. in the middle of the salon carre, he held up his hand. "there are only masterpieces here," he said, in a subdued voice, as though in church. they went all around the room. gervaise wanted to know about "the wedding at cana." coupeau paused to stare at the "mona lisa," saying that she reminded him of one of his aunts. boche and bibi-the-smoker snickered at the nudes, pointing them out to each other and winking. the gaudrons looked at the "virgin" of murillo, he with his mouth open, she with her hands folded on her belly. when they had been all around the salon, monsieur madinier wished them to go round it again, it was so worth while. he was very attentive to madame lorilleux, because of her silk dress; and each time that she questioned him he answered her gravely, with great assurance. she was curious about "titian's mistress" because the yellow hair resembled her own. he told her it was "la belle ferronniere," a mistress of henry iv. about whom there had been a play at the ambigu. then the wedding party invaded the long gallery occupied by the italian and flemish schools. more paintings, always paintings, saints, men and women, with faces which some of them could understand, landscapes that were all black, animals turned yellow, a medley of people and things, the great mixture of the colors of which was beginning to give them all violent headaches. monsieur madinier no longer talked as he slowly headed the procession, which followed him in good order, with stretched necks and upcast eyes. centuries of art passed before their bewildered ignorance, the fine sharpness of the early masters, the splendors of the venetians, the vigorous life, beautiful with light, of the dutch painters. but what interested them most were the artists who were copying, with their easels planted amongst the people, painting away unrestrainedly; an old lady, mounted on a pair of high steps, working a big brush over the delicate sky of an immense painting, struck them as something most peculiar. slowly the word must have gone around that a wedding party was visiting the louvre. several painters came over with big smiles. some visitors were so curious that they went to sit on benches ahead of the group in order to be comfortable while they watched them pass in review. museum guards bit back comments. the wedding party was now quite weary and beginning to drag their feet. monsieur madinier was reserving himself to give more effect to a surprise that he had in store. he went straight to the "kermesse" of rubens; but still he said nothing. he contented himself with directing the others' attention to the picture by a sprightly glance. the ladies uttered faint cries the moment they brought their noses close to the painting. then, blushing deeply they turned away their heads. the men though kept them there, cracking jokes, and seeking for the coarser details. "just look!" exclaimed boche, "it's worth the money. there's one spewing, and another, he's watering the dandelions; and that one--oh! that one. ah, well! they're a nice clean lot, they are!" "let us be off," said monsieur madinier, delighted with his success. "there is nothing more to see here." they retraced their steps, passing again through the salon carre and the apollo gallery. madame lerat and mademoiselle remanjou complained, declaring that their legs could scarcely bear them. but the cardboard box manufacturer wanted to show lorilleux the old jewelry. it was close by in a little room which he could find with his eyes shut. however, he made a mistake and led the wedding party astray through seven or eight cold, deserted rooms, only ornamented with severe looking-glass cases, containing numberless broken pots and hideous little figures. while looking for an exit they stumbled into the collection of drawings. it was immense. through room after room they saw nothing interesting, just scribblings on paper that filled all the cases and covered the walls. they thought there was no end to these drawings. monsieur madinier, losing his head, not willing to admit that he did not know his way, ascended a flight of stairs, making the wedding party mount to the next floor. this time they traversed the naval museum, among models of instruments and cannons, plans in relief, and vessels as tiny as playthings. after going a long way, and walking for a quarter of an hour, the party came upon another staircase; and, having descended this, found itself once more surrounded by the drawings. then despair took possession of them as they wandered at random through long halls, following monsieur madinier, who was furious and mopping the sweat from his forehead. he accused the government of having moved the doors around. museum guards and visitors looked on with astonishment as the procession, still in a column of couples, passed by. they passed again through the salon carre, the french gallery and then along the cases where minor eastern divinities slumbered peacefully. it seemed they would never find their way out. they were getting tired and made a lot of noise. "closing time! closing time!" called out the attendants, in a loud tone of voice. and the wedding party was nearly locked in. an attendant was obliged to place himself at the head of it, and conduct it to a door. then in the courtyard of the louvre, when it had recovered its umbrellas from the cloakroom, it breathed again. monsieur madinier regained his assurance. he had made a mistake in not turning to the left, now he recollected that the jewelry was to the left. the whole party pretended to be very pleased at having seen all they had. four o'clock was striking. there were still two hours to be employed before the dinner time, so it was decided they should take a stroll, just to occupy the interval. the ladies, who were very tired, would have preferred to sit down; but, as no one offered any refreshments, they started off, following the line of quays. there they encountered another shower and so sharp a one that in spite of the umbrellas, the ladies' dresses began to get wet. madame lorilleux, her heart sinking within her each time a drop fell upon her black silk, proposed that they should shelter themselves under the pont-royal; besides if the others did not accompany her, she threatened to go all by herself. and the procession marched under one of the arches of the bridge. they were very comfortable there. it was, most decidedly a capital idea! the ladies, spreading their handkerchiefs over the paving-stones, sat down with their knees wide apart, and pulled out the blades of grass that grew between the stones with both hands, whilst they watched the dark flowing water as though they were in the country. the men amused themselves with calling out very loud, so as to awaken the echoes of the arch. boche and bibi-the-smoker shouted insults into the air at the top of their voices, one after the other. they laughed uproariously when the echo threw the insults back at them. when their throats were hoarse from shouting, they made a game of skipping flat stones on the surface of the seine. the shower had ceased but the whole party felt so comfortable that no one thought of moving away. the seine was flowing by, an oily sheet carrying bottle corks, vegetable peelings, and other refuse that sometimes collected in temporary whirlpools moving along with the turbulent water. endless traffic rumbled on the bridge overhead, the noisy bustle of paris, of which they could glimpse only the rooftops to the left and right, as though they were in the bottom of a deep pit. mademoiselle remanjou sighed; if the leaves had been out this would have reminded her of a bend of the marne where she used to go with a young man. it still made her cry to think of him. at last, monsieur madinier gave the signal for departure. they passed through the tuileries gardens, in the midst of a little community of children, whose hoops and balls upset the good order of the couples. then as the wedding party on arriving at the place vendome looked up at the column, monsieur madinier gallantly offered to treat the ladies to a view from the top. his suggestion was considered extremely amusing. yes, yes, they would go up; it would give them something to laugh about for a long time. besides, it would be full of interest for those persons who had never been higher than a cow pasture. "do you think clump-clump will venture inside there with her leg all out of place?" murmured madame lorilleux. "i'll go up with pleasure," said madame lerat, "but i won't have any men walking behind me." and the whole party ascended. in the narrow space afforded by the spiral staircase, the twelve persons crawled up one after the other, stumbling against the worn steps, and clinging to the walls. then, when the obscurity became complete, they almost split their sides with laughing. the ladies screamed when the gentlemen pinched their legs. but they were weren't stupid enough to say anything! the proper plan is to think that it is the mice nibbling at them. it wasn't very serious; the men knew when to stop. boche thought of a joke and everyone took it up. they called down to madame gaudron to ask her if she could squeeze her belly through. just think! if she should get stuck there, she would completely block the passage, and how would they ever get out? they laughed so at the jokes about her belly that the column itself vibrated. boche was now quite carried away and declared that they were growing old climbing up this chimney pipe. was it ever coming to an end, or did it go right up to heaven? he tried to frighten the ladies by telling them the structure was shaking. coupeau, meanwhile, said nothing. he was behind gervaise, with his arm around her waist, and felt that she was everything perfect to him. when they suddenly emerged again into the daylight, he was just in the act of kissing her on the cheek. "well! you're a nice couple; you don't stand on ceremony," said madame lorilleux with a scandalized air. bibi-the-smoker pretended to be furious. he muttered between his teeth. "you made such a noise together! i wasn't even able to count the steps." but monsieur madinier was already up on the platform, pointing out the different monuments. neither madame fauconnier nor mademoiselle remanjou would on any consideration leave the staircase. the thought of the pavement below made their blood curdle, and they contented themselves with glancing out of the little door. madame lerat, who was bolder, went round the narrow terrace, keeping close to the bronze dome; but, _mon dieu_, it gave one a rude emotion to think that one only had to slip off. the men were a little paler than usual as they stared down at the square below. you would think you were up in mid-air, detached from everything. no, it wasn't fun, it froze your very insides. monsieur madinier told them to raise their eyes and look straight into the distance to avoid feeling dizzy. he went on pointing out the invalides, the pantheon, notre dame and the montmartre hill. madame lorilleux asked if they could see the place where they were to have dinner, the silver windmill on the boulevard de la chapelle. for ten minutes they tried to see it, even arguing about it. everyone had their own idea where it was. "it wasn't worth while coming up here to bite each other's noses off," said boche, angrily as he turned to descend the staircase. the wedding party went down, unspeaking and sulky, awakening no other sound beyond that of shoes clanking on the stone steps. when it reached the bottom, monsieur madinier wished to pay; but coupeau would not permit him, and hastened to place twenty-four sous into the keeper's hand, two sous for each person. so they returned by the boulevards and the faubourg du poissonniers. coupeau, however, considered that their outing could not end like that. he bundled them all into a wineshop where they took some vermouth. the repast was ordered for six o'clock. at the silver windmill, they had been waiting for the wedding party for a good twenty minutes. madame boche, who had got a lady living in the same house to attend to her duties for the evening, was conversing with mother coupeau in the first floor room, in front of the table, which was all laid out; and the two youngsters, claude and etienne, whom she had brought with her, were playing about beneath the table and amongst the chairs. when gervaise, on entering caught sight of the little ones, whom she had not seen all the day, she took them on her knees, and caressed and kissed them. "have they been good?" asked she of madame boche. "i hope they haven't worried you too much." and as the latter related the things the little rascals had done during the afternoon, and which would make one die with laughing, the mother again took them up and pressed them to her breast, seized with an overpowering outburst of maternal affection. "it's not very pleasant for coupeau, all the same," madame lorilleux was saying to the other ladies, at the end of the room. gervaise had kept her smiling peacefulness from the morning, but after the long walk she appeared almost sad at times as she watched her husband and the lorilleuxs in a thoughtful way. she had the feeling that coupeau was a little afraid of his sister. the evening before, he had been talking big, swearing he would put them in their places if they didn't behave. however, she could see that in their presence he was hanging on their words, worrying when he thought they might be displeased. this gave the young bride some cause for worry about the future. they were now only waiting for my-boots, who had not yet put in an appearance. "oh! blow him!" cried coupeau, "let's begin. you'll see, he'll soon turn up, he's got a hollow nose, he can scent the grub from afar. i say he must be amusing himself, if he's still standing like a post on the route de saint-denis!" then the wedding party, feeling very lively, sat down making a great noise with the chairs. gervaise was between lorilleux and monsieur madinier, and coupeau between madame fauconnier and madame lorilleux. the other guests seated themselves where they liked, because it always ended with jealousies and quarrels, when one settled their places for them. boche glided to a seat beside madame lerat. bibi-the-smoker had for neighbors mademoiselle remanjou and madame gaudron. as for madame boche and mother coupeau, they were right at the end of the table, looking after the children, cutting up their meat and giving them something to drink, but not much wine. "does nobody say grace?" asked boche, whilst the ladies arranged their skirts under the table-cloth, so as not to get them stained. but madame lorilleux paid no attention to such pleasantries. the vermicelli soup, which was nearly cold, was gulped down very quickly, their lips making a hissing noise against the spoons. two waiters served at table, dressed in little greasy jackets and not over-clean white aprons. by the four open windows overlooking the acacias of the courtyard there entered the clear light of the close of a stormy day, with the atmosphere purified thereby though without sufficiently cooling it. the light reflected from the humid corner of trees tinged the haze-filled room with green and made leaf shadows dance along the table-cloth, from which came a vague aroma of dampness and mildew. two large mirrors, one at each end of the room, seemed to stretch out the table. the heavy crockery with which it was set was beginning to turn yellow and the cutlery was scratched and grimed with grease. each time a waiter came through the swinging doors from the kitchen a whiff of odorous burnt lard came with him. "don't all talk at once," said boche, as everyone remained silent with his nose in his plate. they were drinking the first glass of wine as their eyes followed two meat pies which the waiters were handing round when my-boots entered the room. "well, you're a scurvy lot, you people!" said he. "i've been wearing my pins out for three hours waiting on that road, and a gendarme even came and asked me for my papers. it isn't right to play such dirty tricks on a friend! you might at least have sent me word by a commissionaire. ah! no, you know, joking apart, it's too bad. and with all that, it rained so hard that i got my pickets full of water. honor bright, you might still catch enough fish in 'em for a meal." the others wriggled with laughter. that animal my-boots was just a bit on; he had certainly already stowed away his two quarts of wine, merely to prevent his being bothered by all that frog's liquor with which the storm had deluged his limbs. "hallo! count leg-of-mutton!" said coupeau, "just go and sit yourself there, beside madame gaudron. you see you were expected." oh, he did not mind, he would soon catch the others up; and he asked for three helpings of soup, platefuls of vermicelli, in which he soaked enormous slices of bread. then, when they had attacked the meat pies, he became the profound admiration of everyone at the table. how he stowed it away! the bewildered waiters helped each other to pass him bread, thin slices which he swallowed at a mouthful. he ended by losing his temper; he insisted on having a loaf placed on the table beside him. the landlord, very anxious, came for a moment and looked in at the door. the party, which was expecting him, again wriggled with laughter. it seemed to upset the caterer. what a rum card he was that my-boots! one day he had eaten a dozen hard-boiled eggs and drank a dozen glasses of wine while the clock was striking twelve! there are not many who can do that. and mademoiselle remanjou, deeply moved, watched my-boots chew whilst monsieur madinier, seeking for a word to express his almost respectful astonishment, declared that such a capacity was extraordinary. there was a brief silence. a waiter had just placed on the table a ragout of rabbits in a vast dish as deep as a salad-bowl. coupeau, who liked fun, started another joke. "i say, waiter, that rabbit's from the housetops. it still mews." and in fact, a faint mew perfectly imitated seemed to issue from the dish. it was coupeau who did that with his throat, without opening his lips; a talent which at all parties, met with decided success, so much so that he never ordered a dinner abroad without having a rabbit ragout. after that he purred. the ladies pressed their napkins to their mouths to try and stop their laughter. madame fauconnier asked for a head, she only liked that part. mademoiselle remanjou had a weakness for the slices of bacon. and as boche said he preferred the little onions when they were nicely broiled, madame lerat screwed up her lips, and murmured: "i can understand that." she was a dried up stick, living the cloistered life of a hard-working woman imprisoned within her daily routine, who had never had a man stick his nose into her room since the death of her husband; yet she had an obsession with double meanings and indecent allusions that were sometimes so far off the mark that only she understood them. as boche leaned toward her and, in a whisper, asked for an explanation, she resumed: "little onions, why of course. that's quite enough, i think." the general conversation was becoming grave. each one was talking of his trade. monsieur madinier raved about the cardboard business. there were some real artists. for an example, he mentioned christmas gift boxes, of which he'd seen samples that were marvels of splendor. lorilleux sneered at this; he was extremely vain because of working with gold, feeling that it gave a sort of sheen to his fingers and his whole personality. "in olden times jewelers wore swords like gentlemen." he often cited the case of bernard palissy, even though he really knew nothing about him. coupeau told of a masterpiece of a weather vane made by one of his fellow workers which included a greek column, a sheaf of wheat, a basket of fruit, and a flag, all beautifully worked out of nothing but strips of zinc shaped and soldered together. madame lerat showed bibi-the-smoker how to make a rose by rolling the handle of her knife between her bony fingers. all the while, their voices had been rising louder and louder, competing for attention. shrill comments by madame fauconnier were heard. she complained about the girls who worked for her, especially a little apprentice who was nothing but a tart and had badly scorched some sheets the evening before. "you may talk," lorilleux cried, banging his fist down on the table, "but gold is gold." and, in the midst of the silence caused by the statement of this fact, the only sound heard was mademoiselle remanjou's shrill voice continuing: "then i turn up the skirt and stitch it inside. i stick a pin in the head to keep the cap on, and that's all; and they are sold for thirteen sous a piece." she was explaining how she dressed her dolls to my-boots, whose jaws were working slowly like grindstones. he did not listen, though he kept nodding his head, but looked after the waiters to prevent them removing any of the dishes he had not cleaned out. they had now finished a veal stew with green beans. the roast was brought in, two scrawny chickens resting on a bed of water cress which was limp from the warming oven. outside, only the higher branches of the acacias were touched by the setting sun. inside, the greenish reflected light was thickened by wisps of steam rising from the table, now messy with spilled wine and gravy and the debris of the dinner. along the wall were dirty dishes and empty bottles which the waiters had piled there like a heap of refuse. it was so hot that the men took off their jackets and continued eating in their shirt sleeves. "madame boche, please don't spread their butter so thick," said gervaise, who spoke but little, and who was watching claude and etienne from a distance. she got up from her seat, and went and talked for a minute while standing behind the little ones' chairs. children did not reason; they would eat all day long without refusing a single thing; and then she herself helped them to some chicken, a little of the breast. but mother coupeau said they might, just for once in a while, risk an attack of indigestion. madame boche, in a low voice accused boche of caressing madame lerat's knees. oh, he was a sly one, but he was getting a little too gay. she had certainly seen his hand disappear. if he did it again, drat him! she wouldn't hesitate throwing a pitcher of water over his head. in the partial silence, monsieur madinier was talking politics. "their law of may , is an abominable one. now you must reside in a place for two years. three millions of citizens are struck off the voting lists. i've been told that bonaparte is, in reality, very much annoyed for he loves the people; he has given them proofs." he was a republican; but he admired the prince on account of his uncle, a man the like of whom would never be seen again. bibi-the-smoker flew into a passion. he had worked at the elysee; he had seen bonaparte just as he saw my-boots in front of him over there. well that muff of a president was just like a jackass, that was all! it was said that he was going to travel about in the direction of lyons; it would be a precious good riddance of bad rubbish if he fell into some hole and broke his neck. but, as the discussion was becoming too heated, coupeau had to interfere. "ah, well! how simple you all are to quarrel about politics. politics are all humbug! do such things exist for us? let there be any one as king, it won't prevent me earning my five francs a day, and eating and sleeping; isn't that so? no, it's too stupid to argue about!" lorilleux shook his head. he was born on the same day as the count of chambord, the th of september, . he was greatly struck with this coincidence, indulging himself in a vague dream, in which he established a connection between the king's return to france and his own private fortunes. he never said exactly what he was expecting, but he led people to suppose that when that time arrived something extraordinarily agreeable would happen to him. so whenever he had a wish too great to be gratified, he would put it off to another time, when the king came back. "besides," observed he, "i saw the count de chambord one evening." every face was turned towards him. "it's quite true. a stout man, in an overcoat, and with a good-natured air. i was at pequignot's, one of my friends who deals in furniture in the grand rue de la chapelle. the count of chambord had forgotten his umbrella there the day before; so he came in, and just simply said, like this: 'will you please return me my umbrella?' well, yes, it was him; pequignot gave me his word of honor it was." not one of the guests suggested the smallest doubt. they had now arrived at dessert and the waiters were clearing the table with much clattering of dishes. madame lorilleux, who up to then had been very genteel, very much the lady, suddenly let fly with a curse. one of the waiters had spilled something wet down her neck while removing a dish. this time her silk dress would be stained for sure. monsieur madinier had to examine her back, but he swore there was nothing to be seen. two platters of cheese, two dishes of fruit, and a floating island pudding of frosted eggs in a deep salad-bowl had now been placed along the middle of the table. the pudding caused a moment of respectful attention even though the overdone egg whites had flattened on the yellow custard. it was unexpected and seemed very fancy. my-boots was still eating. he had asked for another loaf. he finished what there was of the cheese; and, as there was some cream left, he had the salad-bowl passed to him, into which he sliced some large pieces of bread as though for a soup. "the gentleman is really remarkable," said monsieur madinier, again giving way to his admiration. then the men rose to get their pipes. they stood for a moment behind my-boots, patting him on the back, and asking him if he was feeling better. bibi-the-smoker lifted him up in his chair; but _tonnerre de dieu!_ the animal had doubled in weight. coupeau joked that my-boots was only getting started, that now he was going to settle down and really eat for the rest of the night. the waiters were startled and quickly vanished from sight. boche, who had gone downstairs for a moment, came up to report the proprietor's reaction. he was standing behind his bar, pale as death. his wife, dreadfully upset, was wondering if any bakeries were still open. even the cat seemed deep in despair. this was as funny as could be, really worth the price of the dinner. it was impossible to have a proper dinner party without my-boots, the bottomless pit. the other men eyed him with a brooding jealousy as they puffed on their pipes. indeed, to be able to eat so much, you had to be very solidly built! "i wouldn't care to be obliged to support you," said madame gaudron. "ah, no; you may take my word for that!" "i say, little mother, no jokes," replied my-boots, casting a side glance at his neighbor's rotund figure. "you've swallowed more than i have." the others applauded, shouting "bravo!"--it was well answered. it was now pitch dark outside, three gas-jets were flaring in the room, diffusing dim rays in the midst of the tobacco-smoke. the waiters, after serving the coffee and the brandy, had removed the last piles of dirty plates. down below, beneath the three acacias, dancing had commenced, a cornet-a-piston and two fiddles playing very loud, and mingling in the warm night air with the rather hoarse laughter of women. "we must have a punch!" cried my-boots; "two quarts of brandy, lots of lemon, and a little sugar." but coupeau, seeing the anxious look on gervaise's face in front of him, got up from the table, declaring that there should be no more drink. they had emptied twenty-five quarts, a quart and a half to each person, counting the children as grown-up people; that was already too much. they had had a feed together in good fellowship, and without ceremony, because they esteemed each other, and wished to celebrate the event of the day amongst themselves. everything had been very nice; they had had lots of fun. it wouldn't do to get cockeyed drunk now, out of respect to the ladies. that was all he had to say, they had come together to toast a marriage and they had done so. coupeau delivered the little speech with convincing sincerity and punctuated each phrase by placing his hand on his heart. he won whole-hearted approval from lorilleux and monsieur madinier; but the other four men, especially my-boots, were already well lit and sneered. they declared in hoarse drunken voices that they were thirsty and wanted drinks. "those who're thirsty are thirsty, and those who aren't thirsty aren't thirsty," remarked my-boots. "therefore, we'll order the punch. no one need take offence. the aristocrats can drink sugar-and-water." and as the zinc-worker commenced another sermon, the other, who had risen on his legs, gave himself a slap, exclaiming: "come, let's have no more of that, my boy! waiter, two quarts of your aged stuff!" so coupeau said very well, only they would settle for the dinner at once. it would prevent any disputes. the well-behaved people did not want to pay for the drunkards; and it just happened that my-boots, after searching in his pockets for a long time, could only produce three francs and seven sous. well, why had they made him wait all that time on the route de saint-denis? he could not let himself be drowned and so he had broken into his five-franc piece. it was the fault of the others, that was all! he ended by giving the three francs, keeping the seven sous for the morrow's tobacco. coupeau, who was furious, would have knocked him over had not gervaise, greatly frightened, pulled him by his coat, and begged him to keep cool. he decided to borrow the two francs of lorilleux, who after refusing them, lent them on the sly, for his wife would never have consented to his doing so. monsieur madinier went round with a plate. the spinster and the ladies who were alone--madame lerat, madame fauconnier, mademoiselle remanjou--discreetly placed their five-franc pieces in it first. then the gentlemen went to the other end of the room, and made up the accounts. they were fifteen; it amounted therefore to seventy-five francs. when the seventy-five francs were in the plate, each man added five sous for the waiters. it took a quarter of an hour of laborious calculations before everything was settled to the general satisfaction. but when monsieur madinier, who wished to deal direct with the landlord, had got him to step up, the whole party became lost in astonishment on hearing him say with a smile that there was still something due to him. there were some extras; and, as the word "extras" was greeted with angry exclamations, he entered into details:--twenty-five quarts of wine, instead of twenty, the number agreed upon beforehand; the frosted eggs, which he had added, as the dessert was rather scanty; finally, a quarter of a bottle of rum, served with the coffee, in case any one preferred rum. then a formidable quarrel ensued. coupeau, who was appealed to, protested against everything; he had never mentioned twenty quarts; as for the frosted eggs, they were included in the dessert, so much the worse for the landlord if he choose to add them without being asked to do so. there remained the rum, a mere nothing, just a mode of increasing the bill by putting on the table spirits that no one thought anything about. "it was on the tray with the coffee," he cried; "therefore it goes with the coffee. go to the deuce! take your money, and never again will we set foot in your den!" "it's six francs more," repeated the landlord. "pay me my six francs; and with all that i haven't counted the four loaves that gentleman ate!" the whole party, pressing forward, surrounded him with furious gestures and a yelping of voices choking with rage. the women especially threw aside all reserve, and refused to add another centime. this was some wedding dinner! mademoiselle remanjou vowed she would never again attend such a party. madame fauconnier declared she had had a very disappointing meal; at home she could have had a finger-licking dish for only two francs. madame gaudron bitterly complained that she had been shoved down to the worst end of the table next to my-boots who had ignored her. these parties never turned out well, one should be more careful whom one invites. gervaise had taken refuge with mother coupeau near one of the windows, feeling shamed as she realized that all these recriminations would fall back upon her. monsieur madinier ended by going down with the landlord. one could hear them arguing below. then, when half an hour had gone by the cardboard box manufacturer returned; he had settled the matter by giving three francs. but the party continued annoyed and exasperated, constantly returning to the question of the extras. and the uproar increased from an act of vigor on madame boche's part. she had kept an eye on boche, and at length detected him squeezing madame lerat round the waist in a corner. then, with all her strength, she flung a water pitcher, which smashed against the wall. "one can easily see that your husband's a tailor, madame," said the tall widow, with a curl of the lip, full of a double meaning. "he's a petticoat specialist, even though i gave him some pretty hard kicks under the table." the harmony of the evening was altogether upset. everyone became more and more ill-tempered. monsieur madinier suggested some singing, but bibi-the-smoker, who had a fine voice, had disappeared some time before; and mademoiselle remanjou, who was leaning out of the window, caught sight of him under the acacias, swinging round a big girl who was bare-headed. the cornet-a-piston and two fiddles were playing "_le marchand de moutarde_." the party now began to break up. my-boots and the gaudrons went down to the dance with boche sneaking along after them. the twirling couples could be seen from the windows. the night was still as though exhausted from the heat of the day. a serious conversation started between lorilleux and monsieur madinier. the ladies examined their dresses carefully to see if they had been stained. madame lerat's fringe looked as though it had been dipped in the coffee. madame fauconnier's chintz dress was spotted with gravy. mother coupeau's green shawl, fallen from off a chair, was discovered in a corner, rolled up and trodden upon. but it was madame lorilleux especially who became more ill-tempered still. she had a stain on the back of her dress; it was useless for the others to declare that she had not--she felt it. and, by twisting herself about in front of a looking-glass, she ended by catching a glimpse of it. "what did i say?" cried she. "it's gravy from the fowl. the waiter shall pay for the dress. i will bring an action against him. ah! this is a fit ending to such a day. i should have done better to have stayed in bed. to begin with, i'm off. i've had enough of their wretched wedding!" and she left the room in a rage, causing the staircase to shake beneath her heavy footsteps. lorilleux ran after her. but all she would consent to was that she would wait five minutes on the pavement outside, if he wanted them to go off together. she ought to have left directly after the storm, as she wished to do. she would make coupeau sorry for that day. coupeau was dismayed when he heard how angry she was. gervaise agreed to leave at once to avoid embarrassing him any more. there was a flurry of quick good-night kisses. monsieur madinier was to escort mother coupeau home. madame boche would take claude and etienne with her for the bridal night. the children were sound asleep on chairs, stuffed full from the dinner. just as the bridal couple and lorilleux were about to go out the door, a quarrel broke out near the dance floor between their group and another group. boche and my-boots were kissing a lady and wouldn't give her up to her escorts, two soldiers. it was scarcely eleven o'clock. on the boulevard de la chapelle, and in the entire neighborhood of the goutte-d'or, the fortnight's pay, which fell due on that saturday, produced an enormous drunken uproar. madame lorilleux was waiting beneath a gas-lamp about twenty paces from the silver windmill. she took her husband's arm, and walked on in front without looking round, at such a rate, that gervaise and coupeau got quite out of breath in trying to keep up with them. now and again they stepped off the pavement to leave room for some drunkard who had fallen there. lorilleux looked back, endeavoring to make things pleasant. "we will see you as far as your door," said he. but madame lorilleux, raising her voice, thought it a funny thing to spend one's wedding night in such a filthy hole as the hotel boncoeur. ought they not to have put their marriage off, and have saved a few sous to buy some furniture, so as to have had a home of their own on the first night? ah! they would be comfortable, right up under the roof, packed into a little closet, at ten francs a month, where there was not even the slightest air. "i've given notice, we're not going to use the room up at the top of the house," timidly interposed coupeau. "we are keeping gervaise's room, which is larger." madame lorilleux forgot herself. she turned abruptly round. "that's worse than all!" cried she. "you're going to sleep in clump-clump's room." gervaise became quite pale. this nickname, which she received full in the face for the first time, fell on her like a blow. and she fully understood it, too, her sister-in-law's exclamation: the clump-clump's room was the room in which she had lived for a month with lantier, where the shreds of her past life still hung about. coupeau did not understand this, but merely felt hurt at the harsh nickname. "you do wrong to christen others," he replied angrily. "you don't know perhaps, that in the neighborhood they call you cow's-tail, because of your hair. there, that doesn't please you, does it? why should we not keep the room on the first floor? to-night the children won't sleep there, and we shall be very comfortable." madame lorilleux added nothing further, but retired into her dignity, horribly annoyed at being called cow's-tail. to cheer up gervaise, coupeau squeezed her arm softly. he even succeeded in making her smile by whispering into her ear that they were setting up housekeeping with the grand sum of seven sous, three big two-sou pieces and one little sou, which he jingled in his pocket. when they reached the hotel boncoeur, the two couples wished each other good-night, with an angry air; and as coupeau pushed the two women into each other's arms, calling them a couple of ninnies, a drunken fellow, who seemed to want to go to the right, suddenly slipped to the left and came tumbling between them. "why, it's old bazouge!" said lorilleux. "he's had his fill to-day." gervaise, frightened, squeezed up against the door of the hotel. old bazouge, an undertaker's helper of some fifty years of age, had his black trousers all stained with mud, his black cape hooked on to his shoulder, and his black feather hat knocked in by some tumble he had taken. "don't be afraid, he's harmless," continued lorilleux. "he's a neighbor of ours--the third room in the passage before us. he would find himself in a nice mess if his people were to see him like this!" old bazouge, however, felt offended at the young woman's evident terror. "well, what!" hiccoughed he, "we ain't going to eat any one. i'm as good as another any day, my little woman. no doubt i've had a drop! when work's plentiful one must grease the wheels. it's not you, nor your friends, who would have carried down the stiff 'un of forty-seven stone whom i and a pal brought from the fourth floor to the pavement, and without smashing him too. i like jolly people." but gervaise retreated further into the doorway, seized with a longing to cry, which spoilt her day of sober-minded joy. she no longer thought of kissing her sister-in-law, she implored coupeau to get rid of the drunkard. then bazouge, as he stumbled about, made a gesture of philosophical disdain. "that won't prevent you passing though our hands, my little woman. you'll perhaps be glad to do so, one of these days. yes, i know some women who'd be much obliged if we did carry them off." and, as lorilleux led him away, he turned around, and stuttered out a last sentence, between two hiccoughs. "when you're dead--listen to this--when you're dead, it's for a long, long time." chapter iv. then followed four years of hard work. in the neighborhood, gervaise and coupeau had the reputation of being a happy couple, living in retirement without quarrels, and taking a short walk regularly every sunday in the direction of st. ouen. the wife worked twelve hours a day at madame fauconnier's, and still found means to keep their lodging as clean and bright as a new coined sou and to prepare the meals for all her little family, morning and evening. the husband never got drunk, brought his wages home every fortnight, and smoked a pipe at his window in the evening, to get a breath of fresh air before going to bed. they were frequently alluded to on account of their nice, pleasant ways; and as between them they earned close upon nine francs a day, it was reckoned that they were able to put by a good deal of money. however, during their first months together they had to struggle hard to get by. their wedding had left them owing two hundred francs. also, they detested the hotel boncoeur as they didn't like the other occupants. their dream was to have a home of their own with their own furniture. they were always figuring how much they would need and decided three hundred and fifty francs at least, in order to be able to buy little items that came up later. they were in despair at ever being able to collect such a large sum when a lucky chance came their way. an old gentleman at plassans offered to take the older boy, claude, and send him to an academy down there. the old man, who loved art, had previously been much impressed by claude's sketches. claude had already begun to cost them quite a bit. now, with only etienne to support, they were able to accumulate the money in a little over seven months. one day they were finally able to buy their own furniture from a second-hand dealer on rue belhomme. their hearts filled with happiness, they celebrated by walking home along the exterior boulevards. they had purchased a bed, a night table, a chest of drawers with a marble top, a wardrobe, a round table covered with oilcloth, and six chairs. all were of dark mahogany. they also bought blankets, linen, and kitchen utensils that were scarcely used. it meant settling down and giving themselves a status in life as property owners, as persons to be respected. for two months past they had been busy seeking some new apartments. at first they wanted above everything to hire these in the big house of the rue de la goutte-d'or. but there was not a single room to let there; so that they had to relinquish their old dream. to tell the truth, gervaise was rather glad in her heart; the neighborhood of the lorilleux almost door to door, frightened her immensely. then, they looked about elsewhere. coupeau, very properly did not wish to be far from madame fauconnier's so that gervaise could easily run home at any hour of the day. and at length they met with exactly what suited them, a large room with a small closet and a kitchen, in the rue neuve de la goutte-d'or, almost opposite the laundress's. this was in a small two-story building with a very steep staircase. there were two apartments on the second floor, one to the left, the other to the right, the ground floor was occupied by a man who rented out carriages, which filled the sheds in the large stable yard by the street. gervaise was delighted with this as it made her feel she was back in a country town. with no close neighbors there would be no gossip to worry about in this little corner. it reminded her of a small lane outside the ramparts of plassans. she could even see her own window while ironing at the laundry by just tilting her head to the side. they took possession of their new abode at the april quarter. gervaise was then eight months advanced. but she showed great courage, saying with a laugh that the baby helped her as she worked; she felt its influence growing within her and giving her strength. ah, well! she just laughed at coupeau whenever he wanted her to lie down and rest herself! she would take to her bed when the labor pains came. that would be quite soon enough as with another mouth to feed, they would have to work harder than ever. she made their new place bright and shiny before helping her husband install the furniture. she loved the furniture, polishing it and becoming almost heart-broken at the slightest scratch. any time she knocked into the furniture while cleaning she would stop with a sudden shock as though she had hurt herself. the chest of drawers was especially dear to her. she thought it handsome, sturdy and most respectable-looking. the dream that she hadn't dared to mention was to get a clock and put it right in the middle of the marble top. it would make a splendid effect. she probably would have bought one right away except for the expected baby. the couple were thoroughly enchanted with their new home. etienne's bed occupied the small closet, where there was still room to put another child's crib. the kitchen was a very tiny affair and as dark as night, but by leaving the door wide open, one could just manage to see; besides, gervaise had not to cook meals for thirty people, all she wanted was room to make her soup. as for the large room, it was their pride. the first thing in the morning, they drew the curtains of the alcove, white calico curtains; and the room was thus transformed into a dining-room, with the table in the centre, and the wardrobe and chest of drawers facing each other. they stopped up the chimney since it burned as much as fifteen sous of coal a day. a small cast-iron stove on the marble hearth gave them enough warmth on cold days for only seven sous. coupeau had also done his best to decorate the walls. there was a large engraving showing a marshal of france on horseback with a baton in his hand. family photographs were arranged in two rows on top of the chest of drawers on each side of an old holy-water basin in which they kept matches. busts of pascal and beranger were on top of the wardrobe. it was really a handsome room. "guess how much we pay here?" gervaise would ask of every visitor she had. and whenever they guessed too high a sum, she triumphed and delighted at being so well suited for such a little money, cried: "one hundred and fifty francs, not a sou more! isn't it almost like having it for nothing!" the street, rue neuve de la goutte d'or, played an important part in their contentment. gervaise's whole life was there, as she traveled back and forth endlessly between her home and madame fauconnier's laundry. coupeau now went down every evening and stood on the doorstep to smoke his pipe. the poorly-paved street rose steeply and had no sidewalks. toward rue de la goutte d'or there were some gloomy shops with dirty windows. there were shoemakers, coopers, a run-down grocery, and a bankrupt cafe whose closed shutters were covered with posters. in the opposite direction, toward paris, four-story buildings blocked the sky. their ground floor shops were all occupied by laundries with one exception--a green-painted store front typical of a small-town hair-dresser. its shop windows were full of variously colored flasks. it lighted up this drab corner with the gay brightness of its copper bowls which were always shining. the most pleasant part of the street was in between, where the buildings were fewer and lower, letting in more sunlight. the carriage sheds, the plant which manufactured soda water, and the wash-house opposite made a wide expanse of quietness. the muffled voices of the washerwomen and the rhythmic puffing of the steam engine seemed to deepen the almost religious silence. open fields and narrow lanes vanishing between dark walls gave it the air of a country village. coupeau, always amused by the infrequent pedestrians having to jump over the continuous streams of soapy water, said it reminded him of a country town where his uncle had taken him when he was five years old. gervaise's greatest joy was a tree growing in the courtyard to the left of their window, an acacia that stretched out a single branch and yet, with its meager foliage, lent charm to the entire street. it was on the last day of april that gervaise was confined. the pains came on in the afternoon, towards four o'clock, as she was ironing a pair of curtains at madame fauconnier's. she would not go home at once, but remained there wriggling about on a chair, and continuing her ironing every time the pain allowed her to do so; the curtains were wanted quickly and she obstinately made a point of finishing them. besides, perhaps after all it was only a colic; it would never do to be frightened by a bit of a stomach-ache. but as she was talking of starting on some shirts, she became quite pale. she was obliged to leave the work-shop, and cross the street doubled in two, holding on to the walls. one of the workwomen offered to accompany her; she declined, but begged her to go instead for the midwife, close by, in the rue de la charbonniere. this was only a false alarm; there was no need to make a fuss. she would be like that no doubt all through the night. it was not going to prevent her getting coupeau's dinner ready as soon as she was indoors; then she might perhaps lie down on the bed a little, but without undressing. on the staircase she was seized with such a violent pain, that she was obliged to sit down on one of the stairs; and she pressed her two fists against her mouth to prevent herself from crying out, for she would have been ashamed to have been found there by any man, had one come up. the pain passed away; she was able to open her door, feeling relieved, and thinking that she had decidedly been mistaken. that evening she was going to make a stew with some neck chops. all went well while she peeled the potatoes. the chops were cooking in a saucepan when the pains returned. she mixed the gravy as she stamped about in front of the stove, almost blinded with her tears. if she was going to give birth, that was no reason why coupeau should be kept without his dinner. at length the stew began to simmer on a fire covered with cinders. she went into the other room, and thought she would have time to lay the cloth at one end of the table. but she was obliged to put down the bottle of wine very quickly; she no longer had strength to reach the bed; she fell prostrate, and she had more pains on a mat on the floor. when the midwife arrived, a quarter of an hour later, she found mother and baby lying there on the floor. the zinc-worker was still employed at the hospital. gervaise would not have him disturbed. when he came home at seven o'clock, he found her in bed, well covered up, looking very pale on the pillow, and the child crying, swathed in a shawl at its mother's feet. "ah, my poor wife!" said coupeau, kissing gervaise. "and i was joking only an hour ago, whilst you were crying with pain! i say, you don't make much fuss about it--the time to sneeze and it's all over." she smiled faintly; then she murmured: "it's a girl." "right!" the zinc-worker replied, joking so as to enliven her, "i ordered a girl! well, now i've got what i wanted! you do everything i wish!" and, taking the child up in his arms, he continued: "let's have a look at you, miss! you've got a very black little mug. it'll get whiter, never fear. you must be good, never run about the streets, and grow up sensible like your papa and mamma." gervaise looked at her daughter very seriously, with wide open eyes, slowly overshadowed with sadness, for she would rather have had a boy. boys can talk care of themselves and don't have to run such risks on the streets of paris as girls do. the midwife took the infant from coupeau. she forbade gervaise to do any talking; it was bad enough there was so much noise around her. then the zinc-worker said that he must tell the news to mother coupeau and the lorilleuxs, but he was dying with hunger, he must first of all have his dinner. it was a great worry to the invalid to see him have to wait on himself, run to the kitchen for the stew, eat it out of a soup plate, and not be able to find the bread. in spite of being told not to do so, she bewailed her condition, and fidgeted about in her bed. it was stupid of her not to have managed to set the cloth, the pains had laid her on her back like a blow from a bludgeon. her poor old man would not think it kind of her to be nursing herself up there whilst he was dining so badly. at least were the potatoes cooked enough? she no longer remembered whether she had put salt in them. "keep quiet!" cried the midwife. "ah! if only you could stop her from wearing herself out!" said coupeau with his mouth full. "if you were not here, i'd bet she'd get up to cut my bread. keep on your back, you big goose! you mustn't move about, otherwise it'll be a fortnight before you'll be able to stand on your legs. your stew's very good. madame will eat some with me, won't you, madame?" the midwife declined; but she was willing to accept a glass of wine, because it had upset her, said she to find the poor woman with the baby on the mat. coupeau at length went off to tell the news to his relations. half an hour later he returned with all of them, mother coupeau, the lorilleuxs, and madame lerat, whom he had met at the latter's. "i've brought you the whole gang!" cried coupeau. "it can't be helped! they wanted to see you. don't open your mouth, it's forbidden. they'll stop here and look at you without ceremony, you know. as for me, i'm going to make them some coffee, and of the right sort!" he disappeared into the kitchen. mother coupeau after kissing gervaise, became amazed at the child's size. the two other women also kissed the invalid on her cheeks. and all three, standing before the bed, commented with divers exclamations on the details of the confinement--a most remarkable confinement, just like having a tooth pulled, nothing more. madame lerat examined the baby all over, declared she was well formed, even added that she could grow up into an attractive woman. noticing that the head had been squeezed into a point on top, she kneaded it gently despite the infant's cries, trying to round it a bit. madame lorilleux grabbed the baby from her; that could be enough to give the poor little thing all sorts of vicious tendencies, meddling with it like that while her skull was still soft. she then tried to figure out who the baby resembled. this almost led to a quarrel. lorilleux, peering over the women's shoulders, insisted that the little girl didn't look the least bit like coupeau. well, maybe a little around the nose, nothing more. she was her mother all over again, with big eyes like hers. certainly there were no eyes like that in the coupeau family. coupeau, however, had failed to reappear. one could hear him in the kitchen struggling with the grate and the coffee-pot. gervaise was worrying herself frightfully; it was not the proper thing for a man to make coffee; and she called and told him what to do, without listening to the midwife's energetic "hush!" "here we are!" said coupeau, entering with the coffee-pot in his hand. "didn't i just have a bother with it! it all went wrong on purpose! now we'll drink out of glasses, won't we? because you know, the cups are still at the shop." they seated themselves around the table, and the zinc-worker insisted on pouring out the coffee himself. it smelt very strong, it was none of that weak stuff. when the midwife had sipped hers up, she went off; everything was going on nicely, she was not required. if the young woman did not pass a good night they were to send for her on the morrow. she was scarcely down the staircase, when madame lorilleux called her a glutton and a good-for-nothing. she put four lumps of sugar in her coffee, and charged fifteen francs for leaving you with your baby all by yourself. but coupeau took her part; he would willingly fork out the fifteen francs. after all those sort of women spent their youth in studying, they were right to charge a good price. it was then lorilleux who got into a quarrel with madame lerat by maintaining that, in order to have a son, the head of the bed should be turned to the north. she shrugged her shoulders at such nonsense, offering another formula which consisted in hiding under the mattress, without letting your wife know, a handful of fresh nettles picked in bright sunlight. the table had been pushed over close to the bed. until ten o'clock gervaise lay there, smiling although she was only half awake. she was becoming more and more weary, her head turned sideways on the pillow. she no longer had the energy to venture a remark or a gesture. it seemed to her that she was dead, a very sweet death, from the depths of which she was happy to observe the others still in the land of the living. the thin cries of her baby daughter rose above the hum of heavy voices that were discussing a recent murder on rue du bon puits, at the other end of la chapelle. then, as the visitors were thinking of leaving, they spoke of the christening. the lorilleux had promised to be godfather and godmother; they looked very glum over the matter. however, if they had not been asked to stand they would have felt rather peculiar. coupeau did not see any need for christening the little one; it certainly would not procure her an income of ten thousand francs, and besides she might catch a cold from it. the less one had to do with priests the better. but mother coupeau called him a heathen. the lorilleux, without going and eating consecrated bread in church, plumed themselves on their religious sentiments. "it shall be next sunday, if you like," said the chainmaker. and gervaise having consented by a nod, everyone kissed her and told her to take good care of herself. they also wished the baby good-bye. each one went and leant over the little trembling body with smiles and loving words as though she were able to understand. they called her nana, the pet name for anna, which was her godmother's name. "good night, nana. come be a good girl, nana." when they had at length gone off, coupeau drew his chair close up to the bed and finished his pipe, holding gervaise's hand in his. he smoked slowly, deeply affected and uttering sentences between the puffs. "well, old woman, they've made your head ache, haven't they? you see i couldn't prevent them coming. after all, it shows their friendship. but we're better alone, aren't we? i wanted to be alone like this with you. it has seemed such a long evening to me! poor little thing, she's had a lot to go through! those shrimps, when they come out into the world, have no idea of the pain they cause. it must really almost be like being split in two. where does it hurt the most, that i may kiss it and make it well?" he had carefully slid one of his big hands under her back, and now he drew her toward him, bending over to kiss her stomach through the covers, touched by a rough man's compassion for the suffering of a woman in childbirth. he inquired if he was hurting her. gervaise felt very happy, and answered him that it didn't hurt any more at all. she was only worried about getting up as soon as possible, because there was no time to lie about now. he assured her that he'd be responsible for earning the money for the new little one. he would be a real bum if he abandoned her and the little rascal. the way he figured it, what really counted was bringing her up properly. wasn't that so? coupeau did not sleep much that night. he covered up the fire in the stove. every hour he had to get up to give the baby spoonfuls of lukewarm sugar and water. that did not prevent his going off to his work in the morning as usual. he even took advantage of his lunch-hour to make a declaration of the birth at the mayor's. during this time madame boche, who had been informed of the event, had hastened to go and pass the day with gervaise. but the latter, after ten hours of sleep, bewailed her position, saying that she already felt pains all over her through having been so long in bed. she would become quite ill if they did not let her get up. in the evening, when coupeau returned home, she told him all her worries; no doubt she had confidence in madame boche, only it put her beside herself to see a stranger installed in her room, opening the drawers, and touching her things. on the morrow the concierge, on returning from some errand, found her up, dressed, sweeping and getting her husband's dinner ready; and it was impossible to persuade her to go to bed again. they were trying to make a fool of her perhaps! it was all very well for ladies to pretend to be unable to move. when one was not rich one had no time for that sort of thing. three days after her confinement she was ironing petticoats at madame fauconnier's, banging her irons and all in a perspiration from the great heat of the stove. on the saturday evening, madame lorilleux brought her presents for her godchild--a cup that cost thirty-five sous, and a christening dress, plaited and trimmed with some cheap lace, which she had got for six francs, because it was slightly soiled. on the morrow, lorilleux, as godfather, gave the mother six pounds of sugar. they certainly did things properly! at the baptism supper which took place at the coupeaus that evening, they did not come empty-handed. lorilleux carried a bottle of fine wine under each arm and his wife brought a large custard pie from a famous pastry shop on chaussee clignancourt. but the lorilleuxs made sure that the entire neighborhood knew they had spent twenty francs. as soon as gervaise learned of their gossiping, furious, she stopped giving them credit for generosity. it was at the christening feast that the coupeaus ended by becoming intimately acquainted with their neighbors on the opposite side of the landing. the other lodging in the little house was occupied by two persons, mother and son, the goujets as they were called. until then the two families had merely nodded to each other on the stairs and in the street, nothing more; the coupeaus thought their neighbors seemed rather bearish. then the mother, having carried up a pail of water for gervaise on the morrow of her confinement, the latter had thought it the proper thing to invite them to the feast, more especially as she considered them very respectable people. and naturally, they there became well acquainted with each other. the goujets came from the departement du nord. the mother mended lace; the son, a blacksmith, worked at an iron bolt factory. they had lived in their lodging for five years. behind the quiet peacefulness of their life, a long standing sorrow was hidden. goujet the father, one day when furiously drunk at lille, had beaten a comrade to death with an iron bar and had afterwards strangled himself in prison with his handkerchief. the widow and child, who had come to paris after their misfortune, always felt the tragedy hanging over their heads, and atoned for it by a strict honesty and an unvarying gentleness and courage. they had a certain amount of pride in their attitude and regarded themselves as better than other people. madame goujet, dressed in black as usual, her forehead framed in a nun's hood, had a pale, calm, matronly face, as if the whiteness of the lace and the delicate work of her fingers had cast a glow of serenity over her. goujet was twenty-three years old, huge, magnificently built, with deep blue eyes and rosy cheeks, and the strength of hercules. his comrades at the shop called him "golden mouth" because of his handsome blonde beard. gervaise at once felt a great friendship for these people. when she entered their home for the first time, she was amazed at the cleanliness of the lodging. there was no denying it, one might blow about the place without raising a grain of dust; and the tiled floor shone like a mirror. madame goujet made her enter her son's room, just to see it. it was pretty and white like the room of a young girl; an iron bedstead with muslin curtains, a table, a washstand, and a narrow bookcase hanging against the wall. then there were pictures all over the place, figures cut out, colored engravings nailed up with four tacks, and portraits of all kinds of persons taken from the illustrated papers. madame goujet said with a smile that her son was a big baby. he found that reading in the evening put him to sleep, so he amused himself looking at pictures. gervaise spent an hour with her neighbor without noticing the passing of time. madame goujet had gone to sit by the window and work on her lace. gervaise was fascinated by the hundreds of pins that held the lace, and she felt happy to be there, breathing in the good clean atmosphere of this home where such a delicate task enforced a sort of meditative silence. the goujets were worth visiting. they worked long hours, and placed more than a quarter of their fortnight's earnings in the savings-bank. in the neighborhood everyone nodded to them, everyone talked of their savings. goujet never had a hole in his clothes, always went out in a clean short blue blouse, without a stain. he was very polite, and even a trifle timid, in spite of his broad shoulders. the washerwomen at the end of the street laughed to see him hold down his head when he passed them. he did not like their oaths, and thought it disgusting that women should be constantly uttering foul words. one day, however, he came home tipsy. then madame goujet, for sole reproach, held his father's portrait before him, a daub of a painting hidden away at the bottom of a drawer; and, ever since that lesson, goujet never drank more than was good for him, without however, any hatred of wine, for wine is necessary to the workman. on sundays he walked out with his mother, who took hold of his arm. he would generally conduct her to vincennes; at other times they would go to the theatre. his mother remained his passion. he still spoke to her as though he were a little child. square-headed, his skin toughened by the wielding of the heavy hammer, he somewhat resembled the larger animals: dull of intellect, though good-natured all the same. in the early days of their acquaintance, gervaise embarrassed him immensely. then in a few weeks he became accustomed to her. he watched for her that he might carry up her parcels, treated her as a sister, with an abrupt familiarity, and cut out pictures for her. one morning, however, having opened her door without knocking, he beheld her half undressed, washing her neck; and, for a week, he did not dare to look her in the face, so much so that he ended by making her blush herself. young cassis, with the casual wit of a born parisian, called golden mouth a dolt. it was all right not to get drunk all the time or chase women, but still, a man must be a man, or else he might as well wear skirts. coupeau teased him in front of gervaise, accusing him of making up to all the women in the neighborhood. goujet vigorously defended himself against the charge. but this didn't prevent the two workingmen from becoming best of friends. they went off to work together in the mornings and sometimes had a glass of beer together on the way home. it eventually came about that golden mouth could render a service to young cassis, one of those favors that is remembered forever. it was the second of december. the zinc-worker decided, just for the fun of it, to go into the city and watch the rioting. he didn't really care about the republic, or napoleon or anything like that, but he liked the smell of gunpowder and the sound of the rifles firing. he would have been arrested as a rioter if the blacksmith hadn't turned up at the barricade at just that moment and helped him escape. goujet was very serious as they walked back up the rue du faubourg poissonniere. he was interested in politics and believed in the republic. but he had never fired a gun because the common people were getting tired of fighting battles for the middle classes who always seemed to get the benefit of them. as they reached the top of the slope of the rue du faubourg poissonniere, goujet turned to look back at paris and the mobs. after all, some day people would be sorry that they just stood by and did nothing. coupeau laughed at this, saying you would be pretty stupid to risk your neck just to preserve the twenty-five francs a day for the lazybones in the legislative assembly. that evening the coupeaus invited the goujets to dinner. after desert young cassis and golden mouth kissed each other on the cheek. their lives were joined till death. for three years the existence of the two families went on, on either side of the landing, without an event. gervaise was able to take care of her daughter and still work most of the week. she was now a skilled worker on fine laundry and earned up to three francs a day. she decided to put etienne, now nearly eight, into a small boarding-school on rue de chartres for five francs a week. despite the expenses for the two children, they were able to save twenty or thirty francs each month. once they had six hundred francs saved, gervaise often lay awake thinking of her ambitious dream: she wanted to rent a small shop, hire workers, and go into the laundry business herself. if this effort worked, they would have a steady income from savings in twenty years. they could retire and live in the country. yet she hesitated, saying she was looking for the right shop. she was giving herself time to think it over. their savings were safe in the bank, and growing larger. so, in three years' time she had only fulfilled one of her dreams--she had bought a clock. but even this clock, made of rosewood with twined columns and a pendulum of gilded brass, was being paid for in installments of twenty-two sous each monday for a year. she got upset if coupeau tried to wind it; she liked to be the only one to lift off the glass dome. it was under the glass dome, behind the clock, that she hid her bank book. sometimes, when she was dreaming of her shop, she would stare fixedly at the clock, lost in thought. the coupeaus went out nearly every sunday with the goujets. they were pleasant little excursions, sometimes to have some fried fish at saint-ouen, at others a rabbit at vincennes, in the garden of some eating-house keeper without any grand display. the men drank sufficient to quench their thirst, and returned home as right as nine-pins, giving their arms to the ladies. in the evening before going to bed, the two families made up accounts and each paid half the expenses; and there was never the least quarrel about a sou more or less. the lorilleuxs became jealous of the goujets. it seemed strange to them to see young cassis and clump-clump going places all the time with strangers instead of their own relations. but, that's the way it was; some folks didn't care a bit about their family. now that they had saved a few sous, they thought they were really somebody. madame lorilleux was much annoyed to see her brother getting away from her influence and begin to continually run down gervaise to everyone. on the other hand, madame lerat took the young wife's side. mother coupeau tried to get along with everybody. she only wanted to be welcomed by all three of her children. now that her eyesight was getting dimmer and dimmer she only had one regular house cleaning job but she was able to pick up some small jobs now and again. on the day on which nana was three years old, coupeau, on returning home in the evening, found gervaise quite upset. she refused to talk about it; there was nothing at all the matter with her, she said. but, as she had the table all wrong, standing still with the plates in her hands, absorbed in deep reflection, her husband insisted upon knowing what was the matter. "well, it is this," she ended by saying, "the little draper's shop in the rue de la goutte-d'or, is to let. i saw it only an hour ago, when going to buy some cotton. it gave me quite a turn." it was a very decent shop, and in that big house where they dreamed of living in former days. there was the shop, a back room, and two other rooms to the right and left; in short, just what they required. the rooms were rather small, but well placed. only, she considered they wanted too much; the landlord talked of five hundred francs. "so you've been over the place, and asked the price?" said coupeau. "oh! you know, only out of curiosity!" replied she, affecting an air of indifference. "one looks about, and goes in wherever there's a bill up--that doesn't bind one to anything. but that shop is altogether too dear. besides, it would perhaps be foolish of me to set up in business." however, after dinner, she again referred to the draper's shop. she drew a plan of the place on the margin of a newspaper. and, little by little, she talked it over, measuring the corners, and arranging the rooms, as though she were going to move all her furniture in there on the morrow. then coupeau advised her to take it, seeing how she wanted to do so; she would certainly never find anything decent under five hundred francs; besides they might perhaps get a reduction. he knew only one objection to it and that was living in the same house as the lorilleux, whom she could not bear. gervaise declared that she wasn't mad at anybody. so much did she want her own shop that she even spoke up for the lorilleuxs, saying that they weren't mean at heart and that she would be able to get along just fine with them. when they went to bed, coupeau fell asleep immediately, but she stayed awake, planning how she could arrange the new place even though she hadn't yet made up her mind completely. on the morrow, when she was alone, she could not resist removing the glass cover from the clock, and taking a peep at the savings-bank book. to think that her shop was there, in those dirty pages, covered with ugly writing! before going off to her work, she consulted madame goujet, who highly approved her project of setting up in business for herself; with a husband like hers, a good fellow who did not drink, she was certain of getting on, and of not having her earnings squandered. at the luncheon hour gervaise even called on the lorilleuxs to ask their advice; she did not wish to appear to be doing anything unknown to the family. madame lorilleux was struck all of a heap. what! clump-clump was going in for a shop now! and her heart bursting with envy, she stammered, and tried to pretend to be pleased: no doubt the shop was a convenient one--gervaise was right in taking it. however, when she had somewhat recovered, she and her husband talked of the dampness of the courtyard, of the poor light of the rooms on the ground floor. oh! it was a good place for rheumatism. yet, if she had made up her mind to take it, their observations, of course, would not make her alter her decision. that evening gervaise frankly owned with a laugh that she would have fallen ill if she had been prevented from having the shop. nevertheless, before saying "it's done!" she wished to take coupeau to see the place, and try and obtain a reduction in the rent. "very well, then, to-morrow, if you like," said her husband. "you can come and fetch me towards six o'clock at the house where i'm working, in the rue de la nation, and we'll call in at the rue de la goutte-d'or on our way home." coupeau was then finishing the roofing of a new three-storied house. it so happened that on that day he was to fix the last sheets of zinc. as the roof was almost flat, he had set up his bench on it, a wide shutter supported on two trestles. a beautiful may sun was setting, giving a golden hue to the chimney-pots. and, right up at the top, against the clear sky, the workman was quietly cutting up his zinc with a big pair of shears, leaning over the bench, and looking like a tailor in his shop cutting out a pair of trousers. close to the wall of the next house, his boy, a youngster of seventeen, thin and fair, was keeping the fire of the chafing dish blazing by the aid of an enormous pair of bellows, each puff of which raised a cloud of sparks. "hi! zidore, put in the irons!" cried coupeau. the boy stuck the soldering irons into the midst of the charcoal, which looked a pale rose color in the daylight. then he resumed blowing. coupeau held the last sheet of zinc. it had to be placed at the edge of the roof, close to the gutter-pipe; there was an abrupt slant there, and the gaping void of the street opened beneath. the zinc-worker, just as though in his own home, wearing his list-shoes, advanced, dragging his feet, and whistling the air, "oh! the little lambs." arrived in front of the opening, he let himself down, and then, supporting himself with one knee against the masonry of a chimney-stack, remained half-way out over the pavement below. one of his legs dangled. when he leant back to call that young viper, zidore, he held on to a corner of the masonry, on account of the street beneath him. "you confounded dawdler! give me the irons! it's no use looking up in the air, you skinny beggar! the larks won't tumble into your mouth already cooked!" but zidore did not hurry himself. he was interested in the neighboring roofs, and in a cloud of smoke which rose from the other side of paris, close to grenelle; it was very likely a fire. however, he came and laid down on his stomach, his head over the opening, and he passed the irons to coupeau. then the latter commenced to solder the sheet. he squatted, he stretched, always managing to balance himself, sometimes seated on one side, at other times standing on the tip of one foot, often only holding on by a finger. he had a confounded assurance, the devil's own cheek, familiar with danger, and braving it. it knew him. it was the street that was afraid, not he. as he kept his pipe in his mouth, he turned round every now and then to spit onto the pavement. "look, there's madame boche," he suddenly exclaimed and called down to her. "hi! madame boche." he had just caught sight of the concierge crossing the road. she raised her head and recognised him, and a conversation ensued between them. she hid her hands under her apron, her nose elevated in the air. he, standing up now, his left arm passed round a chimney-pot, leant over. "have you seen my wife?" asked he. "no, i haven't," replied the concierge. "is she around here?" "she's coming to fetch me. and are they all well at home?" "why, yes, thanks; i'm the most ill, as you see. i'm going to the chaussee clignancourt to buy a small leg of mutton. the butcher near the moulin-rouge only charges sixteen sous." they raised their voices, because a vehicle was passing. in the wide, deserted rue de la nation, their words, shouted out with all their might, had only caused a little old woman to come to her window; and this little old woman remained there leaning out, giving herself the treat of a grand emotion by watching that man on the roof over the way, as though she expected to see him fall, from one minute to another. "well! good evening," cried madame boche. "i won't disturb you." coupeau turned round, and took back the iron that zidore was holding for him. but just as the concierge was moving off, she caught sight of gervaise on the other side of the way, holding nana by the hand. she was already raising her head to tell the zinc-worker, when the young woman closed her mouth by an energetic gesture, and, in a low voice, so as not to be heard up there, she told her of her fear: she was afraid, by showing herself suddenly, of giving her husband a shock which might make him lose his balance. during the four years, she had only been once to fetch him at his work. that day was the second time. she could not witness it, her blood turned cold when she beheld her old man between heaven and earth, in places where even the sparrows would not venture. "no doubt, it's not pleasant," murmured madame boche. "my husband's a tailor, so i have none of these terrors." "if you only knew, in the early days," said gervaise again, "i had frights from morning till night. i was always seeing him on a stretcher, with his head smashed. now, i don't think of it so much. one gets used to everything. bread must be earned. all the same, it's a precious dear loaf, for one risks one's bones more than is fair." and she left off speaking, hiding nana in her skirt, fearing a cry from the little one. very pale, she looked up in spite of herself. at that moment coupeau was soldering the extreme edge of the sheet close to the gutter; he slid down as far as possible, but without being able to reach the edge. then, he risked himself with those slow movements peculiar to workmen. for an instant he was immediately over the pavement, no long holding on, all absorbed in his work; and, from below, one could see the little white flame of the solder frizzling up beneath the carefully wielded iron. gervaise, speechless, her throat contracted with anguish, had clasped her hands together, and held them up in mechanical gesture of prayer. but she breathed freely as coupeau got up and returned back along the roof, without hurrying himself, and taking the time to spit once more into the street. "ah! ah! so you've been playing the spy on me!" cried he, gaily, on beholding her. "she's been making a stupid of herself, eh, madame boche? she wouldn't call to me. wait a bit, i shall have finished in ten minutes." all that remained to do was to fix the top of the chimney--a mere nothing. the laundress and the concierge waited on the pavement, discussing the neighborhood, and giving an eye to nana, to prevent her from dabbling in the gutter, where she wanted to look for little fishes; and the two women kept glancing up at the roof, smiling and nodding their heads, as though to imply that they were not losing patience. the old woman opposite had not left her window, had continued watching the man, and waiting. "whatever can she have to look at, that old she-goat?" said madame boche. "what a mug she has!" one could hear the loud voice of the zinc-worker up above singing, "ah! it's nice to gather strawberries!" bending over his bench, he was now artistically cutting out his zinc. with his compasses he traced a line, and he detached a large fan-shaped piece with the aid of a pair of curved shears; then he lightly bent this fan with his hammer into the form of a pointed mushroom. zidore was again blowing the charcoal in the chafing-dish. the sun was setting behind the house in a brilliant rosy light, which was gradually becoming paler, and turning to a delicate lilac. and, at this quiet hour of the day, right up against the sky, the silhouettes of the two workmen, looking inordinately large, with the dark line of the bench, and the strange profile of the bellows, stood out from the limpid back-ground of the atmosphere. when the chimney-top was got into shape, coupeau called out: "zidore! the irons!" but zidore had disappeared. the zinc-worker swore, and looked about for him, even calling him through the open skylight of the loft. at length he discovered him on a neighboring roof, two houses off. the young rogue was taking a walk, exploring the environs, his fair scanty locks blowing in the breeze, his eyes blinking as they beheld the immensity of paris. "i say, lazy bones! do you think you're having a day in the country?" asked coupeau, in a rage. "you're like monsieur beranger, composing verses, perhaps! will you give me those irons! did any one ever see such a thing! strolling about on the house-tops! why not bring your sweetheart at once, and tell her of your love? will you give me those irons? you confounded little shirker!" he finished his soldering, and called to gervaise: "there, it's done. i'm coming down." the chimney-pot to which he had to fix the flue was in the middle of the roof. gervaise, who was no longer uneasy, continued to smile as she followed his movements. nana, amused all on a sudden by the view of her father, clapped her little hands. she had seated herself on the pavement to see the better up there. "papa! papa!" called she with all her might. "papa! just look!" the zinc-worker wished to lean forward, but his foot slipped. then suddenly, stupidly, like a cat with its legs entangled, he rolled and descended the slight slope of the roof without being able to grab hold of anything. "_mon dieu_," he cried in a choked voice. and he fell. his body described a gentle curve, turned twice over on itself, and came smashing into the middle of the street with the dull thud of a bundle of clothes thrown from on high. gervaise, stupefied, her throat rent by one great cry, stood holding up her arms. some passers-by hastened to the spot; a crowd soon formed. madame boche, utterly upset, her knees bending under her, took nana in her arms, to hide her head and prevent her seeing. meanwhile, the little old woman opposite quietly closed her window, as though satisfied. four men ended by carrying coupeau into a chemist's, at the corner of the rue des poissonniers; and he remained there on a blanket, in the middle of the shop, whilst they sent to the lariboisiere hospital for a stretcher. he was still breathing. gervaise, sobbing, was kneeling on the floor beside him, her face smudged with tears, stunned and unseeing. her hands would reach to feel her husband's limbs with the utmost gentleness. then she would draw back as she had been warned not to touch him. but a few seconds later she would touch him to assure herself that he was still warm, feeling somehow that she was helping him. when the stretcher at length arrived, and they talked of starting for the hospital, she got up, saying violently: "no, no, not to the hospital! we live in the rue neuve de la goutte-d'or." it was useless for them to explain to her that the illness would cost her a great deal of money, if she took her husband home. she obstinately repeated: "rue neuve de la goutte-d'or; i will show you the house. what can it matter to you? i've got money. he's my husband, isn't he? he's mine, and i want him at home." and they had to take coupeau to his own home. when the stretcher was carried through the crowd which was crushing up against the chemist's shop, the women of the neighborhood were excitedly talking of gervaise. she limped, the dolt, but all the same she had some pluck. she would be sure to save her old man; whilst at the hospital the doctors let the patients die who were very bad, so as not to have the bother of trying to cure them. madame boche, after taking nana home with her, returned, and gave her account of the accident, with interminable details, and still feeling agitated with the emotion she had passed through. "i was going to buy a leg of mutton; i was there, i saw him fall," repeated she. "it was all through the little one; he turned to look at her, and bang! ah! good heavens! i never want to see such a sight again. however, i must be off to get my leg of mutton." for a week coupeau was very bad. the family, the neighbors, everyone, expected to see him turn for the worse at any moment. the doctor--a very expensive doctor, who charged five francs for each visit--apprehended internal injuries, and these words filled everyone with fear. it was said in the neighborhood that the zinc-worker's heart had been injured by the shock. gervaise alone, looking pale through her nights of watching, serious and resolute, shrugged her shoulders. her old man's right leg was broken, everyone knew that; it would be set for him, and that was all. as for the rest, the injured heart, that was nothing. she knew how to restore a heart with ceaseless care. she was certain of getting him well and displayed magnificent faith. she stayed close by him and caressed him gently during the long bouts of fever without a moment of doubt. she was on her feet continuously for a whole week, completely absorbed by her determination to save him. she forgot the street outside, the entire city, and even her own children. on the ninth day, the doctor finally said that coupeau would live. gervaise collapsed into a chair, her body limp from fatigue. that night she consented to sleep for two hours with her head against the foot of the bed. coupeau's accident had created quite a commotion in the family. mother coupeau passed the nights with gervaise; but as early as nine o'clock she fell asleep on a chair. every evening, on returning from work, madame lerat went a long round out of her way to inquire how her brother was getting on. at first the lorilleuxs had called two or three times a day, offering to sit up and watch, and even bringing an easy-chair for gervaise. then it was not long before there were disputes as to the proper way to nurse invalids. madame lorilleux said that she had saved enough people's lives to know how to go about it. she accused the young wife of pushing her aside, of driving her away from her own brother's bed. certainly that clump-clump ought to be concerned about coupeau's getting well, for if she hadn't gone to rue de la nation to disturb him at his job, he would never had fallen. only, the way she was taking care of him, she would certainly finish him. when gervaise saw that coupeau was out of danger, she ceased guarding his bedside with so much jealous fierceness. now, they could no longer kill him, and she let people approach without mistrust. the family invaded the room. the convalescence would be a very long one; the doctor had talked of four months. then, during the long hours the zinc-worker slept, the lorilleux talked of gervaise as of a fool. she hadn't done any good by having her husband at home. at the hospital they would have cured him twice as quickly. lorilleux would have liked to have been ill, to have caught no matter what, just to show her that he did not hesitate for a moment to go to lariboisiere. madame lorilleux knew a lady who had just come from there. well! she had had chicken to eat morning and night. again and again the two of them went over their estimate of how much four months of convalescence would cost; workdays lost, the doctor and the medicines, and afterward good wine and fresh meat. if the coupeaus only used up their small savings, they would be very lucky indeed. they would probably have to go into debt. well, that was to be expected and it was their business. they had no right to expect any help from the family, which couldn't afford the luxury of keeping an invalid at home. it was just clump-clump's bad luck, wasn't it? why couldn't she have done as others did and let her man be taken to hospital? this just showed how stuck up she was. one evening madame lorilleux had the spitefulness to ask gervaise suddenly: "well! and your shop, when are you going to take it?" "yes," chuckled lorilleux, "the landlord's still waiting for you." gervaise was astonished. she had completely forgotten the shop; but she saw the wicked joy of those people, at the thought that she would no longer be able to take it, and she was bursting with anger. from that evening, in fact, they watched for every opportunity to twit her about her hopeless dream. when any one spoke of some impossible wish, they would say that it might be realized on the day that gervaise started in business, in a beautiful shop opening onto the street. and behind her back they would laugh fit to split their sides. she did not like to think such an unkind thing, but, really, the lorilleuxs now seemed to be very pleased at coupeau's accident, as it prevented her setting up as a laundress in the rue de la goutte-d'or. then she also wished to laugh, and show them how willingly she parted with the money for the sake of curing her husband. each time she took the savings-bank book from beneath the glass clock-tower in their presence, she would say gaily: "i'm going out; i'm going to rent my shop." she had not been willing to withdraw the money all at once. she took it out a hundred francs at a time, so as not to keep such a pile of gold and silver in her drawer; then, too, she vaguely hoped for some miracle, some sudden recovery, which would enable them not to part with the entire sum. at each journey to the savings-bank, on her return home, she added up on a piece of paper the money they had still left there. it was merely for the sake of order. their bank account might be getting smaller all the time, yet she went on with her quiet smile and common-sense attitude, keeping the account straight. it was a consolation to be able to use this money for such a good purpose, to have had it when faced with their misfortune. while coupeau was bed-ridden the goujets were very kind to gervaise. madame goujet was always ready to assist. she never went to shop without stopping to ask gervaise if there was anything she needed, sugar or butter or salt. she always brought over hot bouillon on the evenings she cooked _pot au feu_. sometimes, when gervaise seemed to have too much to do, madame goujet helped her do the dishes, or cleaned the kitchen herself. goujet took her water pails every morning and filled them at the tap on rue des poissonniers, saving her two sous a day. after dinner, if no family came to visit, the goujets would come over to visit with the coupeaus. until ten o'clock, the blacksmith would smoke his pipe and watch gervaise busy with her invalid. he would not speak ten words the entire evening. he was moved to pity by the sight of her pouring coupeau's tea and medicine into a cup, or stirring the sugar in it very carefully so as to make no sound with the spoon. it stirred him deeply when she would lean over coupeau and speak in her soft voice. never before had he known such a fine woman. her limp increased the credit due her for wearing herself out doing things for her husband all day long. she never sat down for ten minutes, not even to eat. she was always running to the chemist's. and then she would still keep the house clean, not even a speck of dust. she never complained, no matter how exhausted she became. goujet developed a very deep affection for gervaise in this atmosphere of unselfish devotion. one day he said to the invalid, "well, old man, now you're patched up again! i wasn't worried about you. your wife works miracles." goujet was supposed to be getting married. his mother had found a suitable girl, a lace-mender like herself, whom she was urging him to marry. he had agreed so as not to hurt her feelings and the wedding had been set for early september. money had long since been saved to set them up in housekeeping. however, when gervaise referred to his coming marriage, he shook his head, saying, "not every woman is like you, madame coupeau. if all women were like you, i'd marry ten of them." at the end of two months, coupeau was able to get up. he did not go far, only from the bed to the window, and even then gervaise had to support him. there he would sit down in the easy-chair the lorilleuxs had brought, with his right leg stretched out on a stool. this joker, who used to laugh at the people who slipped down on frosty days, felt greatly put out by his accident. he had no philosophy. he had spent those two months in bed, in cursing, and in worrying the people about him. it was not an existence, really, to pass one's life on one's back, with a pin all tied up and as stiff as a sausage. ah, he certainly knew the ceiling by heart; there was a crack, at the corner of the alcove, that he could have drawn with his eyes shut. then, when he was made comfortable in the easy-chair, it was another grievance. would he be fixed there for long, just like a mummy? nobody ever passed along the street, so it was no fun to watch. besides, it stank of bleach water all day. no, he was just growing old; he'd have given ten years of his life just to go see how the fortifications were getting along. he kept going on about his fate. it wasn't right, what had happened to him. a good worker like him, not a loafer or a drunkard, he could have understood in that case. "papa coupeau," said he, "broke his neck one day that he'd been boozing. i can't say that it was deserved, but anyhow it was explainable. i had had nothing since my lunch, was perfectly quiet, and without a drop of liquor in my body; and yet i came to grief just because i wanted to turn round to smile at nana! don't you think that's too much? if there is a providence, it certainly arranges things in a very peculiar manner. i, for one, shall never believe in it." and when at last he was able to use his legs, he retained a secret grudge against work. it was a handicraft full of misfortunes to pass one's days, like the cats, on the roofs of the houses. the employers were no fools! they sent you to your death--being far too cowardly to venture themselves on a ladder--and stopped at home in safety at their fire-sides without caring a hang for the poorer classes; and he got to the point of saying that everyone ought to fix the zinc himself on his own house. _mon dieu_! it was the only fair way to do it! if you don't want the rain to come in, do the work yourself. he regretted he hadn't learned another trade, something more pleasant, something less dangerous, maybe cabinetmaking. it was really his father's fault. lots of fathers have the foolish habit of shoving their sons into their own line of work. for another two months coupeau hobbled about on crutches. he had first of all managed to get as far as the street, and smoke his pipe in front of the door. then he had managed to reach the exterior boulevard, dragging himself along in the sunshine, and remaining for hours on one of the seats. gaiety returned to him; his infernal tongue got sharper in these long hours of idleness. and with the pleasure of living, he gained there a delight in doing nothing, an indolent feeling took possession of his limbs, and his muscles gradually glided into a very sweet slumber. it was the slow victory of laziness, which took advantage of his convalescence to obtain possession of his body and unnerve him with its tickling. he regained his health, as thorough a banterer as before, thinking life beautiful, and not seeing why it should not last for ever. as soon as he could get about without the crutches, he made longer walks, often visiting construction jobs to see old comrades. he would stand with his arms folded, sneering and shaking his head, ridiculing the workers slaving at the job, stretching out his leg to show them what you got for wearing yourself out. being able to stand about and mock others while they were working satisfied his spite against hard work. no doubt he'd have to go back to it, but he'd put it off as long as possible. he had a reason now to be lazy. besides, it seemed good to him to loaf around like a bum! on the afternoons when coupeau felt dull, he would call on the lorilleuxs. the latter would pity him immensely, and attract him with all sorts of amiable attentions. during the first years following his marriage, he had avoided them, thanks to gervaise's influence. now they regained their sway over him by twitting him about being afraid of his wife. he was no man, that was evident! the lorilleuxs, however, showed great discretion, and were loud in their praise of the laundress's good qualities. coupeau, without as yet coming to wrangling, swore to the latter that his sister adored her, and requested that she would behave more amiably to her. the first quarrel which the couple had occurred one evening on account of etienne. the zinc-worker had passed the afternoon with the lorilleuxs. on arriving home, as the dinner was not quite ready, and the children were whining for their soup, he suddenly turned upon etienne, and boxed his ears soundly. and during an hour he did not cease to grumble; the brat was not his; he did not know why he allowed him to be in the place; he would end by turning him out into the street. up till then he had tolerated the youngster without all that fuss. on the morrow he talked of his dignity. three days after, he kept kicking the little fellow, morning and evening, so much so that the child, whenever he heard him coming, bolted into the goujets' where the old lace-mender kept a corner of the table clear for him to do his lessons. gervaise had for some time past, returned to work. she no longer had the trouble of looking under the glass cover of the clock; all the savings were gone; and she had to work hard, work for four, for there were four to feed now. she alone maintained them. whenever she heard people pitying her, she at once found excuses for coupeau. recollect! he had suffered so much; it was not surprising if his disposition had soured! but it would pass off when his health returned. and if any one hinted that coupeau seemed all right again, that he could very well return to work, she protested: no, no; not yet! she did not want to see him take to his bed again. they would allow her to know best what the doctor said, perhaps! it was she who prevented him returning to work, telling him every morning to take his time and not to force himself. she even slipped twenty sou pieces into his waistcoat pocket. coupeau accepted this as something perfectly natural. he was always complaining of aches and pains so that she would coddle him. at the end of six months he was still convalescing. now, whenever he went to watch others working, he was always ready to join his comrades in downing a shot. it wasn't so bad, after all. they had their fun, and they never stayed more than five minutes. that couldn't hurt anybody. only a hypocrite would say he went in because he wanted a drink. no wonder they had laughed at him in the past. a glass of wine never hurt anybody. he only drank wine though, never brandy. wine never made you sick, didn't get you drunk, and helped you to live longer. soon though, several times, after a day of idleness in going from one building job to another, he came home half drunk. on those occasions gervaise pretended to have a terrible headache and kept their door closed so that the goujets wouldn't hear coupeau's drunken babblings. little by little, the young woman lost her cheerfulness. morning and evening she went to the rue de la goutte-d'or to look at the shop, which was still to be let; and she would hide herself as though she were committing some childish prank unworthy of a grown-up person. this shop was beginning to turn her brain. at night-time, when the light was out she experienced the charm of some forbidden pleasure by thinking of it with her eyes open. she again made her calculations; two hundred and fifty francs for the rent, one hundred and fifty francs for utensils and moving, one hundred francs in hand to keep them going for a fortnight--in all five hundred francs at the very lowest figure. if she was not continually thinking of it aloud, it was for fear she should be suspected of regretting the savings swallowed up by coupeau's illness. she often became quite pale, having almost allowed her desire to escape her and catching back her words, quite confused as though she had been thinking of something wicked. now they would have to work for four or five years before they would succeed in saving such a sum. her regret was at not being able to start in business at once; she would have earned all the home required, without counting on coupeau, letting him take months to get into the way of work again; she would no longer have been uneasy, but certain of the future and free from the secret fears which sometimes seized her when he returned home very gay and singing, and relating some joke of that animal my-boots, whom he had treated to a drink. one evening, gervaise being at home alone, goujet entered, and did not hurry off again, according to his habit. he seated himself, and smoked as he watched her. he probably had something very serious to say; he thought it over, let it ripen without being able to put it into suitable words. at length, after a long silence, he appeared to make up his mind, and took his pipe out of his mouth to say all in a breath: "madame gervaise, will you allow me to lend you some money?" she was leaning over an open drawer, looking for some dish-cloths. she got up, her face very red. he must have seen her then, in the morning, standing in ecstacy before the shop for close upon ten minutes. he was smiling in an embarrassed way, as though he had made some insulting proposal. but she hastily refused. never would she accept money from any one without knowing when she would be able to return it. then also it was a question of too large an amount. and as he insisted, in a frightened manner, she ended by exclaiming: "but your marriage? i certainly can't take the money you've been saving for your marriage!" "oh, don't let that bother you," he replied, turning red in his turn. "i'm not going to be married now. that was just an idea, you know. really, i would much sooner lend you the money." then they both held down their heads. there was something very pleasant between them to which they did not give expression. and gervaise accepted. goujet had told his mother. they crossed the landing, and went to see her at once. the lace-mender was very grave, and looked rather sad as she bent her face over her tambour-frame. she would not thwart her son, but she no longer approved gervaise's project; and she plainly told her why. coupeau was going to the bad; coupeau would swallow up her shop. she especially could not forgive the zinc-worker for having refused to learn to read during his convalescence. the blacksmith had offered to teach him, but the other had sent him to the right about, saying that learning made people get thin. this had almost caused a quarrel between the two workmen; each went his own way. madame goujet, however, seeing her big boy's beseeching glances, behaved very kindly to gervaise. it was settled that they would lend their neighbors five hundred francs; the latter were to repay the amount by installments of twenty francs a month; it would last as long as it lasted. "i say, the blacksmith's sweet on you," exclaimed coupeau, laughing, when he heard what had taken place. "oh, i'm quite easy; he's too big a muff. we'll pay him back his money. but, really, if he had to deal with some people, he'd find himself pretty well duped." on the morrow the coupeaus took the shop. all day long, gervaise was running from rue neuve de la goutte-d'or. when the neighbors beheld her pass thus, nimble and delighted to the extent that she no longer limped, they said she must have undergone some operation. chapter v. it so happened that the boches had left the rue des poissonniers at the april quarter, and were now taking charge of the great house in the rue de la goutte-d'or. it was a curious coincidence, all the same! one thing that worried gervaise who had lived so quietly in her lodgings in the rue neuve, was the thought of again being under the subjection of some unpleasant person, with whom she would be continually quarrelling, either on account of water spilt in the passage or of a door shut too noisily at night-time. concierges are such a disagreeable class! but it would be a pleasure to be with the boches. they knew one another--they would always get on well together. it would be just like members of the same family. on the day the coupeaus went to sign their lease, gervaise felt her heart swollen with pride as she passed through the high doorway. she was then at length going to live in that house as vast as a little town, with its interminable staircases, and passages as long and winding as streets. she was excited by everything: the gray walls with varicolored rugs hanging from windows to dry in the sun, the dingy courtyard with as many holes in its pavement as a public square, the hum of activity coming through the walls. she felt joy that she was at last about to realize her ambition. she also felt fear that she would fail and be crushed in the endless struggle against the poverty and starvation she could feel breathing down her neck. it seemed to her that she was doing something very bold, throwing herself into the midst of some machinery in motion, as she listened to the blacksmith's hammers and the cabinetmakers' planes, hammering and hissing in the depths of the work-shops on the ground floor. on that day the water flowing from the dyer's under the entrance porch was a very pale apple green. she smilingly stepped over it; to her the color was a pleasant omen. the meeting with the landlord was to take place in the boches' room. monsieur marescot, a wealthy cutler of the rue de la paix, had at one time turned a grindstone through the streets. he was now stated to be worth several millions. he was a man of fifty-five, large and big-boned. even though he now wore a decoration in his button-hole, his huge hands were still those of a former workingman. it was his joy to carry off the scissors and knives of his tenants, to sharpen them himself, for the fun of it. he often stayed for hours with his concierges, closed up in the darkness of their lodges, going over the accounts. that's where he did all his business. he was now seated by madame boche's kitchen table, listening to her story of how the dressmaker on the third floor, staircase a, had used a filthy word in refusing to pay her rent. he had had to work precious hard once upon a time. but work was the high road to everything. and, after counting the two hundred and fifty francs for the first two quarters in advance, and dropping them into his capacious pocket, he related the story of his life, and showed his decoration. gervaise, however, felt rather ill at ease on account of the boches' behavior. they pretended not to know her. they were most assiduous in their attentions to the landlord, bowing down before him, watching for his least words, and nodding their approval of them. madame boche suddenly ran out and dispersed a group of children who were paddling about in front of the cistern, the tap of which they had turned full on, causing the water to flow over the pavement; and when she returned, upright and severe in her skirts, crossing the courtyard and glancing slowly up at all the windows, as though to assure herself of the good behavior of the household, she pursed her lips in a way to show with what authority she was invested, now that she reigned over three hundred tenants. boche again spoke of the dressmaker on the second floor; he advised that she should be turned out; he reckoned up the number of quarters she owed with the importance of a steward whose management might be compromised. monsieur marescot approved the suggestion of turning her out, but he wished to wait till the half quarter. it was hard to turn people out into the street, more especially as it did not put a sou into the landlord's pocket. and gervaise asked herself with a shudder if she too would be turned out into the street the day that some misfortune rendered her unable to pay. the concierge's lodge was as dismal as a cellar, black from smoke and crowded with dark furniture. all the sunlight fell upon the tailor's workbench by the window. an old frock coat that was being reworked lay on it. the boches' only child, a four-year-old redhead named pauline, was sitting on the floor, staring quietly at the veal simmering on the stove, delighted with the sharp odor of cooking that came from the frying pan. monsieur marescot again held out his hand to the zinc-worker, when the latter spoke of the repairs, recalling to his mind a promise he had made to talk the matter over later on. but the landlord grew angry, he had never promised anything; besides, it was not usual to do any repairs to a shop. however, he consented to go over the place, followed by the coupeaus and boche. the little linen-draper had carried off all his shelves and counters; the empty shop displayed its blackened ceiling and its cracked wall, on which hung strips of an old yellow paper. in the sonorous emptiness of the place, there ensued a heated discussion. monsieur marescot exclaimed that it was the business of shopkeepers to embellish their shops, for a shopkeeper might wish to have gold put about everywhere, and he, the landlord, could not put out gold. then he related that he had spent more than twenty thousand francs in fitting up his premises in the rue de la paix. gervaise, with her woman's obstinacy, kept repeating an argument which she considered unanswerable. he would repaper a lodging, would he not? then, why did he not treat the shop the same as a lodging? she did not ask him for anything else--only to whitewash the ceiling, and put some fresh paper on the walls. boche, all this while, remained dignified and impenetrable; he turned about and looked up in the air, without expressing an opinion. coupeau winked at him in vain; he affected not to wish to take advantage of his great influence over the landlord. he ended, however, by making a slight grimace--a little smile accompanied by a nod of the head. just then monsieur marescot, exasperated, and seemingly very unhappy, and clutching his fingers like a miser being despoiled of his gold, was giving way to gervaise, promising to do the ceiling and repaper the shop on condition that she paid for half of the paper. and he hurried away declining to discuss anything further. now that boche was alone with the coupeaus, the concierge became quite talkative and slapped them on the shoulders. well, well, see what they had gotten. without his help, they would never have gotten the concessions. didn't they notice how the landlord had looked to him out of the corner of his eye for advice and how he'd made up his mind suddenly when he saw boche smile? he confessed to them confidentially that he was the real boss of the building. it was he who decided who got eviction notices and who could become tenants. he collected all the rents and kept them for a couple of weeks in his bureau drawer. that evening the coupeaus, to express their gratitude to the boches, sent them two bottles of wine as a present. the following monday the workmen started doing up the shop. the purchasing of the paper turned out especially to be a very big affair. gervaise wanted a grey paper with blue flowers, so as to enliven and brighten the walls. boche offered to take her to the dealers, so that she might make her own selection. but the landlord had given him formal instructions not to go beyond the price of fifteen sous the piece. they were there an hour. the laundress kept looking in despair at a very pretty chintz pattern costing eighteen sous the piece, and thought all the other papers hideous. at length the concierge gave in; he would arrange the matter, and, if necessary, would make out there was a piece more used than was really the case. so, on her way home, gervaise purchased some tarts for pauline. she did not like being behindhand--one always gained by behaving nicely to her. the shop was to be ready in four days. the workmen were there three weeks. at first it was arranged that they should merely wash the paint. but this paint, originally maroon, was so dirty and so sad-looking, that gervaise allowed herself to be tempted to have the whole of the frontage painted a light blue with yellow moldings. then the repairs seemed as though they would last for ever. coupeau, as he was still not working, arrived early each morning to see how things were going. boche left the overcoat or trousers on which he was working to come and supervise. both of them would stand and watch with their hands behind their backs, puffing on their pipes. the painters were very merry fellows who would often desert their work to stand in the middle of the shop and join the discussion, shaking their heads for hours, admiring the work already done. the ceiling had been whitewashed quickly, but the paint on the walls never seemed to dry in a hurry. around nine o'clock the painters would arrive with their paint pots which they stuck in a corner. they would look around and then disappear. perhaps they went to eat breakfast. sometimes coupeau would take everyone for a drink--boche, the two painters and any of coupeau's friends who were nearby. this meant another afternoon wasted. gervaise's patience was thoroughly exhausted, when, suddenly, everything was finished in two days, the paint varnished, the paper hung, and the dirt all cleared away. the workmen had finished it off as though they were playing, whistling away on their ladders, and singing loud enough to deafen the whole neighborhood. the moving in took place at once. during the first few days gervaise felt as delighted as a child. whenever she crossed the road on returning from some errand, she lingered to smile at her home. from a distance her shop appeared light and gay with its pale blue signboard, on which the word "laundress" was painted in big yellow letters, amidst the dark row of the other frontages. in the window, closed in behind by little muslin curtains, and hung on either side with blue paper to show off the whiteness of the linen, some shirts were displayed, with some women's caps hanging above them on wires. she thought her shop looked pretty, being the same color as the heavens. inside there was more blue; the paper, in imitation of a pompadour chintz, represented a trellis overgrown with morning-glories. a huge table, taking up two-thirds of the room, was her ironing-table. it was covered with thick blanketing and draped with a strip of cretonne patterned with blue flower sprays that hid the trestles beneath. gervaise was enchanted with her pretty establishment and would often seat herself on a stool and sigh with contentment, delighted with all the new equipment. her first glance always went to the cast-iron stove where the irons were heated ten at a time, arranged over the heat on slanting rests. she would kneel down to look into the stove to make sure the apprentice had not put in too much coke. the lodging at the back of the shop was quite decent. the coupeaus slept in the first room, where they also did the cooking and took their meals; a door at the back opened on to the courtyard of the house. nana's bed was in the right hand room, which was lighted by a little round window close to the ceiling. as for etienne, he shared the left hand room with the dirty clothes, enormous bundles of which lay about on the floor. however, there was one disadvantage--the coupeaus would not admit it at first--but the damp ran down the walls, and it was impossible to see clearly in the place after three o'clock in the afternoon. in the neighborhood the new shop produced a great sensation. the coupeaus were accused of going too fast, and making too much fuss. they had, in fact, spent the five hundred francs lent by the goujets in fitting up the shop and in moving, without keeping sufficient to live upon for a fortnight, as they had intended doing. the morning that gervaise took down her shutters for the first time, she had just six francs in her purse. but that did not worry her, customers began to arrive, and things seemed promising. a week later on the saturday, before going to bed, she remained two hours making calculations on a piece of paper, and she awoke coupeau to tell him, with a bright look on her face, that there were hundreds and thousands of francs to be made, if they were only careful. "ah, well!" said madame lorilleux all over the rue de la goutte-d'or, "my fool of a brother is seeing some funny things! all that was wanting was that clump-clump should go about so haughty. it becomes her well, doesn't it?" the lorilleuxs had declared a feud to the death against gervaise. to begin with, they had almost died of rage during the time while the repairs were being done to the shop. if they caught sight of the painters from a distance, they would walk on the other side of the way, and go up to their rooms with their teeth set. a blue shop for that "nobody," it was enough to discourage all honest, hard-working people! besides, the second day after the shop opened the apprentice happened to throw out a bowl of starch just at the moment when madame lorilleux was passing. the zinc-worker's sister caused a great commotion in the street, accusing her sister-in-law of insulting her through her employees. this broke off all relations. now they only exchanged terrible glares when they encountered each other. "yes, she leads a pretty life!" madame lorilleux kept saying. "we all know where the money came from that she paid for her wretched shop! she borrowed it from the blacksmith; and he springs from a nice family too! didn't the father cut his own throat to save the guillotine the trouble of doing so? anyhow, there was something disreputable of that sort!" she bluntly accused gervaise of flirting with goujet. she lied--she pretended she had surprised them together one night on a seat on the exterior boulevards. the thought of this liaison, of pleasures that her sister-in-law was no doubt enjoying, exasperated her still more, because of her own ugly woman's strict sense of propriety. every day the same cry came from her heart to her lips. "what does she have, that wretched cripple, for people to fall in love with her? why doesn't any one want me?" she busied herself in endless gossiping among the neighbors. she told them the whole story. the day the coupeaus got married she turned up her nose at her. oh, she had a keen nose, she could smell in advance how it would turn out. then, clump-clump pretended to be so sweet, what a hypocrite! she and her husband had only agreed to be nana's godparents for the sake of her brother. what a bundle it had cost, that fancy christening. if clump-clump were on her deathbed she wouldn't give her a glass of water, no matter how much she begged. she didn't want anything to do with such a shameless baggage. little nana would always be welcome when she came up to see her godparents. the child couldn't be blamed for her mother's sins. but there was no use trying to tell coupeau anything. any real man in his situation would have beaten his wife and put a stop to it all. all they wanted was for him to insist on respect for his family. _mon dieu_! if she, madame lorilleux, had acted like that, coupeau wouldn't be so complacent. he would have stabbed her for sure with his shears. the boches, however, who sternly disapproved of quarrels in their building, said that the lorilleuxs were in the wrong. the lorilleuxs were no doubt respectable persons, quiet, working the whole day long, and paying their rent regularly. but, really, jealousy had driven them mad. and they were mean enough to skin an egg, real misers. they were so stingy that they'd hide their bottle when any one came in, so as not to have to offer a glass of wine--not regular people at all. gervaise had brought over cassis and soda water one day to drink with the boches. when madame lorilleux went by, she acted out spitting before the concierge's door. well, after that when madame boche swept the corridors on saturdays, she always left a pile of trash before the lorilleuxs' door. "it isn't to be wondered at!" madame lorilleux would exclaim, "clump-clump's always stuffing them, the gluttons! ah! they're all alike; but they had better not annoy me! i'll complain to the landlord. only yesterday i saw that sly old boche chasing after madame gaudron's skirts. just fancy! a woman of that age, and who has half a dozen children, too; it's positively disgusting! if i catch them at anything of the sort again, i'll tell madame boche, and she'll give them both a hiding. it'll be something to laugh at." mother coupeau continued to visit the two houses, agreeing with everybody and even managing to get asked oftener to dinner, by complaisantly listening one night to her daughter and the next night to her daughter-in-law. however, madame lerat did not go to visit the coupeaus because she had argued with gervaise about a zouave who had cut the nose of his mistress with a razor. she was on the side of the zouave, saying it was evidence of a great passion, but without explaining further her thought. then, she had made madame lorilleux even more angry by telling her that clump-clump had called her "cow tail" in front of fifteen or twenty people. yes, that's what the boches and all the neighbors called her now, "cow tail." gervaise remained calm and cheerful among all these goings-on. she often stood by the door of her shop greeting friends who passed by with a nod and a smile. it was her pleasure to take a moment between batches of ironing to enjoy the street and take pride in her own stretch of sidewalk. she felt that the rue de la goutte d'or was hers, and the neighboring streets, and the whole neighborhood. as she stood there, with her blonde hair slightly damp from the heat of the shop, she would look left and right, taking in the people, the buildings, and the sky. to the left rue de la goutte d'or was peaceful and almost empty, like a country town with women idling in their doorways. while, to the right, only a short distance away, rue des poissonniers had a noisy throng of people and vehicles. the stretch of gutter before her own shop became very important in her mind. it was like a wide river which she longed to see neat and clean. it was a lively river, colored by the dye shop with the most fanciful of hues which contrasted with the black mud beside it. then there were the shops: a large grocery with a display of dried fruits protected by mesh nets; a shop selling work clothes which had white tunics and blue smocks hanging before it with arms that waved at the slightest breeze. cats were purring on the counters of the fruit store and the tripe shop. madame vigouroux, the coal dealer next door, returned her greetings. she was a plump, short woman with bright eyes in a dark face who was always joking with the men while standing at her doorway. her shop was decorated in imitation of a rustic chalet. the neighbors on the other side were a mother and daughter, the cudorges. the umbrella sellers kept their door closed and never came out to visit. gervaise always looked across the road, too, through the wide carriage entrance of the windowless wall opposite her, at the blacksmith's forge. the courtyard was cluttered with vans and carts. inscribed on the wall was the word "blacksmith." at the lower end of the wall between the small shops selling scrap iron and fried potatoes was a watchmaker. he wore a frock coat and was always very neat. his cuckoo clocks could be heard in chorus against the background noise of the street and the blacksmith's rhythmic clanging. the neighborhood in general thought gervaise very nice. there was, it is true, a good deal of scandal related regarding her; but everyone admired her large eyes, small mouth and beautiful white teeth. in short she was a pretty blonde, and had it not been for her crippled leg she might have ranked amongst the comeliest. she was now in her twenty-eighth year, and had grown considerably plumper. her fine features were becoming puffy, and her gestures were assuming a pleasant indolence. at times she occasionally seemed to forget herself on the edge of a chair, whilst she waited for her iron to heat, smiling vaguely and with an expression of greedy joy upon her face. she was becoming fond of good living, everybody said so; but that was not a very grave fault, but rather the contrary. when one earns sufficient to be able to buy good food, one would be foolish to eat potato parings. all the more so as she continued to work very hard, slaving to please her customers, sitting up late at night after the place was closed, whenever there was anything urgent. she was lucky as all her neighbors said; everything prospered with her. she did the washing for all the house--m. madinier, mademoiselle remanjou, the boches. she even secured some of the customers of her old employer, madame fauconnier, parisian ladies living in the rue du faubourg-poissonniere. as early as the third week she was obliged to engage two workwomen, madame putois and tall clemence, the girl who used to live on the sixth floor; counting her apprentice, that little squint-eyed augustine, who was as ugly as a beggar's behind, that made three persons in her employ. others would certainly have lost their heads at such a piece of good fortune. it was excusable for her to slack a little on monday after drudging all through the week. besides, it was necessary to her. she would have had no courage left, and would have expected to see the shirts iron themselves, if she had not been able to dress up in some pretty thing. gervaise was always so amiable, meek as a lamb, sweet as sugar. there wasn't any one she disliked except madame lorilleux. while she was enjoying a good meal and coffee, she could be indulgent and forgive everybody saying: "we have to forgive each other--don't we?--unless we want to live like savages." hadn't all her dreams come true? she remembered her old dream: to have a job, enough bread to eat and a corner in which to sleep, to bring up her children, not to be beaten, and to die in her own bed. she had everything she wanted now and more than she had ever expected. she laughed, thinking of delaying dying in her own bed as long as possible. it was to coupeau especially that gervaise behaved nicely. never an angry word, never a complaint behind her husband's back. the zinc-worker had at length resumed work; and as the job he was engaged on was at the other side of paris, she gave him every morning forty sous for his luncheon, his glass of wine and his tobacco. only, two days out of every six, coupeau would stop on the way, spend the forty sous in drink with a friend, and return home to lunch, with some cock-and-bull story. once even he did not take the trouble to go far; he treated himself, my-boots and three others to a regular feast--snails, roast meat, and some sealed bottles of wine--at the "capuchin," on the barriere de la chapelle. then, as his forty sous were not sufficient, he had sent the waiter to his wife with the bill and the information that he was in pawn. she laughed and shrugged her shoulders. where was the harm if her old man amused himself a bit? you must give men a long rein if you want to live peaceably at home. from one word to another, one soon arrived at blows. _mon dieu_! it was easy to understand. coupeau still suffered from his leg; besides, he was led astray. he was obliged to do as the others did, or else he would be thought a cheap skate. and it was really a matter of no consequence. if he came home a bit elevated, he went to bed, and two hours afterwards he was all right again. it was now the warm time of the year. one june afternoon, a saturday when there was a lot of work to get through, gervaise herself had piled the coke into the stove, around which ten irons were heating, whilst a rumbling sound issued from the chimney. at that hour the sun was shining full on the shop front, and the pavement reflected the heat waves, causing all sorts of quaint shadows to dance over the ceiling, and that blaze of light which assumed a bluish tinge from the color of the paper on the shelves and against the window, was almost blinding in the intensity with which it shone over the ironing-table, like a golden dust shaken among the fine linen. the atmosphere was stifling. the shop door was thrown wide open, but not a breath of air entered; the clothes which were hung up on brass wires to dry, steamed and became as stiff as shavings in less than three quarters of an hour. for some little while past an oppressive silence had reigned in that furnace-like heat, interrupted only by the smothered sound of the banging down of the irons on the thick blanket covered with calico. "ah, well!" said gervaise, "it's enough to melt one! we might have to take off our chemises." she was sitting on the floor, in front of a basin, starching some things. her sleeves were rolled up and her camisole was slipping down her shoulders. little curls of golden hair were stuck to her skin by perspiration. she carefully dipped caps, shirt-fronts, entire petticoats, and the trimmings of women's drawers into the milky water. then she rolled the things up and placed them at the bottom of a square basket, after dipping her hand in a pail and shaking it over the portions of the shirts and drawers which she had not starched. "this basketful's for you, madame putois," she said. "look sharp, now! it dries at once, and will want doing all over again in an hour." madame putois, a thin little woman of forty-five, was ironing. though she was buttoned up in an old chestnut-colored dress, there was not a drop of perspiration to be seen. she had not even taken her cap off, a black cap trimmed with green ribbons turned partly yellow. and she stood perfectly upright in front of the ironing-table, which was too high for her, sticking out her elbows, and moving her iron with the jerky evolutions of a puppet. on a sudden she exclaimed: "ah, no! mademoiselle clemence, you mustn't take your camisole off. you know i don't like such indecencies. whilst you're about it, you'd better show everything. there's already three men over the way stopping to look." tall clemence called her an old beast between her teeth. she was suffocating; she might certainly make herself comfortable; everyone was not gifted with a skin as dry as touchwood. besides no one could see anything; and she held up her arms, whilst her opulent bosom almost ripped her chemise, and her shoulders were bursting through the straps. at the rate she was going, clemence was not likely to have any marrow left in her bones long before she was thirty years old. mornings after big parties she was unable to feel the ground she trod upon, and fell asleep over her work, whilst her head and her stomach seemed as though stuffed full of rags. but she was kept on all the same, for no other workwoman could iron a shirt with her style. shirts were her specialty. "this is mine, isn't it?" she declared, tapping her bosom. "and it doesn't bite; it hurts nobody!" "clemence, put your wrapper on again," said gervaise. "madame putois is right, it isn't decent. people will begin to take my house for what it isn't." so tall clemence dressed herself again, grumbling the while. "_mon dieu!_ there's prudery for you." and she vented her rage on the apprentice, that squint-eyed augustine who was ironing some stockings and handkerchiefs beside her. she jostled her and pushed her with her elbow; but augustine who was of a surly disposition, and slyly spiteful in the way of an animal and a drudge, spat on the back of the other's dress just out of revenge, without being seen. gervaise, during this incident, had commenced a cap belonging to madame boche, which she intended to take great pains with. she had prepared some boiled starch to make it look new again. she was gently passing a little iron rounded at both ends over the inside of the crown of the cap, when a bony-looking woman entered the shop, her face covered with red blotches and her skirts sopping wet. it was a washerwoman who employed three assistants at the wash-house in the rue de la goutte-d'or. "you've come too soon, madame bijard!" cried gervaise. "i told you to call this evening. i'm too busy to attend to you now!" but as the washerwoman began lamenting and fearing that she would not be able to put all the things to soak that day, she consented to give her the dirty clothes at once. they went to fetch the bundles in the left hand room where etienne slept, and returned with enormous armfuls which they piled up on the floor at the back of the shop. the sorting lasted a good half hour. gervaise made heaps all round her, throwing the shirts in one, the chemises in another, the handkerchiefs, the socks, the dish-cloths in others. whenever she came across anything belonging to a new customer, she marked it with a cross in red cotton thread so as to know it again. and from all this dirty linen which they were throwing about there issued an offensive odor in the warm atmosphere. "oh! la, la. what a stench!" said clemence, holding her nose. "of course there is! if it were clean they wouldn't send it to us," quietly explained gervaise. "it smells as one would expect it to, that's all! we said fourteen chemises, didn't we, madame bijard? fifteen, sixteen, seventeen--" and she continued counting aloud. used to this kind of thing she evinced no disgust. she thrust her bare pink arms deep into the piles of laundry: shirts yellow with grime, towels stiff from dirty dish water, socks threadbare and eaten away by sweat. the strong odor which slapped her in the face as she sorted the piles of clothes made her feel drowsy. she seemed to be intoxicating herself with this stench of humanity as she sat on the edge of a stool, bending far over, smiling vaguely, her eyes slightly misty. it was as if her laziness was started by a kind of smothering caused by the dirty clothes which poisoned the air in the shop. just as she was shaking out a child's dirty diaper, coupeau came in. "by jove!" he stuttered, "what a sun! it shines full on your head!" the zinc-worker caught hold of the ironing-table to save himself from falling. it was the first time he had been so drunk. until then he had sometimes come home slightly tipsy, but nothing more. this time, however, he had a black eye, just a friendly slap he had run up against in a playful moment. his curly hair, already streaked with grey, must have dusted a corner in some low wineshop, for a cobweb was hanging to one of his locks over the back of his neck. he was still as attractive as ever, though his features were rather drawn and aged, and his under jaw projected more; but he was always lively, as he would sometimes say, with a complexion to be envied by a duchess. "i'll just explain it to you," he resumed, addressing gervaise. "it was celery-root, you know him, the bloke with a wooden leg. well, as he was going back to his native place, he wanted to treat us. oh! we were all right, if it hadn't been for that devil of a sun. in the street everybody looks shaky. really, all the world's drunk!" and as tall clemence laughed at his thinking that the people in the street were drunk, he was himself seized with an intense fit of gaiety which almost strangled him. "look at them! the blessed tipplers! aren't they funny?" he cried. "but it's not their fault. it's the sun that's causing it." all the shop laughed, even madame putois, who did not like drunkards. that squint-eyed augustine was cackling like a hen, suffocating with her mouth wide open. gervaise, however, suspected coupeau of not having come straight home, but of having passed an hour with the lorilleuxs who were always filling his head with unpleasant ideas. when he swore he had not been near them she laughed also, full of indulgence and not even reproaching him with having wasted another day. "_mon dieu!_ what nonsense he does talk," she murmured. "how does he manage to say such stupid things?" then in a maternal tone of voice she added, "now go to bed, won't you? you see we're busy; you're in our way. that makes thirty-two handkerchiefs, madame bijard; and two more, thirty-four." but coupeau was not sleepy. he stood there wagging his body from side to side like the pendulum of a clock and chuckling in an obstinate and teasing manner. gervaise, wanting to finish with madame bijard, called to clemence to count the laundry while she made the list. tall clemence made a dirty remark about every item that she touched. she commented on the customers' misfortunes and their bedroom adventures. she had a wash-house joke for every rip or stain that passed through her hands. augustine pretended that she didn't understand, but her ears were wide open. madame putois compressed her lips, thinking it a disgrace to say such things in front of coupeau. it's not a man's business to have anything to do with dirty linen. it's just not done among decent people. gervaise, serious and her mind fully occupied with what she was about, did not seem to notice. as she wrote she gave a glance to each article as it passed before her, so as to recognize it; and she never made a mistake; she guessed the owner's name just by the look or the color. those napkins belonged to the goujets, that was evident; they had not been used to wipe out frying-pans. that pillow-case certainly came from the boches on account of the pomatum with which madame boche always smeared her things. there was no need to put your nose close to the flannel vests of monsieur madinier; his skin was so oily that it clogged up his woolens. she knew many peculiarities, the cleanliness of some, the ragged underclothes of neighborhood ladies who appeared on the streets in silk dresses; how many items each family soiled weekly; the way some people's garments were always torn at the same spot. oh, she had many tales to tell. for instance, the chemises of mademoiselle remanjou provided material for endless comments: they wore out at the top first because the old maid had bony, sharp shoulders; and they were never really dirty, proving that you dry up by her age, like a stick of wood out of which it's hard to squeeze a drop of anything. it was thus that at every sorting of the dirty linen in the shop they undressed the whole neighborhood of the goutte-d'or. "oh, here's something luscious!" cried clemence, opening another bundle. gervaise, suddenly seized with a great repugnance, drew back. "madame gaudron's bundle?" said she. "i'll no longer wash for her, i'll find some excuse. no, i'm not more particular than another. i've handled some most disgusting linen in my time; but really, that lot i can't stomach. what can the woman do to get her things into such a state?" and she requested clemence to look sharp. but the girl continued her remarks, thrusting the clothes sullenly about her, with complaints on the soiled caps she waved like triumphal banners of filth. meanwhile the heaps around gervaise had grown higher. still seated on the edge of the stool, she was now disappearing between the petticoats and chemises. in front of her were the sheets, the table cloths, a veritable mass of dirtiness. she seemed even rosier and more languid than usual within this spreading sea of soiled laundry. she had regained her composure, forgetting madame gaudron's laundry, stirring the various piles of clothing to make sure there had been no mistake in sorting. squint-eyed augustine had just stuffed the stove so full of coke that its cast-iron sides were bright red. the sun was shining obliquely on the window; the shop was in a blaze. then, coupeau, whom the great heat intoxicated all the more, was seized with a sudden fit of tenderness. he advanced towards gervaise with open arms and deeply moved. "you're a good wife," he stammered. "i must kiss you." but he caught his foot in the garments which barred the way and nearly fell. "what a nuisance you are!" said gervaise without getting angry. "keep still, we're nearly done now." no, he wanted to kiss her. he must do so because he loved her so much. whilst he stuttered he tried to get round the heap of petticoats and stumbled against the pile of chemises; then as he obstinately persisted his feet caught together and he fell flat, his nose in the midst of the dish-cloths. gervaise, beginning to lose her temper pushed him, saying that he was mixing all the things up. but clemence and even madame putois maintained that she was wrong. it was very nice of him after all. he wanted to kiss her. she might very well let herself be kissed. "you're lucky, you are, madame coupeau," said madame bijard, whose drunkard of a husband, a locksmith, was nearly beating her to death each evening when he came in. "if my old man was like that when he's had a drop, it would be a real pleasure!" gervaise had calmed down and was already regretting her hastiness. she helped coupeau up on his legs again. then she offered her cheek with a smile. but the zinc-worker, without caring a button for the other people being present, seized her bosom. "it's not for the sake of saying so," he murmured; "but your dirty linen stinks tremendously! still, i love you all the same, you know." "leave off, you're tickling me," cried she, laughing the louder. "what a great silly you are! how can you be so absurd?" he had caught hold of her and would not let her go. she gradually abandoned herself to him, dizzy from the slight faintness caused by the heap of clothes and not minding coupeau's foul-smelling breath. the long kiss they exchanged on each other's mouths in the midst of the filth of the laundress's trade was perhaps the first tumble in the slow downfall of their life together. madame bijard had meanwhile been tying the laundry up into bundles and talking about her daughter, eulalie, who at two was as smart as a grown woman. she could be left by herself; she never cried or played with matches. finally madame bijard took the laundry away a bundle at a time, her face splotched with purple and her tall form bent under the weight. "this heat is becoming unbearable, we're roasting," said gervaise, wiping her face before returning to madame boche's cap. they talked of boxing augustine's ears when they saw that the stove was red-hot. the irons, also, were getting in the same condition. she must have the very devil in her body! one could not turn one's back a moment without her being up to some of her tricks. now they would have to wait a quarter of an hour before they would be able to use their irons. gervaise covered the fire with two shovelfuls of cinders. then she thought to hang some sheets on the brass wires near the ceiling to serve as curtains to keep out the sunlight. things were now better in the shop. the temperature was still high, but you could imagine it was cooler. footsteps could still be heard outside but you were free to make yourself comfortable. clemence removed her camisole again. coupeau still refused to go to bed, so they allowed him to stay, but he had to promise to be quiet in a corner, for they were very busy. "whatever has that vermin done with my little iron?" murmured gervaise, speaking of augustine. they were for ever seeking the little iron, which they found in the most out-of-the-way places, where the apprentice, so they said, hid it out of spite. gervaise could now finish madame boche's cap. first she roughly smoothed the lace, spreading it out with her hand, and then she straightened it up by light strokes of the iron. it had a very fancy border consisting of narrow puffs alternating with insertions of embroidery. she was working on it silently and conscientiously, ironing the puffs and insertions. silence prevailed for a time. nothing was to be heard except the soft thud of irons on the ironing pad. on both sides of the huge rectangular table gervaise, her two employees, and the apprentice were bending over, slaving at their tasks with rounded shoulders, their arms moving incessantly. each had a flat brick blackened by hot irons near her. a soup plate filled with clean water was on the middle of the table with a moistening rag and a small brush soaking in it. a bouquet of large white lilies bloomed in what had once been a brandied cherry jar. its cluster of snowy flowers suggested a corner of a royal garden. madame putois had begun the basket that gervaise had brought to her filled with towels, wrappers, cuffs and underdrawers. augustine was dawdling with the stockings and washcloths, gazing into the air, seemingly fascinated by a large fly that was buzzing around. clemence had done thirty-four men's shirts so far that day. "always wine, never spirits!" suddenly said the zinc-worker, who felt the necessity of making this declaration. "spirits make me drunk, i'll have none of them." clemence took an iron from the stove with her leather holder in which a piece of sheet iron was inserted, and held it up to her cheek to see how hot it was. she rubbed it on her brick, wiped it on a piece of rag hanging from her waist-band and started on her thirty-fifth shirt, first of all ironing the shoulders and the sleeves. "bah! monsieur coupeau," said she after a minute or two, "a little glass of brandy isn't bad. it sets me going. besides, the sooner you're merry, the jollier it is. oh! i don't make any mistake; i know that i shan't make old bones." "what a nuisance you are with your funeral ideas!" interrupted madame putois who did not like hearing people talk of anything sad. coupeau had arisen and was becoming angry thinking that he had been accused of drinking brandy. he swore on his own head and on the heads of his wife and child that there was not a drop of brandy in his veins. and he went up to clemence and blew in her face so that she might smell his breath. then he began to giggle because her bare shoulders were right under his nose. he thought maybe he could see more. clemence, having folded over the back of the shirt and ironed it on both sides, was now working on the cuffs and collar. however, as he was shoving against her, he caused her to make a wrinkle, obliging her to reach for the brush soaking in the soup plate to smooth it out. "madame," said she, "do make him leave off bothering me." "leave her alone; it's stupid of you to go on like that," quietly observed gervaise. "we're in a hurry, do you hear?" they were in a hurry, well! what? it was not his fault. he was doing no harm. he was not touching, he was only looking. was it no longer allowed to look at the beautiful things that god had made? all the same, she had precious fine arms, that artful clemence! she might exhibit herself for two sous and nobody would have to regret his money. the girl allowed him to go on, laughing at these coarse compliments of a drunken man. and she soon commenced joking with him. he chuffed her about the shirts. so she was always doing shirts? why yes, she practically lived in them. _mon dieu!_ she knew them pretty well. hundreds and hundreds of them had passed through her hands. just about every man in the neighborhood was wearing her handiwork on his body. her shoulders were shaking with laughter through all this, but she managed to continue ironing. "that's the banter!" said she, laughing harder than ever. that squint-eyed augustine almost burst, the joke seemed to her so funny. the others bullied her. there was a brat for you who laughed at words she ought not to understand! clemence handed her her iron; the apprentice finished up the irons on the stockings and the dish-cloths when they were not hot enough for the starched things. but she took hold of this one so clumsily that she made herself a cuff in the form of a long burn on the wrist. and she sobbed and accused clemence of having burnt her on purpose. the latter who had gone to fetch a very hot iron for the shirt-front consoled her at once by threatening to iron her two ears if she did not leave off. then she placed a piece of flannel under the front and slowly passed the iron over it giving the starch time to show up and dry. the shirt-front became as stiff and as shiny as cardboard. "by golly!" swore coupeau, who was treading behind her with the obstinacy of a drunkard. he raised himself up with a shrill laugh that resembled a pulley in want of grease. clemence, leaning heavily over the ironing-table, her wrists bent in, her elbows sticking out and wide apart was bending her neck in a last effort; and all her muscles swelled, her shoulders rose with the slow play of the muscles beating beneath the soft skin, her breasts heaved, wet with perspiration in the rosy shadow of the half open chemise. then coupeau thrust out his hands, trying to touch her bare flesh. "madame! madame!" cried clemence, "do make him leave off! i shall go away if it continues. i won't be intimated." gervaise glanced over just as her husband's hands began to explore inside the chemise. "really, coupeau, you're too foolish," said she, with a vexed air, as though she were scolding a child who persisted in eating his jam without bread. "you must go to bed." "yes, go to bed, monsieur coupeau; it will be far better," exclaimed madame putois. "ah! well," stuttered he, without ceasing to chuckle, "you're all precious particular! so one mustn't amuse oneself now? women, i know how to handle them; i'll only kiss them, no more. one admires a lady, you know, and wants to show it. and, besides, when one displays one's goods, it's that one may make one's choice, isn't it? why does the tall blonde show everything she's got? it's not decent." and turning towards clemence, he added: "you know, my lovely, you're wrong to be to very insolent. if it's because there are others here--" but he was unable to continue. gervaise very calmly seized hold of him with one hand, and placed the other on his mouth. he struggled, just by way of a joke, whilst she pushed him to the back of the shop, towards the bedroom. he got his mouth free and said that he was willing to go to bed, but that the tall blonde must come and warm his feet. then gervaise could be heard taking off his shoes. she removed his clothes too, bullying him in a motherly way. he burst out laughing after she had removed his trousers and kicked about, pretending that she was tickling him. at last she tucked him in carefully like a child. was he comfortable now? but he did not answer; he called to clemence: "i say, my lovely, i'm here, and waiting for you!" when gervaise went back into the shop, the squint-eyed augustine was being properly chastised by clemence because of a dirty iron that madame putois had used and which had caused her to soil a camisole. clemence, in defending herself for not having cleaned her iron, blamed augustine, swearing that it wasn't hers, in spite of the spot of burned starch still clinging to the bottom. the apprentice, outraged at the injustice, openly spat on the front of clemence's dress, earning a slap for her boldness. now, as augustine went about cleaning the iron, she saved up her spit and each time she passed clemence spat on her back and laughed to herself. gervaise continued with the lace of madame boche's cap. in the sudden calm which ensued, one could hear coupeau's husky voice issuing from the depths of the bedroom. he was still jolly, and was laughing to himself as he uttered bits of phrases. "how stupid she is, my wife! how stupid of her to put me to bed! really, it's too absurd, in the middle of the day, when one isn't sleepy." but, all on a sudden, he snored. then gervaise gave a sigh of relief, happy in knowing that he was at length quiet, and sleeping off his intoxication on two good mattresses. and she spoke out in the silence, in a slow and continuous voice, without taking her eyes off her work. "you see, he hasn't his reason, one can't be angry. were i to be harsh with him, it would be of no use. i prefer to agree with him and get him to bed; then, at least, it's over at once and i'm quiet. besides, he isn't ill-natured, he loves me very much. you could see that just a moment ago when he was desperate to give me a kiss. that's quite nice of him. there are plenty of men, you know, who after drinking a bit don't come straight home but stay out chasing women. oh, he may fool around with the women in the shop, but it doesn't lead to anything. clemence, you mustn't feel insulted. you know how it is when a man's had too much to drink. he could do anything and not even remember it." she spoke composedly, not at all angry, being quite used to coupeau's sprees and not holding them against him. a silence settled down for a while when she stopped talking. there was a lot of work to get done. they figured they would have to keep at it until eleven, working as fast as they could. now that they were undisturbed, all of them were pounding away. bare arms were moving back and forth, showing glimpses of pink among the whiteness of the laundry. more coke had been put into the stove and the sunlight slanted in between the sheets onto the stove. you could see the heat rising up through the rays of the sun. it became so stifling that augustine ran out of spit and was forced to lick her lips. the room smelled of the heat and of the working women. the white lilies in the jar were beginning to fade, yet they still exuded a pure and strong perfume. coupeau's heavy snores were heard like the regular ticking of a huge clock, setting the tempo for the heavy labor in the shop. on the morrow of his carouses, the zinc-worker always had a headache, a splitting headache which kept him all day with his hair uncombed, his breath offensive, and his mouth all swollen and askew. he got up late on those days, not shaking the fleas off till about eight o'clock; and he would hang about the shop, unable to make up his mind to start off to his work. it was another day lost. in the morning he would complain that his legs bent like pieces of thread, and would call himself a great fool to guzzle to such an extent, as it broke one's constitution. then, too, there were a lot of lazy bums who wouldn't let you go and you'd get to drinking more in spite of yourself. no, no, no more for him. after lunch he would always begin to perk up and deny that he had been really drunk the night before. maybe just a bit lit up. he was rock solid and able to drink anything he wanted without even blinking an eye. when he had thoroughly badgered the workwomen, gervaise would give him twenty sous to clear out. and off he would go to buy his tobacco at the "little civet," in the rue des poissonniers, where he generally took a plum in brandy whenever he met a friend. then, he spent the rest of the twenty sous at old francois's, at the corner of the rue de la goutte-d'or, where there was a famous wine, quite young, which tickled your gullet. this was an old-fashioned place with a low ceiling. there was a smoky room to one side where soup was served. he would stay there until evening drinking because there was an understanding that he didn't have to pay right away and they would never send the bill to his wife. besides he was a jolly fellow, who would never do the least harm--a chap who loved a spree sure enough, and who colored his nose in his turn but in a nice manner, full of contempt for those pigs of men who have succumbed to alcohol, and whom one never sees sober! he always went home as gay and as gallant as a lark. "has your lover been?" he would sometimes ask gervaise by way of teasing her. "one never sees him now; i must go and rout him out." the lover was goujet. he avoided, in fact, calling too often for fear of being in the way, and also of causing people to talk. yet he frequently found a pretext, such as bringing the washing; and he would pass no end of time on the pavement in front of the shop. there was a corner right at the back in which he liked to sit, without moving for hours, and smoke his short pipe. once every ten days, in the evening after his dinner, he would venture there and take up his favorite position. and he was no talker, his mouth almost seemed sewn up, as he sat with his eyes fixed on gervaise, and only removed his pipe to laugh at everything she said. when they were working late on a saturday he would stay on, and appeared to amuse himself more than if he had gone to a theatre. sometimes the women stayed in the shop ironing until three in the morning. a lamp hung from the ceiling and spread a brilliant light making the linen look like fresh snow. the apprentice would put up the shop shutters, but since these july nights were scorching hot, the door would be left open. the later the hour the more casual the women became with their clothes while trying to be comfortable. the lamplight flecked their rosy skin with gold specks, especially gervaise who was so pleasantly rounded. on these nights goujet would be overcome by the heat from the stove and the odor of linen steaming under the hot irons. he would drift into a sort of giddiness, his thinking slowed and his eyes obsessed by these hurrying women as their naked arms moved back and forth, working far into the night to have the neighborhood's best clothes ready for sunday. everything around the laundry was slumbering, settled into sleep for the night. midnight rang, then one o'clock, then two o'clock. there were no vehicles or pedestrians. in the dark and deserted street, only their shop door let out any light. once in a while, footsteps would be heard and a man would pass the shop. as he crossed the path of light he would stretch his neck to look in, startled by the sound of the thudding irons, and carry with him the quick glimpse of bare-shouldered laundresses immersed in a rosy mist. goujet, seeing that gervaise did not know what to do with etienne, and wishing to deliver him from coupeau's kicks, had engaged him to go and blow the bellows at the factory where he worked. the profession of bolt-maker, if not one to be proud of on account of the dirt of the forge and of the monotony of constantly hammering on pieces of iron of a similar kind, was nevertheless a well paid one, at which ten and even twelve francs a day could be earned. the youngster, who was then twelve years old, would soon be able to go in for it, if the calling was to his liking. and etienne had thus become another link between the laundress and the blacksmith. the latter would bring the child home and speak of his good conduct. everyone laughingly said that goujet was smitten with gervaise. she knew it, and blushed like a young girl, the flush of modesty coloring her cheeks with the bright tints of an apple. the poor fellow, he was never any trouble! he never made a bold gesture or an indelicate remark. you didn't find many men like him. gervaise didn't want to admit it, but she derived a great deal of pleasure from being adored like this. whenever a problem arose she thought immediately of the blacksmith and was consoled. there was never any awkward tension when they were alone together. they just looked at each other and smiled happily with no need to talk. it was a very sensible kind of affection. towards the end of the summer, nana quite upset the household. she was six years old and promised to be a thorough good-for-nothing. so as not to have her always under her feet her mother took her every morning to a little school in the rue polonceau kept by mademoiselle josse. she fastened her playfellows' dresses together behind, she filled the school-mistress's snuff-box with ashes, and invented other tricks much less decent which could not be mentioned. twice mademoiselle josse expelled her and then took her back again so as not to lose the six francs a month. directly lessons were over nana avenged herself for having been kept in by making an infernal noise under the porch and in the courtyard where the ironers, whose ears could not stand the racket, sent her to play. there she would meet pauline, the boches' daughter, and victor, the son of gervaise's old employer--a big booby of ten who delighted in playing with very little girls. madame fauconnier who had not quarreled with the coupeaus would herself send her son. in the house, too, there was an extraordinary swarm of brats, flights of children who rolled down the four staircases at all hours of the day and alighted on the pavement of the courtyard like troops of noisy pillaging sparrows. madame gaudron was responsible for nine of them, all with uncombed hair, runny noses, hand-me-down clothes, saggy stockings and ripped jackets. another woman on the sixth floor had seven of them. this hoard that only got their faces washed when it rained were in all shapes and sizes, fat, thin, big and barely out of the cradle. nana reigned supreme over this host of urchins; she ordered about girls twice her own size, and only deigned to relinquish a little of her power in favor of pauline and victor, intimate confidants who enforced her commands. this precious chit was for ever wanting to play at being mamma, undressing the smallest ones to dress them again, insisting on examining the others all over, messing them about and exercising the capricious despotism of a grown-up person with a vicious disposition. under her leadership they got up tricks for which they should have been well spanked. the troop paddled in the colored water from the dyer's and emerged from it with legs stained blue or red as high as the knees; then off it flew to the locksmith's where it purloined nails and filings and started off again to alight in the midst of the carpenter's shavings, enormous heaps of shavings, which delighted it immensely and in which it rolled head over heels exposing their behinds. the courtyard was her kingdom. it echoed with the clatter of little shoes as they stampeded back and forth with piercing cries. on some days the courtyard was too small for them and the troop would dash down into the cellar, race up a staircase, run along a corridor, then dash up another staircase and follow another corridor for hours. they never got tired of their yelling and clambering. "aren't they abominable, those little toads?" cried madame boche. "really, people can have but very little to do to have time to get so many brats. and yet they complain of having no bread." boche said that children pushed up out of poverty like mushrooms out of manure. all day long his wife was screaming at them and chasing them with her broom. finally she had to lock the door of the cellar when she learned from pauline that nana was playing doctor down there in the dark, viciously finding pleasure in applying remedies to the others by beating them with sticks. well, one afternoon there was a frightful scene. it was bound to have come sooner or later. nana had thought of a very funny little game. she had stolen one of madame boche's wooden shoes from outside the concierge's room. she tied a string to it and began dragging it about like a cart. victor on his side had had the idea to fill it with potato parings. then a procession was formed. nana came first dragging the wooden shoe. pauline and victor walked on her right and left. then the entire crowd of urchins followed in order, the big ones first, the little ones next, jostling one another; a baby in long skirts about as tall as a boot with an old tattered bonnet cocked on one side of its head, brought up the rear. and the procession chanted something sad with plenty of ohs! and ahs! nana had said that they were going to play at a funeral; the potato parings represented the body. when they had gone the round of the courtyard, they recommenced. they thought it immensely amusing. "what can they be up to?" murmured madame boche, who emerged from her room to see, ever mistrustful and on the alert. and when she understood: "but it's my shoe!" cried she furiously. "ah, the rogues!" she distributed some smacks, clouted nana on both cheeks and administered a kick to pauline, that great goose who allowed the others to steal her mother's shoe. it so happened that gervaise was filling a bucket at the tap. when she beheld nana, her nose bleeding and choking with sobs, she almost sprang at the concierge's chignon. it was not right to hit a child as though it were an ox. one could have no heart, one must be the lowest of the low if one did so. madame boche naturally replied in a similar strain. when one had a beast of a girl like that one should keep her locked up. at length boche himself appeared in the doorway to call his wife to come in and not to enter into so many explanations with a filthy thing like her. there was a regular quarrel. as a matter of fact things had not gone on very pleasantly between the boches and the coupeaus for a month past. gervaise, who was of a very generous nature, was continually bestowing wine, broth, oranges and slices of cake on the boches. one night she had taken the remains of an endive and beetroot salad to the concierge's room, knowing that the latter would have done anything for such a treat. but on the morrow she became quite pale with rage on hearing mademoiselle remanjou relate how madame boche had thrown the salad away in the presence of several persons with an air of disgust and under the pretext that she, thank goodness, was not yet reduced to feeding on things which others had messed about. from that time gervaise took no more presents to the boches--nothing. now the boches seemed to think that gervaise was stealing something which was rightfully theirs. gervaise saw that she had made a mistake. if she hadn't catered to them so much in the beginning, they wouldn't have gotten into the habit of expecting it and might have remained on good terms with her. now the concierge began to spread slander about gervaise. there was a great fuss with the landlord, monsieur marescot, at the october rental period, because gervaise was a day late with the rent. madame boche accused her of eating up all her money in fancy dishes. monsieur marescot charged into the laundry demanding to be paid at once. he didn't even bother to remove his hat. the money was ready and was paid to him immediately. the boches had now made up with the lorilleuxs who now came and did their guzzling in the concierge's lodge. they assured each other that they never would have fallen out if it hadn't been for clump-clump. she was enough to set mountains to fighting. ah! the boches knew her well now, they could understand how much the lorilleuxs must suffer. and whenever she passed beneath the doorway they all affected to sneer at her. one day, gervaise went up to see the lorilleuxs in spite of this. it was with respect to mother coupeau who was then sixty-seven years old. mother coupeau's eyesight was almost completely gone. her legs too were no longer what they used to be. she had been obliged to give up her last cleaning job and now threatened to die of hunger if assistance were not forthcoming. gervaise thought it shameful that a woman of her age, having three children should be thus abandoned by heaven and earth. and as coupeau refused to speak to the lorilleuxs on the subject saying that she, gervaise, could very well go and do so, the latter went up in a fit of indignation with which her heart was almost bursting. when she reached their door she entered without knocking. nothing had been changed since the night when the lorilleuxs, at their first meeting had received her so ungraciously. the same strip of faded woolen stuff separated the room from the workshop, a lodging like a gun barrel, and which looked as though it had been built for an eel. right at the back lorilleux, leaning over his bench, was squeezing together one by one the links of a piece of chain, whilst madame lorilleux, standing in front of the vise was passing a gold wire through the draw-plate. in the broad daylight the little forge had a rosy reflection. "yes, it's i!" said gervaise. "i daresay you're surprised to see me as we're at daggers drawn. but i've come neither for you nor myself you may be quite sure. it's for mother coupeau that i've come. yes, i have come to see if we're going to let her beg her bread from the charity of others." "ah, well, that's a fine way to burst in upon one!" murmured madame lorilleux. "one must have a rare cheek." and she turned her back and resumed drawing her gold wire, affecting to ignore her sister-in-law's presence. but lorilleux raised his pale face and cried: "what's that you say?" then, as he had heard perfectly well, he continued: "more back-bitings, eh? she's nice, mother coupeau, to go and cry starvation everywhere! yet only the day before yesterday she dined here. we do what we can. we haven't got all the gold of peru. only if she goes about gossiping with others she had better stay with them, for we don't like spies." he took up the piece of chain and turned his back also, adding as though with regret: "when everyone gives five francs a month, we'll give five francs." gervaise had calmed down and felt quite chilled by the wooden looking faces of the lorilleux. she had never once set foot in their rooms without experiencing a certain uneasiness. with her eyes fixed on the floor, staring at the holes of the wooden grating through which the waste gold fell she now explained herself in a reasonable manner. mother coupeau had three children; if each one gave five francs it would only make fifteen francs, and really that was not enough, one could not live on it; they must at least triple the sum. but lorilleux cried out. where did she think he could steal fifteen francs a month? it was quite amusing, people thought he was rich simply because he had gold in his place. he began then to criticize mother coupeau: she had to have her morning coffee, she took a sip of brandy now and then, she was as demanding as if she were rich. _mon dieu!_ sure, everyone liked the good things of life. but if you've never saved a sou, you had to do what other folks did and do without. besides, mother coupeau wasn't too old to work. she could see well enough when she was trying to pick a choice morsel from the platter. she was just an old spendthrift trying to get others to provide her with comforts. even had he had the means, he would have considered it wrong to support any one in idleness. gervaise remained conciliatory, and peaceably argued against all this bad reasoning. she tried to soften the lorilleuxs. but the husband ended by no longer answering her. the wife was now at the forge scouring a piece of chain in the little, long-handled brass saucepan full of lye-water. she still affectedly turned her back, as though a hundred leagues away. and gervaise continued speaking, watching them pretending to be absorbed in their labor in the midst of the black dust of the workshop, their bodies distorted, their clothes patched and greasy, both become stupidly hardened like old tools in the pursuit of their narrow mechanical task. then suddenly anger again got the better of her and she exclaimed: "very well, i'd rather it was so; keep your money! i'll give mother coupeau a home, do you hear? i picked up a cat the other evening, so i can at least do the same for your mother. and she shall be in want of nothing; she shall have her coffee and her drop of brandy! good heavens! what a vile family!" at these words madame lorilleux turned round. she brandished the saucepan as though she was about to throw the lye-water in her sister-in-law's face. she stammered with rage: "be off, or i shall do you an injury! and don't count on the five francs because i won't give a radish! no, not a radish! ah well, yes, five francs! mother would be your servant and you would enjoy yourself with my five francs! if she goes to live with you, tell her this, she may croak, i won't even send her a glass of water. now off you go! clear out!" "what a monster of a woman!" said gervaise violently slamming the door. on the morrow she brought mother coupeau to live with her, putting her bed in the inner room where nana slept. the moving did not take long, for all the furniture mother coupeau had was her bed, an ancient walnut wardrobe which was put in the dirty-clothes room, a table, and two chairs. they sold the table and had the chairs recaned. from the very first the old lady took over the sweeping. she washed the dishes and made herself useful, happy to have settled her problem. the lorilleux were furious enough to explode, especially since madame lerat was now back on good terms with the coupeaus. one day the two sisters, the flower-maker and the chainmaker came to blows about gervaise because madame lerat dared to express approval of the way she was taking care of their mother. when she noticed how this upset the other, she went on to remark that gervaise had magnificent eyes, eyes warm enough to set paper on fire. the two of them commenced slapping each other and swore they never would see each other again. nowadays madame lerat often spent her evenings in the shop, laughing to herself at clemence's spicy remarks. three years passed by. there were frequent quarrels and reconciliations. gervaise did not care a straw for the lorilleux, the boches and all the others who were not of her way of thinking. if they did not like it, they could forget it. she earned what she wished, that was her principal concern. the people of the neighborhood had ended by greatly esteeming her, for one did not find many customers so kind as she was, paying punctually, never caviling or higgling. she bought her bread of madame coudeloup, in the rue des poissonniers; her meat of stout charles, a butcher in the rue polonceau; her groceries at lehongre's, in the rue de la goutte-d'or, almost opposite her own shop. francois, the wine merchant at the corner of the street, supplied her with wine in baskets of fifty bottles. her neighbor vigouroux, whose wife's hips must have been black and blue, the men pinched her so much, sold coke to her at the same price as the gas company. and, in all truth, her tradespeople served her faithfully, knowing that there was everything to gain by treating her well. besides, whenever she went out around the neighborhood, she was greeted everywhere. she felt quite at home. sometimes she put off doing a laundry job just to enjoy being outdoors among her good friends. on days when she was too rushed to do her own cooking and had to go out to buy something already cooked, she would stop to gossip with her arms full of bowls. the neighbor she respected the most was still the watchmaker. often she would cross the street to greet him in his tiny cupboard of a shop, taking pleasure in the gaiety of the little cuckoo clocks with their pendulums ticking away the hours in chorus. chapter vi. one afternoon in the autumn gervaise, who had been taking some washing home to a customer in the rue des portes-blanches, found herself at the bottom of the rue des poissonniers just as the day was declining. it had rained in the morning, the weather was very mild and an odor rose from the greasy pavement; and the laundress, burdened with her big basket, was rather out of breath, slow of step, and inclined to take her ease as she ascended the street with the vague preoccupation of a longing increased by her weariness. she would have liked to have had something to eat. then, on raising her eyes she beheld the name of the rue marcadet, and she suddenly had the idea of going to see goujet at his forge. he had no end of times told her to look in any day she was curious to see how iron was wrought. besides in the presence of other workmen she would ask for etienne, and make believe that she had merely called for the youngster. the factory was somewhere on this end of the rue marcadet, but she didn't know exactly where and street numbers were often lacking on those ramshackle buildings separated by vacant lots. she wouldn't have lived on this street for all the gold in the world. it was a wide street, but dirty, black with soot from factories, with holes in the pavement and deep ruts filled with stagnant water. on both sides were rows of sheds, workshops with beams and brickwork exposed so that they seemed unfinished, a messy collection of masonry. beside them were dubious lodging houses and even more dubious taverns. all she could recall was that the bolt factory was next to a yard full of scrap iron and rags, a sort of open sewer spread over the ground, storing merchandise worth hundreds of thousands of francs, according to goujet. the street was filled with a noisy racket. exhaust pipes on roofs puffed out violent jets of steam; an automatic sawmill added a rhythmic screeching; a button factory shook the ground with the rumbling of its machines. she was looking up toward the montmartre height, hesitant, uncertain whether to continue, when a gust of wind blew down a mass of sooty smoke that covered the entire street. she closed her eyes and held her breath. at that moment she heard the sound of hammers in cadence. without realizing it, she had arrived directly in front of the bolt factory which she now recognized by the vacant lot beside it full of piles of scrap iron and old rags. she still hesitated, not knowing where to enter. a broken fence opened a passage which seemed to lead through the heaps of rubbish from some buildings recently pulled down. two planks had been thrown across a large puddle of muddy water that barred the way. she ended by venturing along them, turned to the left and found herself lost in the depths of a strange forest of old carts, standing on end with their shafts in the air, and of hovels in ruins, the wood-work of which was still standing. toward the back, stabbing through the half-light of sundown, a flame gleamed red. the clamor of the hammers had ceased. she was advancing carefully when a workman, his face blackened with coal-dust and wearing a goatee passed near her, casting a side-glance with his pale eyes. "sir," asked she, "it's here is it not that a boy named etienne works? he's my son." "etienne, etienne," repeated the workman in a hoarse voice as he twisted himself about. "etienne; no i don't know him." an alcoholic reek like that from old brandy casks issued from his mouth. meeting a woman in this dark corner seemed to be giving the fellow ideas, and so gervaise drew back saying: "but yet it's here that monsieur goujet works, isn't it?" "ah! goujet, yes!" said the workman; "i know goujet! if you come for goujet, go right to the end." and turning round he called out at the top of his voice, which had a sound of cracked brass: "i say golden-mug, here's a lady wants you!" but a clanging of iron drowned the cry! gervaise went to the end. she reached a door and stretching out her neck looked in. at first she could distinguish nothing. the forge had died down, but there was still a little glow which held back the advancing shadows from its corner. great shadows seemed to float in the air. at times black shapes passed before the fire, shutting off this last bit of brightness, silhouettes of men so strangely magnified that their arms and legs were indistinct. gervaise, not daring to venture in, called from the doorway in a faint voice: "monsieur goujet! monsieur goujet!" suddenly all became lighted up. beneath the puff of the bellows a jet of white flame had ascended and the whole interior of the shed could be seen, walled in by wooden planks, with openings roughly plastered over, and brick walls reinforcing the corners. coal-ash had painted the whole expanse a sooty grey. spider webs hung from the beams like rags hung up to dry, heavy with the accumulated dust of years. on shelves along the walls, or hanging from nails, or tossed into corners, she saw rusty iron, battered implements and huge tools. the white flame flared higher, like an explosion of dazzling sunlight revealing the trampled dirt underfoot, where the polished steel of four anvils fixed on blocks took on a reflection of silver sprinkled with gold. then gervaise recognized goujet in front of the forge by his beautiful yellow beard. etienne was blowing the bellows. two other workmen were there, but she only beheld goujet and walked forward and stood before him. "why it's madame gervaise!" he exclaimed with a bright look on his face. "what a pleasant surprise." but as his comrades appeared to be rather amused, he pushed etienne towards his mother and resumed: "you've come to see the youngster. he behaves himself well, he's beginning to get some strength in his wrists." "well!" she said, "it isn't easy to find your way here. i thought i was going to the end of the world." after telling about her journey, she asked why no one in the shop knew etienne's name. goujet laughed and explained to her that everybody called him "little zouzou" because he had his hair cut short like that of a zouave. while they were talking together etienne stopped working the bellows and the flame of the forge dwindled to a rosy glow amid the gathering darkness. touched by the presence of this smiling young woman, the blacksmith stood gazing at her. then, as neither continued speaking, he seemed to recollect and broke the silence: "excuse me, madame gervaise, i've something that has to be finished. you'll stay, won't you? you're not in anybody's way." she remained. etienne returned to the bellows. the forge was soon ablaze again with a cloud of sparks; the more so as the youngster, wanting to show his mother what he could do, was making the bellows blow a regular hurricane. goujet, standing up watching a bar of iron heating, was waiting with the tongs in his hand. the bright glare illuminated him without a shadow--sleeves rolled back, shirt neck open, bare arms and chest. when the bar was at white heat he seized it with the tongs and cut it with a hammer on the anvil, in pieces of equal length, as though he had been gently breaking pieces of glass. then he put the pieces back into the fire, from which he took them one by one to work them into shape. he was forging hexagonal rivets. he placed each piece in a tool-hole of the anvil, bent down the iron that was to form the head, flattened the six sides and threw the finished rivet still red-hot on to the black earth, where its bright light gradually died out; and this with a continuous hammering, wielding in his right hand a hammer weighing five pounds, completing a detail at every blow, turning and working the iron with such dexterity that he was able to talk to and look at those about him. the anvil had a silvery ring. without a drop of perspiration, quite at his ease, he struck in a good-natured sort of a way, not appearing to exert himself more than on the evenings when he cut out pictures at home. "oh! these are little rivets of twenty millimetres," said he in reply to gervaise's questions. "a fellow can do his three hundred a day. but it requires practice, for one's arm soon grows weary." and when she asked him if his wrist did not feel stiff at the end of the day he laughed aloud. did she think him a young lady? his wrist had had plenty of drudgery for fifteen years past; it was now as strong as the iron implements it had been so long in contact with. she was right though; a gentleman who had never forged a rivet or a bolt, and who would try to show off with his five pound hammer, would find himself precious stiff in the course of a couple of hours. it did not seem much, but a few years of it often did for some very strong fellows. during this conversation the other workmen were also hammering away all together. their tall shadows danced about in the light, the red flashes of the iron that the fire traversed, the gloomy recesses, clouds of sparks darted out from beneath the hammers and shone like suns on a level with the anvils. and gervaise, feeling happy and interested in the movement round the forge, did not think of leaving. she was going a long way round to get nearer to etienne without having her hands burnt, when she saw the dirty and bearded workman, whom she had spoken to outside, enter. "so you've found him, madame?" asked he in his drunken bantering way. "you know, golden-mug, it's i who told madame where to find you." he was called salted-mouth, otherwise drink-without-thirst, the brick of bricks, a dab hand at bolt forging, who wetted his iron every day with a pint and a half of brandy. he had gone out to have a drop, because he felt he wanted greasing to make him last till six o'clock. when he learnt that little zouzou's real name was etienne, he thought it very funny; and he showed his black teeth as he laughed. then he recognized gervaise. only the day before he had had a glass of wine with coupeau. you could speak to coupeau about salted-mouth, otherwise drink-without-thirst; he would at once say: "he's a jolly dog!" ah! that joker coupeau! he was one of the right sort; he stood treat oftener than his turn. "i'm awfully glad to know you're his missus," added he. "he deserves to have a pretty wife. eh, golden-mug, madame is a fine woman, isn't she?" he was becoming quite gallant, sidling up towards the laundress, who took hold of her basket and held it in front of her so as to keep him at a distance. goujet, annoyed and seeing that his comrade was joking because of his friendship for gervaise, called out to him: "i say, lazybones, what about the forty millimetre bolts? do you think you're equal to them now that you've got your gullet full, you confounded guzzler?" the blacksmith was alluding to an order for big bolts which necessitated two beaters at the anvil. "i'm ready to start at this moment, big baby!" replied salted-mouth, otherwise drink-without-thirst. "it sucks it's thumb and thinks itself a man. in spite of your size i'm equal to you!" "yes, that's it, at once. look sharp and off we go!" "right you are, my boy!" they taunted each other, stimulated by gervaise's presence. goujet placed the pieces of iron that had been cut beforehand in the fire, then he fixed a tool-hole of large bore on an anvil. his comrade had taken from against the wall two sledge-hammers weighing twenty pounds each, the two big sisters of the factory whom the workers called fifine and dedele. and he continued to brag, talking of a half-gross of rivets which he had forged for the dunkirk lighthouse, regular jewels, things to be put in a museum, they were so daintily finished off. hang it all, no! he did not fear competition; before meeting with another chap like him, you might search every factory in the capital. they were going to have a laugh; they would see what they would see. "madame will be judge," said he, turning towards the young woman. "enough chattering," cried goujet. "now then, zouzou, show your muscle! it's not hot enough, my lad." but salted-mouth, otherwise drink-without-thirst, asked: "so we strike together?" "not a bit of it! each his own bolt, my friend!" this statement operated as a damper, and goujet's comrade, on hearing it, remained speechless, in spite of his boasting. bolts of forty millimetres fashioned by one man had never before been seen; the more so as the bolts were to be round-headed, a work of great difficulty, a real masterpiece to achieve. the three other workmen came over, leaving their jobs, to watch. a tall, lean one wagered a bottle of wine that goujet would be beaten. meanwhile the two blacksmiths had chosen their sledge hammers with eyes closed, because fifine weighed a half pound more than dedele. salted-mouth, otherwise drink-without-thirst, had the good luck to put his hand on dedele; fifine fell to golden-mug. while waiting for the iron to get hot enough, salted-mouth, otherwise drink-without-thirst, again showing off, struck a pose before the anvil while casting side glances toward gervaise. he planted himself solidly, tapping his feet impatiently like a man ready for a fight, throwing all his strength into practice swings with dedele. _mon dieu!_ he was good at this; he could have flattened the vendome column like a pancake. "now then, off you go!" said goujet, placing one of the pieces of iron, as thick as a girl's wrist, in the tool-hole. salted-mouth, otherwise drink-without-thirst, leant back, and swung dedele round with both hands. short and lean, with his goatee bristling, and with his wolf-like eyes glaring beneath his unkempt hair, he seemed to snap at each swing of the hammer, springing up from the ground as though carried away by the force he put into the blow. he was a fierce one, who fought with the iron, annoyed at finding it so hard, and he even gave a grunt whenever he thought he had planted a fierce stroke. perhaps brandy did weaken other people's arms, but he needed brandy in his veins, instead of blood. the drop he had taken a little while before had made his carcass as warm as a boiler; he felt he had the power of a steam-engine within him. and the iron seemed to be afraid of him this time; he flattened it more easily than if it had been a quid of tobacco. and it was a sight to see how dedele waltzed! she cut such capers, with her tootsies in the air, just like a little dancer at the elysee montmartre, who exhibits her fine underclothes; for it would never do to dawdle, iron is so deceitful, it cools at once, just to spite the hammer. with thirty blows, salted-mouth, otherwise drink-without-thirst, had fashioned the head of his bolt. but he panted, his eyes were half out of his head, and got into a great rage as he felt his arms growing tired. then, carried away by wrath, jumping about and yelling, he gave two more blows, just out of revenge for his trouble. when he took the bolt from the hole, it was deformed, its head being askew like a hunchback's. "come now! isn't that quickly beaten into shape?" said he all the same, with his self-confidence, as he presented his work to gervaise. "i'm no judge, sir," replied the laundress, reservedly. but she saw plainly enough the marks of dedele's last two kicks on the bolt, and she was very pleased. she bit her lips so as not to laugh, for now goujet had every chance of winning. it was now golden-mug's turn. before commencing, he gave the laundress a look full of confident tenderness. then he did not hurry himself. he measured his distance, and swung the hammer from on high with all his might and at regular intervals. he had the classic style, accurate, evenly balanced, and supple. fifine, in his hands, did not cut capers, like at a dance-hall, but made steady, certain progress; she rose and fell in cadence, like a lady of quality solemnly leading some ancient minuet. there was no brandy in golden-mug's veins, only blood, throbbing powerfully even into fifine and controlling the job. that stalwart fellow! what a magnificent man he was at work. the high flame of the forge shone full on his face. his whole face seemed golden indeed with his short hair curling over his forehead and his splendid yellow beard. his neck was as straight as a column and his immense chest was wide enough for a woman to sleep across it. his shoulders and sculptured arms seemed to have been copied from a giant's statue in some museum. you could see his muscles swelling, mountains of flesh rippling and hardening under the skin; his shoulders, his chest, his neck expanded; he seemed to shed light about him, becoming beautiful and all-powerful like a kindly god. he had now swung fifine twenty times, his eyes always fixed on the iron, drawing a deep breath with each blow, yet showing only two great drops of sweat trickling down from his temples. he counted: "twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three--" calmly fifine continued, like a noble lady dancing. "what a show-off!" jeeringly murmured salted-mouth, otherwise drink-without-thirst. gervaise, standing opposite goujet, looked at him with an affectionate smile. _mon dieu!_ what fools men are! here these two men were, pounding on their bolts to pay court to her. she understood it. they were battling with hammer blows, like two big red roosters vying for the favors of a little white hen. sometimes the human heart has fantastic ways of expressing itself. this thundering of dedele and fifine upon the anvil was for her, this forge roaring and overflowing was for her. they were forging their love before her, battling over her. to be honest, she rather enjoyed it. all women are happy to receive compliments. the mighty blows of golden-mug found echoes in her heart; they rang within her, a crystal-clear music in time with the throbbing of her pulse. she had the feeling that this hammering was driving something deep inside of her, something solid, something hard as the iron of the bolt. she had no doubt goujet would win. salted-mouth, otherwise drink-without-thirst, was much too ugly in his dirty tunic, jumping around like a monkey that had escaped from a zoo. she waited, blushing red, happy that the heat could explain the blush. goujet was still counting. "and twenty-eight!" cried he at length, laying the hammer on the ground. "it's finished; you can look." the head of the bolt was clean, polished, and without a flaw, regular goldsmith's work, with the roundness of a marble cast in a mold. the other men looked at it and nodded their heads; there was no denying it was lovely enough to be worshipped. salted-mouth, otherwise drink-without-thirst, tried indeed to chuff; but it was no use, and ended by returning to his anvil, with his nose put out of joint. gervaise had squeezed up against goujet, as though to get a better view. etienne having let go the bellows, the forge was once more becoming enveloped in shadow, like a brilliant red sunset suddenly giving way to black night. and the blacksmith and the laundress experienced a sweet pleasure in feeling this gloom surround them in that shed black with soot and filings, and where an odor of old iron prevailed. they could not have thought themselves more alone in the bois de vincennes had they met there in the depths of some copse. he took her hand as though he had conquered her. outside, they scarcely exchanged a word. all he could find to say was that she might have taken etienne away with her, had it not been that there was still another half-hour's work to get through. when she started away he called her back, wanting a few more minutes with her. "come along. you haven't seen all the place. it's quite interesting." he led her to another shed where the owner was installing a new machine. she hesitated in the doorway, oppressed by an instinctive dread. the great hall was vibrating from the machines and black shadows filled the air. he reassured her with a smile, swearing that there was nothing to fear, only she should be careful not to let her skirts get caught in any of the gears. he went first and she followed into the deafening hubbub of whistling, amid clouds of steam peopled by human shadows moving busily. the passages were very narrow and there were obstacles to step over, holes to avoid, passing carts to move back from. she couldn't distinguish anything clearly or hear what goujet was saying. gervaise looked up and stopped to stare at the leather belts hanging from the roof in a gigantic spider web, each strip ceaselessly revolving. the steam engine that drove them was hidden behind a low brick wall so that the belts seemed to be moving by themselves. she stumbled and almost fell while looking up. goujet raised his voice with explanations. there were the tapping machines operated by women, which put threads on bolts and nuts. their steel gears were shining with oil. she could follow the entire process. she nodded her head and smiled. she was still a little tense, however, feeling uneasy at being so small among these rough metalworkers. she jumped back more than once, her blood suddenly chilled by the dull thud of a machine. goujet had stopped before one of the rivet machines. he stood there brooding, his head lowered, his gaze fixed. this machine forged forty millimetre rivets with the calm ease of a giant. nothing could be simpler. the stoker took the iron shank from the furnace; the striker put it into the socket, where a continuous stream of water cooled it to prevent softening of the steel. the press descended and the bolt flew out onto the ground, its head as round as though cast in a mold. every twelve hours this machine made hundreds of kilograms of bolts! goujet was not a mean person, but there were moments when he wanted to take fifine and smash this machine to bits because he was angry to see that its arms were stronger than his own. he reasoned with himself, telling himself that human flesh cannot compete with steel. but he was still deeply hurt. the day would come when machinery would destroy the skilled worker. their day's pay had already fallen from twelve francs to nine francs. there was talk of cutting it again. he stared at it, frowning, for three minutes without saying a word. his yellow beard seemed to bristle defiantly. then, gradually an expression of resignation came over his face and he turned toward gervaise who was clinging tightly to him and said with a sad smile: "well! that machine would certainly win a contest. but perhaps it will be for the good of mankind in the long run." gervaise didn't care a bit about the welfare of mankind. smiling, she said to goujet: "i like yours better, because they show the hand of an artist." hearing this gave him great happiness because he had been afraid that she might be scornful of him after seeing the machines. _mon dieu!_ he might be stronger than salted-mouth, otherwise drink-without-thirst, but the machines were stronger yet. when gervaise finally took her leave, goujet was so happy that he almost crushed her with a hug. the laundress went every saturday to the goujets to deliver their washing. they still lived in the little house in the rue neuve de la goutte-d'or. during the first year she had regularly repaid them twenty francs a month; so as not to jumble up the accounts, the washing-book was only made up at the end of each month, and then she added to the amount whatever sum was necessary to make the twenty francs, for the goujets' washing rarely came to more than seven or eight francs during that time. she had therefore paid off nearly half the sum owing, when one quarter day, not knowing what to do, some of her customers not having kept their promises, she had been obliged to go to the goujets and borrow from them sufficient for her rent. on two other occasions she had also applied to them for the money to pay her workwomen, so that the debt had increased again to four hundred and twenty-five francs. now, she no longer gave a halfpenny; she worked off the amount solely by the washing. it was not that she worked less, or that her business was not so prosperous. but something was going wrong in her home; the money seemed to melt away, and she was glad when she was able to make both ends meet. _mon dieu!_ what's the use of complaining as long as one gets by. she was putting on weight and this caused her to become a bit lazy. she no longer had the energy that she had in the past. oh well, there was always something coming in. madame goujet felt a motherly concern for gervaise and sometimes reprimanded her. this wasn't due to the money owed but because she liked her and didn't want to see her get into difficulties. she never mentioned the debt. in short, she behaved with the utmost delicacy. the morrow of gervaise's visit to the forge happened to be the last saturday of the month. when she reached the goujets, where she made a point of going herself, her basket had so weighed on her arms that she was quite two minutes before she could get her breath. one would hardly believe how heavy clothes are, especially when there are sheets among them. "are you sure you've brought everything?" asked madame goujet. she was very strict on that point. she insisted on having her washing brought home without a single article being kept back for the sake of order, as she said. she also required the laundress always to come on the day arranged and at the same hour; in that way there was no time wasted. "oh! yes, everything is here," replied gervaise smiling. "you know i never leave anything behind." "that's true," admitted madame goujet; "you've got into many bad habits but you're still free of that one." and while the laundress emptied her basket, laying the linen on the bed, the old woman praised her; she never burnt the things nor tore them like so many others did, neither did she pull the buttons off with the iron; only she used too much blue and made the shirt-fronts too stiff with starch. "just look, it's like cardboard," continued she, making one crackle between her fingers. "my son does not complain, but it cuts his neck. to-morrow his neck will be all scratched when we return from vincennes." "no, don't say that!" exclaimed gervaise, quite grieved. "to look nice, shirts must be rather stiff, otherwise it's as though one had a rag on one's body. you should just see what the gentlemen wear. i do all your things myself. the workwomen never touch them and i assure you i take great pains. i would, if necessary, do everything over a dozen times, because it's for you, you know." she slightly blushed as she stammered out the last words. she was afraid of showing the great pleasure she took in ironing goujet's shirts. she certainly had no wicked thoughts, but she was none the less a little bit ashamed. "oh! i'm not complaining of your work; i know it's perfection," said madame goujet. "for instance, you've done this cap splendidly, only you could bring out the embroidery like that. and the flutings are all so even. oh! i recognize your hand at once. when you give even a dish-cloth to one of your workwomen i detect it at once. in future, use a little less starch, that's all! goujet does not care to look like a stylish gentleman." she had taken out her notebook and was crossing off the various items. everything was in order. she noticed that gervaise was charging six sous for each bonnet. she protested, but had to agree that it was in line with present prices. men's shirts were five sous, women's underdrawers four sous, pillow-cases a sou and a half, and aprons one sou. no, the prices weren't high. some laundresses charged a sou more for each item. gervaise was now calling out the soiled clothes, as she packed them in her basket, for madame goujet to list. then she lingered on, embarrassed by a request which she wished to make. "madame goujet," she said at length, "if it does not inconvenience you, i would like to take the money for the month's washing." it so happened that that month was a very heavy one, the account they had made up together amounting to ten francs, seven sous. madame goujet looked at her a moment in a serious manner, then she replied: "my child, it shall be as you wish. i will not refuse you the money as you are in need of it. only it's scarcely the way to pay off your debt; i say that for your sake, you know. really now, you should be careful." gervaise received the lecture with bowed head and stammering excuses. the ten francs were to make up the amount of a bill she had given her coke merchant. but on hearing the word "bill," madame goujet became severer still. she gave herself as an example; she had reduced her expenditure ever since goujet's wages had been lowered from twelve to nine francs a day. when one was wanting in wisdom whilst young, one dies of hunger in one's old age. but she held back and didn't tell gervaise that she gave her their laundry only in order to help her pay off the debt. before that she had done all her own washing, and she would have to do it herself again if the laundry continued taking so much cash out of her pocket. gervaise spoke her thanks and left quickly as soon as she had received the ten francs seven sous. outside on the landing she was so relieved she wanted to dance. she was becoming used to the annoying, unpleasant difficulties caused by a shortage of money and preferred to remember not the embarrassment but the joy in escaping from them. it was also on that saturday that gervaise met with a rather strange adventure as she descended the goujets' staircase. she was obliged to stand up close against the stair-rail with her basket to make way for a tall bare-headed woman who was coming up, carrying in her hand a very fresh mackerel, with bloody gills, in a piece of paper. she recognized virginie, the girl whose face she had slapped at the wash-house. they looked each other full in the face. gervaise shut her eyes. she thought for a moment that she was going to be hit in the face with the fish. but no, virginie even smiled slightly. then, as her basket was blocking the staircase, the laundress wished to show how polite she, too, could be. "i beg your pardon," she said. "you are completely excused," replied the tall brunette. and they remained conversing together on the stairs, reconciled at once without having ventured on a single allusion to the past. virginie, then twenty-nine years old, had become a superb woman of strapping proportions, her face, however, looking rather long between her two plaits of jet black hair. she at once began to relate her history just to show off. she had a husband now; she had married in the spring an ex-journeyman cabinetmaker, who recently left the army, and who had applied to be admitted into the police, because a post of that kind is more to be depended upon and more respectable. she had been out to buy the mackerel for him. "he adores mackerel," said she. "we must spoil them, those naughty men, mustn't we? but come up. you shall see our home. we are standing in a draught here." after gervaise had told of her own marriage and that she had formerly occupied the very apartment virginie now had, virginie urged her even more strongly to come up since it is always nice to visit a spot where one had been happy. virginie had lived for five years on the left bank at gros-caillou. that was where she had met her husband while he was still in the army. but she got tired of it, and wanted to come back to the goutte-d'or neighborhood where she knew everyone. she had only been living in the rooms opposite the goujets for two weeks. oh! everything was still a mess, but they were slowly getting it in order. then, still on the staircase, they finally told each other their names. "madame coupeau." "madame poisson." and from that time forth, they called each other on every possible occasion madame poisson and madame coupeau, solely for the pleasure of being madame, they who in former days had been acquainted when occupying rather questionable positions. however, gervaise felt rather mistrustful at heart. perhaps the tall brunette had made it up the better to avenge herself for the beating at the wash-house by concocting some plan worthy of a spiteful hypocritical creature. gervaise determined to be upon her guard. for the time being, as virginie behaved so nicely, she would be nice also. in the room upstairs, poisson, the husband, a man of thirty-five, with a cadaverous-looking countenance and carroty moustaches and beard, was seated working at a table near the window. he was making little boxes. his only tools were a knife, a tiny saw the size of a nail file and a pot of glue. he was using wood from old cigar boxes, thin boards of unfinished mahogany upon which he executed fretwork and embellishments of extraordinary delicacy. all year long he worked at making the same size boxes, only varying them occasionally by inlay work, new designs for the cover, or putting compartments inside. he did not sell his work, he distributed it in presents to persons of his acquaintance. it was for his own amusement, a way of occupying his time while waiting for his appointment to the police force. it was all that remained with him from his former occupation of cabinetmaking. poisson rose from his seat and politely bowed to gervaise, when his wife introduced her as an old friend. but he was no talker; he at once returned to his little saw. from time to time he merely glanced in the direction of the mackerel placed on the corner of the chest of drawers. gervaise was very pleased to see her old lodging once more. she told them whereabouts her own furniture stood, and pointed out the place on the floor where nana had been born. how strange it was to meet like this again, after so many years! they never dreamed of running into each other like this and even living in the same rooms. virginie added some further details. her husband had inherited a little money from an aunt and he would probably set her up in a shop before long. meanwhile she was still sewing. at length, at the end of a full half hour, the laundress took her leave. poisson scarcely seemed to notice her departure. while seeing her to the door, virginie promised to return the visit. and she would have gervaise do her laundry. while virginie was keeping her in further conversation on the landing, gervaise had the feeling that she wanted to say something about lantier and her sister adele, and this notion upset her a bit. but not a word was uttered respecting those unpleasant things; they parted, wishing each other good-bye in a very amiable manner. "good-bye, madame coupeau." "good-bye, madame poisson." that was the starting point of a great friendship. a week later, virginie never passed gervaise's shop without going in; and she remained there gossiping for hours together, to such an extent indeed that poisson, filled with anxiety, fearing she had been run over, would come and seek her with his expressionless and death-like countenance. now that she was seeing the dressmaker every day gervaise became aware of a strange obsession. every time virginie began to talk gervaise had the feeling lantier was going to be mentioned. so she had lantier on her mind throughout all of virginie's visits. this was silly because, in fact, she didn't care a bit about lantier or adele at this time. she was quite certain that she had no curiosity as to what had happened to either of them. but this obsession got hold of her in spite of herself. anyway, she didn't hold it against virginie, it wasn't her fault, surely. she enjoyed being with her and looked forward to her visits. meanwhile winter had come, the coupeaus' fourth winter in the rue de la goutte-d'or. december and january were particularly cold. it froze hard as it well could. after new year's day the snow remained three weeks without melting. it did not interfere with work, but the contrary, for winter is the best season for the ironers. it was very pleasant inside the shop! there was never any ice on the window-panes like there was at the grocer's and the hosier's opposite. the stove was always stuffed with coke and kept things as hot as a turkish bath. with the laundry steaming overhead you could almost imagine it was summer. you were quite comfortable with the doors closed and so much warmth everywhere that you were tempted to doze off with your eyes open. gervaise laughed and said it reminded her of summer in the country. the street traffic made no noise in the snow and you could hardly hear the pedestrians who passed by. only children's voices were heard in the silence, especially the noisy band of urchins who had made a long slide in the gutter near the blacksmith's shop. gervaise would sometimes go over to the door, wipe the moisture from one of the panes with her hand, and look out to see what was happening to her neighborhood due to this extraordinary cold spell. not one nose was being poked out of the adjacent shops. the entire neighborhood was muffled in snow. the only person she was able to exchange nods with was the coal-dealer next door, who still walked out bare-headed despite the severe freeze. what was especially enjoyable in this awful weather was to have some nice hot coffee in the middle of the day. the workwomen had no cause for complaint. the mistress made it very strong and without a grain of chicory. it was quite different to madame fauconnier's coffee, which was like ditch-water. only whenever mother coupeau undertook to make it, it was always an interminable time before it was ready, because she would fall asleep over the kettle. on these occasions, when the workwomen had finished their lunch, they would do a little ironing whilst waiting for the coffee. it so happened that on the morrow of twelfth-day half-past twelve struck and still the coffee was not ready. it seemed to persist in declining to pass through the strainer. mother coupeau tapped against the pot with a tea-spoon; and one could hear the drops falling slowly, one by one, and without hurrying themselves any the more. "leave it alone," said tall clemence; "you'll make it thick. to-day there'll be as much to eat as to drink." tall clemence was working on a man's shirt, the plaits of which she separated with her finger-nail. she had caught a cold, her eyes were frightfully swollen and her chest was shaken with fits of coughing, which doubled her up beside the work-table. with all that she had not even a handkerchief round her neck and she was dressed in some cheap flimsy woolen stuff in which she shivered. close by, madame putois, wrapped up in flannel muffled up to her ears, was ironing a petticoat which she turned round the skirt-board, the narrow end of which rested on the back of a chair; whilst a sheet laid on the floor prevented the petticoat from getting dirty as it trailed along the tiles. gervaise alone occupied half the work-table with some embroidered muslin curtains, over which she passed her iron in a straight line with her arms stretched out to avoid making any creases. all on a sudden the coffee running through noisily caused her to raise her head. it was that squint-eyed augustine who had just given it an outlet by thrusting a spoon through the strainer. "leave it alone!" cried gervaise. "whatever is the matter with you? it'll be like drinking mud now." mother coupeau had placed five glasses on a corner of the work-table that was free. the women now left their work. the mistress always poured out the coffee herself after putting two lumps of sugar into each glass. it was the moment that they all looked forward to. on this occasion, as each one took her glass and squatted down on a little stool in front of the stove, the shop-door opened. virginie entered, shivering all over. "ah, my children," said she, "it cuts you in two! i can no longer feel my ears. the cold is something awful!" "why, it's madame poisson!" exclaimed gervaise. "ah, well! you've come at the right time. you must have some coffee with us." "on my word, i can't say no. one feels the frost in one's bones merely by crossing the street." there was still some coffee left, luckily. mother coupeau went and fetched a sixth glass, and gervaise let virginie help herself to sugar out of politeness. the workwomen moved to give virginie a small space close to the stove. her nose was very red, she shivered a bit, pressing her hands which were stiff with cold around the glass to warm them. she had just come from the grocery store where you froze to death waiting for a quarter-pound of cheese and so she raved about the warmth of the shop. it felt so good on one's skin. after warming up, she stretched out her long legs and the six of them relaxed together, supping their coffee slowly, surround by all the work still to be done. mother coupeau and virginie were the only ones on chairs, the others, on low benches, seemed to be sitting on the floor. squint-eyed augustine had pulled over a corner of the cloth below the skirt, stretching herself out on it. no one spoke at first; all kept their noses in their glasses, enjoying their coffee. "it's not bad, all the same," declared clemence. but she was seized with a fit of coughing, and almost choked. she leant her head against the wall to cough with more force. "that's a bad cough you've got," said virginie. "wherever did you catch it?" "one never knows!" replied clemence, wiping her face with her sleeve. "it must have been the other night. there were two girls who were flaying each other outside the 'grand-balcony.' i wanted to see, so i stood there whilst the snow was falling. ah, what a drubbing! it was enough to make one die with laughing. one had her nose almost pulled off; the blood streamed on the ground. when the other, a great long stick like me, saw the blood, she slipped away as quick as she could. and i coughed nearly all night. besides that too, men are so stupid in bed, they don't let you have any covers over you half the time." "pretty conduct that," murmured madame putois. "you're killing yourself, my girl." "and if it pleases me to kill myself! life isn't so very amusing. slaving all the blessed day long to earn fifty-five sous, cooking one's blood from morning to night in front of the stove; no, you know, i've had enough of it! all the same though, this cough won't do me the service of making me croak. it'll go off the same way it came." a short silence ensued. the good-for-nothing clemence, who led riots in low dancing establishments, and shrieked like a screech-owl at work, always saddened everyone with her thoughts of death. gervaise knew her well, and so merely said: "you're never very gay the morning after a night of high living." the truth was that gervaise did not like this talk about women fighting. because of the flogging at the wash-house it annoyed her whenever anyone spoke before her and virginie of kicks with wooden shoes and of slaps in the face. it so happened, too, that virginie was looking at her and smiling. "by the way," she said quietly, "yesterday i saw some hair-pulling. they almost tore each other to pieces." "who were they?" madame putois inquired. "the midwife and her maid, you know, a little blonde. what a pest the girl is! she was yelling at her employer that she had got rid of a child for the fruit woman and that she was going to tell the police if she wasn't paid to keep quiet. so the midwife slapped her right in the face and then the little blonde jumped on her and started scratching her and pulling her hair, really--by the roots. the sausage-man had to grab her to put a stop to it." the workwomen laughed. then they all took a sip of coffee. "do you believe that she really got rid of a child?" clemence asked. "oh, yes! the rumor was all round the neighborhood," virginie answered. "i didn't see it myself, you understand, but it's part of the job. all midwives do it." "well!" exclaimed madame putois. "you have to be pretty stupid to put yourself in their hands. no thanks, you could be maimed for life. but there's a sure way to do it. drink a glass of holy water every evening and make the sign of the cross three times over your stomach with your thumb. then your troubles will be over." everyone thought mother coupeau was asleep, but she shook her head in protest. she knew another way and it was infallible. you had to eat a hard-cooked egg every two hours, and put spinach leaves on your loins. squint-eyed augustine set up a hen-cackling when she heard this. they had forgotten about her. gervaise lifted up the petticoat that was being ironed and found her rolling on the floor with laughter. she jerked her upright. what was she laughing about? was it right for her to be eavesdropping when older people were talking, the little goose? anyway it was time for her to deliver the laundry to a friend of madame lerat at les batignolles. so gervaise hung a basket on her arm and pushed her toward the door. augustine went off, sobbing and sniveling, dragging her feet in the snow. meanwhile mother coupeau, madame putois and clemence were discussing the effectiveness of hard-cooked eggs and spinach leaves. then virginie said softly: "_mon dieu!_ you have a fight, and then you make it up, if you have a generous heart." she leaned toward gervaise with a smile and added, "really, i don't hold any grudge against you for that business at the wash-house. you remember it, don't you?" this was what gervaise had been dreading. she guessed that the subject of lantier and adele would now come up. virginie had moved close to gervaise so as not to be overheard by the others. gervaise, lulled by the excessive heat, felt so limp that she couldn't even summon the willpower to change the subject. she foresaw what the tall brunette would say and her heart was stirred with an emotion which she didn't want to admit to herself. "i hope i'm not hurting your feelings," virginie continued. "often i've had it on the tip of my tongue. but since we are now on the subject, word of honor, i don't have any grudge against you." she stirred her remaining coffee and then took a small sip. gervaise, with her heart in her throat, wondered if virginie had really forgiven her as completely as she said, for she seemed to observe sparks in her dark eyes. "you see," virginie went on, "you had an excuse. they played a really rotten, dirty trick on you. to be fair about it, if it had been me, i'd have taken a knife to her." she drank another small sip, then added rapidly without a pause: "anyway, it didn't bring them happiness, _mon dieu_! not a bit of it. they went to live over at la glaciere, in a filthy street that was always muddy. i went two days later to have lunch with them. i can tell you, it was quite a trip by bus. well, i found them already fighting. really, as i came in they were boxing each other's ears. fine pair of love birds! adele isn't worth the rope to hang her. i say that even if she is my own sister. it would take too long to relate all the nasty tricks she played on me, and anyhow, it's between the two of us. as for lantier--well, he's no good either. he'd beat the hide off you for anything, and with his fist closed too. they fought all the time. the police even came once." virginie went on about other fights. oh, she knew of things that would make your hair stand up. gervaise listened in silence, her face pale. it was nearly seven years since she had heard a word about lantier. she hadn't realized what a strong curiosity she had as to what had become of the poor man, even though he had treated her badly. and she never would have believed that just the mention of his name could put such a glowing warmth in the pit of her stomach. she certainly had no reason to be jealous of adele any more but she rejoiced to think of her body all bruised from the beatings. she could have listened to virginie all night, but she didn't ask any questions, not wanting to appear much interested. virginie stopped to sip at her coffee. gervaise, realizing that she was expected to say something, asked, with a pretence of indifference: "are they still living at la glaciere?" "no!" the other replied. "didn't i tell you? they separated last week. one morning, adele moved out and lantier didn't chase after her." "so they're separated!" gervaise exclaimed. "who are you talking about?" clemence asked, interrupting her conversation with mother coupeau and madame putois. "nobody you know," said virginie. she was looking at gervaise carefully and could see that she was upset. she moved still closer, maliciously finding pleasure in bringing up these old stories. of a sudden she asked gervaise what she would do if lantier came round here. men were really such strange creatures, he might decide to return to his first love. this caused gervaise to sit up very straight and dignified. she was a married woman; she would send lantier off immediately. there was no possibility of anything further between them, not even a handshake. she would not even want to look that man in the face. "i know that etienne is his son, and that's a relationship that remains," she said. "if lantier wants to see his son, i'll send the boy to him because you can't stop a father from seeing his child. but as for myself, i don't want him to touch me even with the tip of his finger. that is all finished." desiring to break off this conversation, she seemed to awake with a start and called out to the women: "you ladies! do you think all these clothes are going to iron themselves? get to work!" the workwomen, slow from the heat and general laziness, didn't hurry themselves, but went right on talking, gossiping about other people they had known. gervaise shook herself and got to her feet. couldn't earn money by sitting all day. she was the first to return to the ironing, but found that her curtains had been spotted by the coffee and she had to rub out the stains with a damp cloth. the other women were now stretching and getting ready to begin ironing. clemence had a terrible attack of coughing as soon as she moved. finally she was able to return to the shirt she had been doing. madame putois began to work on the petticoat again. "well, good-bye," said virginie. "i only came out for a quarter-pound of swiss cheese. poisson must think i've frozen to death on the way." she had only just stepped outside when she turned back to say that augustine was at the end of the street, sliding on the ice with some urchins. the squint-eyed imp rushed in all red-faced and out of breath with snow all in her hair. she didn't mind the scolding she received, merely saying that she hadn't been able to walk fast because of the ice and then some brats threw snow at her. the afternoons were all the same these winter days. the laundry was the refuge for anyone in the neighborhood who was cold. there was an endless procession of gossiping women. gervaise took pride in the comforting warmth of her shop and welcomed those who came in, "holding a salon," as the lorilleuxs and the boches remarked meanly. gervaise was always thoughtful and generous. sometimes she even invited poor people in if she saw them shivering outside. a friendship sprang up with an elderly house-painter who was seventy. he lived in an attic room and was slowly dying of cold and hunger. his three sons had been killed in the war. he survived the best he could, but it had been two years since he had been able to hold a paint-brush in his hand. whenever gervaise saw pere bru walking outside, she would call him in and arrange a place for him close to the stove. often she gave him some bread and cheese. pere bru's face was as wrinkled as a withered apple. he would sit there, with his stooping shoulders and his white beard, without saying a word, just listening to the coke sputtering in the stove. maybe he was thinking of his fifty years of hard work on high ladders, his fifty years spent painting doors and whitewashing ceilings in every corner of paris. "well, pere bru," gervaise would say, "what are you thinking of now?" "nothing much. all sorts of things," he would answer quietly. the workwomen tried to joke with him to cheer him up, saying he was worrying over his love affairs, but he scarcely listened to them before he fell back into his habitual attitude of meditative melancholy. virginie now frequently spoke to gervaise of lantier. she seemed to find amusement in filling her mind with ideas of her old lover just for the pleasure of embarrassing her by making suggestions. one day she related that she had met him; then, as the laundress took no notice, she said nothing further, and it was only on the morrow that she added he had spoken about her for a long time, and with a great show of affection. gervaise was much upset by these reports whispered in her ear in a corner of the shop. the mention of lantier's name always caused a worried sensation in the pit of her stomach. she certainly thought herself strong; she wished to lead the life of an industrious woman, because labor is the half of happiness. so she never considered coupeau in this matter, having nothing to reproach herself with as regarded her husband, not even in her thoughts. but with a hesitating and suffering heart, she would think of the blacksmith. it seemed to her that the memory of lantier--that slow possession which she was resuming--rendered her unfaithful to goujet, to their unavowed love, sweet as friendship. she passed sad days whenever she felt herself guilty towards her good friend. she would have liked to have had no affection for anyone but him outside of her family. it was a feeling far above all carnal thoughts, for the signs of which upon her burning face virginie was ever on the watch. as soon as spring came gervaise often went and sought refuge with goujet. she could no longer sit musing on a chair without immediately thinking of her first lover; she pictured him leaving adele, packing his clothes in the bottom of their old trunk, and returning to her in a cab. the days when she went out, she was seized with the most foolish fears in the street; she was ever thinking she heard lantier's footsteps behind her. she did not dare turn round, but tremblingly fancied she felt his hands seizing her round the waist. he was, no doubt, spying upon her; he would appear before her some afternoon; and the bare idea threw her into a cold perspiration, because he would to a certainty kiss her on the ear, as he used to do in former days solely to tease her. it was this kiss which frightened her; it rendered her deaf beforehand; it filled her with a buzzing amidst which she could only distinguish the sound of her heart beating violently. so, as soon as these fears seized upon her, the forge was her only shelter; there, under goujet's protection, she once more became easy and smiling, as his sonorous hammer drove away her disagreeable reflections. what a happy time! the laundress took particular pains with the washing of her customer in the rue des portes-blanches; she always took it home herself because that errand, every friday, was a ready excuse for passing through the rue marcadet and looking in at the forge. the moment she turned the corner of the street she felt light and gay, as though in the midst of those plots of waste land surrounded by grey factories, she were out in the country; the roadway black with coal-dust, the plumage of steam over the roofs, amused her as much as a moss-covered path leading through masses of green foliage in a wood in the environs; and she loved the dull horizon, streaked by the tall factory-chimneys, the montmartre heights, which hid the heavens from view, the chalky white houses pierced with the uniform openings of their windows. she would slacken her steps as she drew near, jumping over the pools of water, and finding a pleasure in traversing the deserted ins and outs of the yard full of old building materials. right at the further end the forge shone with a brilliant light, even at mid-day. her heart leapt with the dance of the hammers. when she entered, her face turned quite red, the little fair hairs at the nape of her neck flew about like those of a woman arriving at some lovers' meeting. goujet was expecting her, his arms and chest bare, whilst he hammered harder on the anvil on those days so as to make himself heard at a distance. he divined her presence, and greeted her with a good silent laugh in his yellow beard. but she would not let him leave off his work; she begged him to take up his hammer again, because she loved him the more when he wielded it with his big arms swollen with muscles. she would go and give etienne a gentle tap on the cheek, as he hung on to the bellows, and then remain for an hour watching the rivets. the two did not exchange a dozen words. they could not have more completely satisfied their love if alone in a room with the door double-locked. the snickering of salted-mouth, otherwise drink-without-thirst, did not bother them in the least, for they no longer even heard him. at the end of a quarter of an hour she would begin to feel slightly oppressed; the heat, the powerful smell, the ascending smoke, made her dizzy, whilst the dull thuds of the hammers shook her from the crown of her head to the soles of her feet. then she desired nothing more; it was her pleasure. had goujet pressed her in his arms it would not have procured her so sweet an emotion. she drew close to him that she might feel the wind raised by his hammer beat upon her cheek, and become, as it were, a part of the blow he struck. when the sparks made her soft hands smart, she did not withdraw them; on the contrary, she enjoyed the rain of fire which stung her skin. he for certain, divined the happiness which she tasted there; he always kept the most difficult work for the fridays, so as to pay his court to her with all his strength and all his skill; he no longer spared himself at the risk of splitting the anvils in two, as he panted and his loins vibrated with the joy he was procuring her. all one spring-time their love thus filled goujet with the rumbling of a storm. it was an idyll amongst giant-like labor in the midst of the glare of the coal fire, and of the shaking of the shed, the cracking carcass of which was black with soot. all that beaten iron, kneaded like red wax, preserved the rough marks of their love. when on the fridays the laundress parted from golden-mug, she slowly reascended the rue des poissonniers, contented and tired, her mind and her body alike tranquil. little by little, her fear of lantier diminished; her good sense got the better of her. at that time she would still have led a happy life, had it not been for coupeau, who was decidedly going to the bad. one day she just happened to be returning from the forge, when she fancied she recognized coupeau inside pere colombe's l'assommoir, in the act of treating himself to a round of vitriol in the company of my-boots, bibi-the-smoker, and salted-mouth, otherwise drink-without-thirst. she passed quickly by, so as not to seem to be spying on them. but she glanced back; it was indeed coupeau who was tossing his little glass of bad brandy down his throat with a gesture already familiar. he lied then; so he went in for brandy now! she returned home in despair; all her old dread of brandy took possession of her. she forgave the wine, because wine nourishes the workman; all kinds of spirit, on the contrary, were filth, poisons which destroyed in the workman the taste for bread. ah! the government ought to prevent the manufacture of such horrid stuff! on arriving at the rue de la goutte-d'or, she found the whole house upset. her workwomen had left the shop, and were in the courtyard looking up above. she questioned clemence. "it's old bijard who's giving his wife a hiding," replied the ironer. "he was in the doorway, as drunk as a trooper, watching for her return from the wash-house. he whacked her up the stairs, and now he's finishing her off up there in their room. listen, can't you hear her shrieks?" gervaise hastened to the spot. she felt some friendship for her washer-woman, madame bijard, who was a very courageous woman. she had hoped to put a stop to what was going on. upstairs, on the sixth floor the door of the room was wide open, some lodgers were shouting on the landing, whilst madame boche, standing in front of the door, was calling out: "will you leave off? i shall send for the police; do you hear?" no one dared to venture inside the room, because it was known that bijard was like a brute beast when he was drunk. as a matter of fact, he was scarcely ever sober. the rare days on which he worked, he placed a bottle of brandy beside his blacksmith's vise, gulping some of it down every half hour. he could not keep himself going any other way. he would have blazed away like a torch if anyone had placed a lighted match close to his mouth. "but we mustn't let her be murdered!" said gervaise, all in a tremble. and she entered. the room, an attic, and very clean, was bare and cold, almost emptied by the drunken habits of the man, who took the very sheets from the bed to turn them into liquor. during the struggle the table had rolled away to the window, the two chairs, knocked over, had fallen with their legs in the air. in the middle of the room, on the tile floor, lay madame bijard, all bloody, her skirts, still soaked with the water of the wash-house, clinging to her thighs, her hair straggling in disorder. she was breathing heavily, with a rattle in her throat, as she muttered prolonged ohs! each time she received a blow from the heel of bijard's boot. he had knocked her down with his fists, and now he stamped upon her. "ah, strumpet! ah, strumpet! ah strumpet!" grunted he in a choking voice, accompanying each blow with the word, taking a delight in repeating it, and striking all the harder the more he found his voice failing him. then when he could no longer speak, he madly continued to kick with a dull sound, rigid in his ragged blue blouse and overalls, his face turned purple beneath his dirty beard, and his bald forehead streaked with big red blotches. the neighbors on the landing related that he was beating her because she had refused him twenty sous that morning. boche's voice was heard at the foot of the staircase. he was calling madame boche, saying: "come down; let them kill each other, it'll be so much scum the less." meanwhile, pere bru had followed gervaise into the room. between them they were trying to get him towards the door. but he turned round, speechless and foaming at the lips, and in his pale eyes the alcohol was blazing with a murderous glare. the laundress had her wrist injured; the old workman was knocked against the table. on the floor, madame bijard was breathing with greater difficulty, her mouth wide open, her eyes closed. now bijard kept missing her. he had madly returned to the attack, but blinded by rage, his blows fell on either side, and at times he almost fell when his kicks went into space. and during all this onslaught, gervaise beheld in a corner of the room little lalie, then four years old, watching her father murdering her mother. the child held in her arms, as though to protect her, her sister henriette, only recently weaned. she was standing up, her head covered with a cotton cap, her face very pale and grave. her large black eyes gazed with a fixedness full of thought and were without a tear. when at length bijard, running against a chair, stumbled onto the tiled floor, where they left him snoring, pere bru helped gervaise to raise madame bijard. the latter was now sobbing bitterly; and lalie, drawing near, watched her crying, being used to such sights and already resigned to them. as the laundress descended the stairs, in the silence of the now quieted house, she kept seeing before her that look of this child of four, as grave and courageous as that of a woman. "monsieur coupeau is on the other side of the street," called out clemence as soon as she caught sight of her. "he looks awfully drunk." coupeau was just then crossing the street. he almost smashed a pane of glass with his shoulder as he missed the door. he was in a state of complete drunkenness, with his teeth clinched and his nose inflamed. and gervaise at once recognized the vitriol of l'assommoir in the poisoned blood which paled his skin. she tried to joke and get him to bed, the same as on the days when the wine had made him merry; but he pushed her aside without opening his lips, and raised his fist in passing as he went to bed of his own accord. he made gervaise think of the other--the drunkard who was snoring upstairs, tired out by the blows he had struck. a cold shiver passed over her. she thought of the men she knew--of her husband, of goujet, of lantier--her heart breaking, despairing of ever being happy. chapter vii. gervaise's saint's day fell on the th of june. on such occasions, the coupeaus always made a grand display; they feasted till they were as round as balls, and their stomachs were filled for the rest of the week. there was a complete clear out of all the money they had. the moment there were a few sous in the house they went in gorging. they invented saints for those days which the almanac had not provided with any, just for the sake of giving themselves a pretext for gormandizing. virginie highly commended gervaise for stuffing herself with all sorts of savory dishes. when one has a husband who turns all he can lay hands on into drink, it's good to line one's stomach well, and not to let everything go off in liquids. since the money would disappear anyway, surely it was better to pay it to the butcher. gervaise used that excuse to justify overeating, saying it was coupeau's fault if they could no longer save a sou. she had grown considerably fatter, and she limped more than before because her leg, now swollen with fat, seemed to be getting gradually shorter. that year they talked about her saint's day a good month beforehand. they thought of dishes and smacked their lips in advance. all the shop had a confounded longing to junket. they wanted a merry-making of the right sort--something out of the ordinary and highly successful. one does not have so many opportunities for enjoyment. what most troubled the laundress was to decide whom to invite; she wished to have twelve persons at table, no more, no less. she, her husband, mother coupeau, and madame lerat, already made four members of the family. she would also have the goujets and the poissons. originally, she had decided not to invite her workwomen, madame putois and clemence, so as not to make them too familiar; but as the projected feast was being constantly spoken of in their presence, and their mouths watered, she ended by telling them to come. four and four, eight, and two are ten. then, wishing particularly to have twelve, she became reconciled with the lorilleuxs, who for some time past had been hovering around her; at least it was agreed that the lorilleuxs should come to dinner, and that peace should be made with glasses in hand. you really shouldn't keep family quarrels going forever. when the boches heard that a reconciliation was planned, they also sought to make up with gervaise, and so they had to be invited to the dinner too. that would make fourteen, not counting the children. never before had she given such a large dinner and the thought frightened and excited her at the same time. the saint's day happened to fall on a monday. it was a piece of luck. gervaise counted on the sunday afternoon to begin the cooking. on the saturday, whilst the workwomen hurried with their work, there was a long discussion in the shop with the view of finally deciding upon what the feast should consist of. for three weeks past one thing alone had been chosen--a fat roast goose. there was a gluttonous look on every face whenever it was mentioned. the goose was even already bought. mother coupeau went and fetched it to let clemence and madame putois feel its weight. and they uttered all kinds of exclamations; it looked such an enormous bird, with its rough skin all swelled out with yellow fat. "before that there will be the pot-au-feu," said gervaise, "the soup and just a small piece of boiled beef, it's always good. then we must have something in the way of a stew." tall clemence suggested rabbit, but they were always having that, everyone was sick of it. gervaise wanted something more distinguished. madame putois having spoken of stewed veal, they looked at one another with broad smiles. it was a real idea, nothing would make a better impression than a veal stew. "and after that," resumed gervaise, "we must have some other dish with a sauce." mother coupeau proposed fish. but the others made a grimace, as they banged down their irons. none of them liked fish; it was not a bit satisfying; and besides that it was full of bones. squint-eyed augustine, having dared to observe that she liked skate, clemence shut her mouth for her with a good sound clout. at length the mistress thought of stewed pig's back and potatoes, which restored the smiles to every countenance. then virginie entered like a puff of wind, with a strange look on her face. "you've come just at the right time!" exclaimed gervaise. "mother coupeau, do show her the bird." and mother coupeau went a second time and fetched the goose, which virginie had to take in her hands. she uttered no end of exclamations. by jove! it was heavy! but she soon laid it down on the work-table, between a petticoat and a bundle of shirts. her thoughts were elsewhere. she dragged gervaise into the back-room. "i say, little one," murmured she rapidly, "i've come to warn you. you'll never guess who i just met at the corner of the street. lantier, my dear! he's hovering about on the watch; so i hastened here at once. it frightened me on your account, you know." the laundress turned quite pale. what could the wretched man want with her? coming, too, like that, just in the midst of the preparations for the feast. she had never had any luck; she could not even be allowed to enjoy herself quietly. but virginie replied that she was very foolish to put herself out about it like that. why! if lantier dared to follow her about, all she had to do was to call a policeman and have him locked up. in the month since her husband had been appointed a policeman, virginie had assumed rather lordly manners and talked of arresting everybody. she began to raise her voice, saying that she wished some passer-by would pinch her bottom so that she could take the fresh fellow to the police station herself and turn him over to her husband. gervaise signaled her to be quiet since the workwomen were listening and led the way back into the shop, reopening the discussion about the dinner. "now, don't we need a vegetable?" "why not peas with bacon?" said virginie. "i like nothing better." "yes, peas with bacon." the others approved. augustine was so enthusiastic that she jabbed the poker into the stove harder than ever. by three o'clock on the morrow, sunday, mother coupeau had lighted their two stoves and also a third one of earthenware which they had borrowed from the boches. at half-past three the pot-au-feu was boiling away in an enormous earthenware pot lent by the eating-house keeper next door, the family pot having been found too small. they had decided to cook the veal and the pig's back the night before, since both of those dishes are better when reheated. but the cream sauce for the veal would not be prepared until just before sitting down for the feast. there was still plenty of work left for monday: the soup, the peas with bacon, the roast goose. the inner room was lit by three fires. butter was sizzling in the pans and emitting a sharp odor of burnt flour. mother coupeau and gervaise, with white aprons tied on, were bustling all around, cleaning parsley, dashing for salt and pepper, turning the meat. they had sent coupeau away so as not to have him underfoot, but they still had plenty of people looking in throughout the afternoon. the luscious smells from the kitchen had spread through the entire building so that neighboring ladies came into the shop on various pretexts, very curious to see what was being cooked. virginie put in an appearance towards five o'clock. she had again seen lantier; really, it was impossible to go down the street now without meeting him. madame boche also had just caught sight of him standing at the corner of the pavement with his head thrust forward in an uncommonly sly manner. then gervaise who had at that moment intended going for a sou's worth of burnt onions for the pot-au-feu, began to tremble from head to foot and did not dare leave the house; the more so, as the concierge and the dressmaker put her into a terrible fright by relating horrible stories of men waiting for women with knives and pistols hidden beneath their overcoats. well, yes! one reads of such things every day in the newspapers. when one of those scoundrels gets his monkey up on discovering an old love leading a happy life he becomes capable of everything. virginie obligingly offered to run and fetch the burnt onions. women should always help one another, they could not let that little thing be murdered. when she returned she said that lantier was no longer there; he had probably gone off on finding he was discovered. in spite of that thought, he was the subject of conversation around the saucepans until night-time. when madame boche advised her to inform coupeau, gervaise became really terrified, and implored her not to say a word about it. oh, yes, wouldn't that be a nice situation! her husband must have become suspicious already because for the last few days, at night, he would swear to himself and bang the wall with his fists. the mere thought that the two men might destroy each other because of her made her shudder. she knew that coupeau was jealous enough to attack lantier with his shears. while the four of them had been deep in contemplating this drama, the saucepans on the banked coals of the stoves had been quietly simmering. when mother coupeau lifted the lids, the veal and the pig's back were discreetly bubbling. the pot-au-feu was steadily steaming with snore-like sounds. eventually each of them dipped a piece of bread into the soup to taste the bouillon. at length monday arrived. now that gervaise was going to have fourteen persons at table, she began to fear that she would not be able to find room for them all. she decided that they should dine in the shop; and the first thing in the morning she took measurements so as to settle which way she should place the table. after that they had to remove all the clothes and take the ironing-table to pieces; the top of this laid on to some shorter trestles was to be the dining-table. but just in the midst of all this moving a customer appeared and made a scene because she had been waiting for her washing ever since the friday; they were humbugging her, she would have her things at once. then gervaise tried to excuse herself and lied boldly; it was not her fault, she was cleaning out her shop, the workmen would not be there till the morrow; and she pacified her customer and got rid of her by promising to busy herself with her things at the earliest possible moment. then, as soon as the woman had left, she showed her temper. really, if you listened to all your customers, you'd never have time to eat. you could work yourself to death like a dog on a leash! well! no matter who came in to-day, even if they offered one hundred thousand francs, she wouldn't touch an iron on this monday, because it was her turn to enjoy herself. the entire morning was spent in completing the purchases. three times gervaise went out and returned laden like a mule. but just as she was going to order wine she noticed that she had not sufficient money left. she could easily have got it on credit; only she could not be without money in the house, on account of the thousand little expenses that one is liable to forget. and mother coupeau and she had lamented together in the back-room as they reckoned that they required at least twenty francs. how could they obtain them, those four pieces of a hundred sous each? mother coupeau who had at one time done the charring for a little actress of the theatre des batignolles, was the first to suggest the pawn-shop. gervaise laughed with relief. how stupid she was not to have thought of it! she quickly folded her black silk dress upon a towel which she then pinned together. then she hid the bundle under mother coupeau's apron, telling her to keep it very flat against her stomach, on account of the neighbors who had no need to know; and she went and watched at the door to see that the old woman was not followed. but the latter had only gone as far as the charcoal dealer's when she called her back. "mamma! mamma!" she made her return to the shop, and taking her wedding-ring off her finger said: "here, put this with it. we shall get all the more." when mother coupeau brought her twenty-five francs, she danced for joy. she would order an extra six bottles of wine, sealed wine to drink with the roast. the lorilleuxs would be crushed. for a fortnight past it had been the coupeaus' dream to crush the lorilleuxs. was it not true that those sly ones, the man and his wife, a truly pretty couple, shut themselves up whenever they had anything nice to eat as though they had stolen it? yes, they covered up the window with a blanket to hide the light and make believe that they were already asleep in bed. this stopped anyone from coming up, and so the lorilleuxs could stuff everything down, just the two of them. they were even careful the next day not to throw the bones into the garbage so that no one would know what they had eaten. madame lorilleux would walk to the end of the street to toss them into a sewer opening. one morning gervaise surprised her emptying a basket of oyster shells there. oh, those penny-pinchers were never open-handed, and all their mean contrivances came from their desire to appear to be poor. well, we'd show them, we'd prove to them that we weren't mean. gervaise would have laid her table in the street, had she been able to, just for the sake of inviting each passer-by. money was not invented that it should be allowed to grow moldy, was it? it is pretty when it shines all new in the sunshine. she resembled them so little now, that on the days when she had twenty sous she arranged things to let people think that she had forty. mother coupeau and gervaise talked of the lorilleuxs whilst they laid the cloth about three o'clock. they had hung some big curtains at the windows; but as it was very warm the door was left open and the whole street passed in front of the little table. the two women did not place a decanter, or a bottle, or a salt-cellar, without trying to arrange them in such a way as to annoy the lorilleuxs. they had arranged their seats so as to give them a full view of the superbly laid cloth, and they had reserved the best crockery for them, well knowing that the porcelain plates would create a great effect. "no, no, mamma," cried gervaise; "don't give them those napkins! i've two damask ones." "ah, good!" murmured the old woman; "that'll break their hearts, that's certain." and they smiled to each other as they stood up on either side of that big white table on which the fourteen knives and forks, placed all round, caused them to swell with pride. it had the appearance of the altar of some chapel in the middle of the shop. "that's because they're so stingy themselves!" resumed gervaise. "you know they lied last month when the woman went about everywhere saying that she had lost a piece of gold chain as she was taking the work home. the idea! there's no fear of her ever losing anything! it was simply a way of making themselves out very poor and of not giving you your five francs." "as yet i've only seen my five francs twice," said mother coupeau. "i'll bet next month they'll concoct some other story. that explains why they cover their window up when they have a rabbit to eat. don't you see? one would have the right to say to them: 'as you can afford a rabbit you can certainly give five francs to your mother!' oh! they're just rotten! what would have become of you if i hadn't taken you to live with us?" mother coupeau slowly shook her head. that day she was all against the lorilleuxs, because of the great feast the coupeaus were giving. she loved cooking, the little gossipings round the saucepans, the place turned topsy-turvy by the revels of saints' days. besides she generally got on pretty well with gervaise. on other days when they plagued one another as happens in all families, the old woman grumbled saying she was wretchedly unfortunate in thus being at her daughter-in-law's mercy. in point of fact she probably had some affection for madame lorilleux who after all was her daughter. "ah!" continued gervaise, "you wouldn't be so fat, would you, if you were living with them? and no coffee, no snuff, no little luxuries of any sort! tell me, would they have given you two mattresses to your bed?" "no, that's very certain," replied mother coupeau. "when they arrive i shall place myself so as to have a good view of the door to see the faces they'll make." thinking of the faces they would make gave them pleasure ahead of time. however, they couldn't remain standing there admiring the table. the coupeaus had lunched very late on just a bite or two, because the stoves were already in use, and because they did not want to dirty any dishes needed for the evening. by four o'clock the two women were working very hard. the huge goose was being cooked on a spit. squint-eyed augustine was sitting on a low bench solemnly basting the goose with a long-handled spoon. gervaise was busy with the peas with bacon. mother coupeau, kept spinning around, a bit confused, waiting for the right time to begin reheating the pork and the veal. towards five o'clock the guests began to arrive. first of all came the two workwomen, clemence and madame putois, both in their sunday best, the former in blue, the latter in black; clemence carried a geranium, madame putois a heliotrope, and gervaise, whose hands were just then smothered with flour, had to kiss each of them on both cheeks with her arms behind her back. then following close upon their heels entered virginie dressed like a lady in a printed muslin costume with a sash and a bonnet though she had only a few steps to come. she brought a pot of red carnations. she took the laundress in her big arms and squeezed her tight. at length boche appeared with a pot of pansies and madame boche with a pot of mignonette; then came madame lerat with a balm-mint, the pot of which had dirtied her violet merino dress. all these people kissed each other and gathered together in the back-room in the midst of the three stoves and the roasting apparatus, which gave out a stifling heat. the noise from the saucepans drowned the voices. a dress catching in the dutch oven caused quite an emotion. the smell of roast goose was so strong that it made their mouths water. and gervaise was very pleasant, thanking everyone for their flowers without however letting that interfere with her preparing the thickening for the stewed veal at the bottom of a soup plate. she had placed the pots in the shop at one end of the table without removing the white paper that was round them. a sweet scent of flowers mingled with the odor of cooking. "do you want any assistance?" asked virginie. "just fancy, you've been three days preparing all this feast and it will be gobbled up in no time." "well, you know," replied gervaise, "it wouldn't prepare itself. no, don't dirty your hands. you see everything's ready. there's only the soup to warm." then they all made themselves comfortable. the ladies laid their shawls and their caps on the bed and pinned up their skirts so as not to soil them. boche sent his wife back to the concierge's lodge until time to eat and had cornered clemence in a corner trying to find out if she was ticklish. she was gasping for breath, as the mere thought of being tickled sent shivers through her. so as not to bother the cooks, the other ladies had gone into the shop and were standing against the wall facing the table. they were talking through the door though, and as they could not hear very well, they were continually invading the back-room and crowding around gervaise, who would forget what she was doing to answer them. there were a few stories which brought sly laughter. when virginie mentioned that she hadn't eaten for two days in order to have more room for today's feast, tall clemence said that she had cleaned herself out that morning with an enema like the english do. then boche suggested a way of digesting the food quickly by squeezing oneself after each course, another english custom. after all, when you were invited to dinner, wasn't it polite to eat as much as you could? veal and pork and goose are placed out for the cats to eat. the hostess didn't need to worry a bit, they were going to clean their plates so thoroughly that she wouldn't have to wash them. all of them kept coming to smell the air above the saucepans and the roaster. the ladies began to act like young girls, scurrying from room to room and pushing each other. just as they were all jumping about and shouting by way of amusement, goujet appeared. he was so timid he scarcely dared enter, but stood still, holding a tall white rose-tree in his arms, a magnificent plant with a stem that reached to his face and entangled the flowers in his beard. gervaise ran to him, her cheeks burning from the heat of the stoves. but he did not know how to get rid of his pot; and when she had taken it from his hands he stammered, not daring to kiss her. it was she who was obliged to stand on tip-toe and place her cheek against his lips; he was so agitated that even then he kissed her roughly on the eye almost blinding her. they both stood trembling. "oh! monsieur goujet, it's too lovely!" said she, placing the rose-tree beside the other flowers which it overtopped with the whole of its tuft of foliage. "not at all, not at all!" repeated he, unable to say anything else. then, after sighing deeply, he slightly recovered himself and stated that she was not to expect his mother; she was suffering from an attack of sciatica. gervaise was greatly grieved; she talked of putting a piece of the goose on one side as she particularly wished madame goujet to have a taste of the bird. no one else was expected. coupeau was no doubt strolling about in the neighborhood with poisson whom he had called for directly after his lunch; they would be home directly, they had promised to be back punctually at six. then as the soup was almost ready, gervaise called to madame lerat, saying that she thought it was time to go and fetch the lorilleuxs. madame lerat became at once very grave; it was she who had conducted all the negotiations and who had settled how everything should pass between the two families. she put her cap and shawl on again and went upstairs very stiffly in her skirts, looking very stately. down below the laundress continued to stir her vermicelli soup without saying a word. the guests suddenly became serious and solemnly waited. it was madame lerat who appeared first. she had gone round by the street so as to give more pomp to the reconciliation. she held the shop-door wide open whilst madame lorilleux, wearing a silk dress, stopped at the threshold. all the guests had risen from their seats; gervaise went forward and kissing her sister-in-law as had been agreed, said: "come in. it's all over, isn't it? we'll both be nice to each other." and madame lorilleux replied: "i shall be only too happy if we're so always." when she had entered lorilleux also stopped at the threshold and he likewise waited to be embraced before penetrating into the shop. neither the one nor the other had brought a bouquet. they had decided not to do so as they thought it would look too much like giving way to clump-clump if they carried flowers with them the first time they set foot in her home. gervaise called to augustine to bring two bottles of wine. then, filling some glasses on a corner of the table, she called everyone to her. and each took a glass and drank to the good friendship of the family. there was a pause whilst the guests were drinking, the ladies raising their elbows and emptying their glasses to the last drop. "nothing is better before soup," declared boche, smacking his lips. mother coupeau had placed herself opposite the door to see the faces the lorilleuxs would make. she pulled gervaise by the skirt and dragged her into the back-room. and as they both leant over the soup they conversed rapidly in a low voice. "huh! what a sight!" said the old woman. "you couldn't see them; but i was watching. when she caught sight of the table her face twisted around like that, the corners of her mouth almost touched her eyes; and as for him, it nearly choked him, he coughed and coughed. now just look at them over there; they've no saliva left in their mouths, they're chewing their lips." "it's quite painful to see people as jealous as that," murmured gervaise. really the lorilleuxs had a funny look about them. no one of course likes to be crushed; in families especially when the one succeeds, the others do not like it; that is only natural. only one keeps it in, one does not make an exhibition of oneself. well! the lorilleuxs could not keep it in. it was more than a match for them. they squinted--their mouths were all on one side. in short it was so apparent that the other guests looked at them, and asked them if they were unwell. never would they be able to stomach this table with its fourteen place-settings, its white linen table cloth, its slices of bread cut in advance, all in the style of a first-class restaurant. mme. lorilleux went around the table, surreptitiously fingering the table cloth, tortured by the thought that it was a new one. "everything's ready!" cried gervaise as she reappeared with a smile, her arms bare and her little fair curls blowing over her temples. "if the boss would only come," resumed the laundress, "we might begin." "ah, well!" said madame lorilleux, "the soup will be cold by then. coupeau always forgets. you shouldn't have let him go off." it was already half-past six. everything was burning now; the goose would be overdone. then gervaise, feeling quite dejected, talked of sending someone to all the wineshops in the neighborhood to find coupeau. and as goujet offered to go, she decided to accompany him. virginie, anxious about her husband went also. the three of them, bareheaded, quite blocked up the pavement. the blacksmith who wore his frock-coat, had gervaise on his left arm and virginie on his right; he was doing the two-handled basket as he said; and it seemed to them such a funny thing to say that they stopped, unable to move their legs for laughing. they looked at themselves in the pork-butcher's glass and laughed more than ever. beside goujet, all in black, the two women looked like two speckled hens--the dressmaker in her muslin costume, sprinkled with pink flowers, the laundress in her white cambric dress with blue spots, her wrists bare, and wearing round her neck a little grey silk scarf tied in a bow. people turned round to see them pass, looking so fresh and lively, dressed in their sunday best on a week day and jostling the crowd which hung about the rue des poissonniers, on that warm june evening. but it was not a question of amusing themselves. they went straight to the door of each wineshop, looked in and sought amongst the people standing before the counter. had that animal coupeau gone to the arc de triomphe to get his dram? they had already done the upper part of the street, looking in at all the likely places; at the "little civet," renowned for its preserved plums; at old mother baquet's, who sold orleans wine at eight sous; at the "butterfly," the coachmen's house of call, gentlemen who were not easy to please. but no coupeau. then as they were going down towards the boulevard, gervaise uttered a faint cry on passing the eating-house at the corner kept by francois. "what's the matter?" asked goujet. the laundress no longer laughed. she was very pale, and laboring under so great an emotion that she had almost fallen. virginie understood it all as she caught a sight of lantier seated at one of francois's tables quietly dining. the two women dragged the blacksmith along. "my ankle twisted," said gervaise as soon as she was able to speak. at length they discovered coupeau and poisson at the bottom of the street inside pere colombe's l'assommoir. they were standing up in the midst of a number of men; coupeau, in a grey blouse, was shouting with furious gestures and banging his fists down on the counter. poisson, not on duty that day and buttoned up in an old brown coat, was listening to him in a dull sort of way and without uttering a word, bristling his carroty moustaches and beard the while. goujet left the women on the edge of the pavement, and went and laid his hand on the zinc-worker's shoulder. but when the latter caught sight of gervaise and virginie outside he grew angry. why was he badgered with such females as those? petticoats had taken to tracking him about now! well! he declined to stir, they could go and eat their beastly dinner all by themselves. to quiet him goujet was obliged to accept a drop of something; and even then coupeau took a fiendish delight in dawdling a good five minutes at the counter. when he at length came out he said to his wife: "i don't like this. it's my business where i go. do you understand?" she did not answer. she was all in a tremble. she must have said something about lantier to virginie, for the latter pushed her husband and goujet ahead, telling them to walk in front. the two women got on each side of coupeau to keep him occupied and prevent him seeing lantier. he wasn't really drunk, being more intoxicated from shouting than from drinking. since they seemed to want to stay on the left side, to tease them, he crossed over to the other side of the street. worried, they ran after him and tried to block his view of the door of francois's. but coupeau must have known that lantier was there. gervaise almost went out of her senses on hearing him grunt: "yes, my duck, there's a young fellow of our acquaintance inside there! you mustn't take me for a ninny. don't let me catch you gallivanting about again with your side glances!" and he made use of some very coarse expressions. it was not him that she had come to look for with her bare elbows and her mealy mouth; it was her old beau. then he was suddenly seized with a mad rage against lantier. ah! the brigand! ah! the filthy hound! one or the other of them would have to be left on the pavement, emptied of his guts like a rabbit. lantier, however, did not appear to notice what was going on and continued slowly eating some veal and sorrel. a crowd began to form. virginie led coupeau away and he calmed down at once as soon as he had turned the corner of the street. all the same they returned to the shop far less lively than when they left it. the guests were standing round the table with very long faces. the zinc-worker shook hands with them, showing himself off before the ladies. gervaise, feeling rather depressed, spoke in a low voice as she directed them to their places. but she suddenly noticed that, as madame goujet had not come, a seat would remain empty--the one next to madame lorilleux. "we are thirteen!" said she, deeply affected, seeing in that a fresh omen of the misfortune with which she had felt herself threatened for some time past. the ladies already seated rose up looking anxious and annoyed. madame putois offered to retire because according to her it was not a matter to laugh about; besides she would not touch a thing, the food would do her no good. as to boche, he chuckled. he would sooner be thirteen than fourteen; the portions would be larger, that was all. "wait!" resumed gervaise. "i can manage it." and going out on to the pavement she called pere bru who was just then crossing the roadway. the old workman entered, stooping and stiff and his face without expression. "seat yourself there, my good fellow," said the laundress. "you won't mind eating with us, will you?" he simply nodded his head. he was willing; he did not mind. "as well him as another," continued she, lowering her voice. "he doesn't often eat his fill. he will at least enjoy himself once more. we shall feel no remorse in stuffing ourselves now." this touched goujet so deeply that his eyes filled with tears. the others were also moved by compassion and said that it would bring them all good luck. however, madame lorilleux seemed unhappy at having the old man next to her. she cast glances of disgust at his work-roughened hands and his faded, patched smock, and drew away from him. pere bru sat with his head bowed, waiting. he was bothered by the napkin that was on the plate before him. finally he lifted it off and placed it gently on the edge of the table, not thinking to spread it over his knees. now at last gervaise served the vermicelli soup; the guests were taking up their spoons when virginie remarked that coupeau had disappeared. he had perhaps returned to pere colombe's. this time the company got angry. so much the worse! one would not run after him; he could stay in the street if he was not hungry; and as the spoons touched the bottom of the plates, coupeau reappeared with two pots of flowers, one under each arm, a stock and a balsam. they all clapped their hands. he gallantly placed the pots, one on the right, the other on the left of gervaise's glass; then bending over and kissing her, he said: "i had forgotten you, my lamb. but in spite of that, we love each other all the same, especially on such a day as this." "monsieur coupeau's very nice this evening," murmured clemence in boche's ear. "he's just got what he required, sufficient to make him amiable." the good behavior of the master of the house restored the gaiety of the proceedings, which at one moment had been compromised. gervaise, once more at her ease, was all smiles again. the guests finished their soup. then the bottles circulated and they drank their first glass of wine, just a drop pure, to wash down the vermicelli. one could hear the children quarrelling in the next room. there were etienne, pauline, nana and little victor fauconnier. it had been decided to lay a table for the four of them, and they had been told to be very good. that squint-eyed augustine who had to look after the stoves was to eat off her knees. "mamma! mamma!" suddenly screamed nana, "augustine is dipping her bread in the dutch oven!" the laundress hastened there and caught the squint-eyed one in the act of burning her throat in her attempts to swallow without loss of time a slice of bread soaked in boiling goose fat. she boxed her ears when the young monkey called out that it was not true. when, after the boiled beef, the stewed veal appeared, served in a salad-bowl, as they did not have a dish large enough, the party greeted it with a laugh. "it's becoming serious," declared poisson, who seldom spoke. it was half-past seven. they had closed the shop door, so as not to be spied upon by the whole neighborhood; the little clockmaker opposite especially was opening his eyes to their full size and seemed to take the pieces from their mouths with such a gluttonous look that it almost prevented them from eating. the curtains hung before the windows admitted a great white uniform light which bathed the entire table with its symmetrical arrangement of knives and forks and its pots of flowers enveloped in tall collars of white paper; and this pale fading light, this slowly approaching dusk, gave to the party somewhat of an air of distinction. virginie looked round the closed apartment hung with muslin and with a happy criticism declared it to be very cozy. whenever a cart passed in the street the glasses jingled together on the table cloth and the ladies were obliged to shout out as loud as the men. but there was not much conversation; they all behaved very respectably and were very attentive to each other. coupeau alone wore a blouse, because as he said one need not stand on ceremony with friends and besides which the blouse was the workman's garb of honor. the ladies, laced up in their bodices, wore their hair in plaits greasy with pomatum in which the daylight was reflected; whilst the gentlemen, sitting at a distance from the table, swelled out their chests and kept their elbows wide apart for fear of staining their frock coats. ah! thunder! what a hole they were making in the stewed veal! if they spoke little, they were chewing in earnest. the salad-bowl was becoming emptier and emptier with a spoon stuck in the midst of the thick sauce--a good yellow sauce which quivered like a jelly. they fished pieces of veal out of it and seemed as though they would never come to the end; the salad-bowl journeyed from hand to hand and faces bent over it as forks picked out the mushrooms. the long loaves standing against the wall behind the guests appeared to melt away. between the mouthfuls one could hear the sound of glasses being replaced on the table. the sauce was a trifle too salty. it required four bottles of wine to drown that blessed stewed veal, which went down like cream, but which afterwards lit up a regular conflagration in one's stomach. and before one had time to take a breath, the pig's back, in the middle of a deep dish surrounded by big round potatoes, arrived in the midst of a cloud of smoke. there was one general cry. by jove! it was just the thing! everyone liked it. they would do it justice; and they followed the dish with a side glance as they wiped their knives on their bread so as to be in readiness. then as soon as they were helped they nudged one another and spoke with their mouths full. it was just like butter! something sweet and solid which one could feel run through one's guts right down into one's boots. the potatoes were like sugar. it was not a bit salty; only, just on account of the potatoes, it required a wetting every few minutes. four more bottles were placed on the table. the plates were wiped so clean that they also served for the green peas and bacon. oh! vegetables were of no consequence. they playfully gulped them down in spoonfuls. the best part of the dish was the small pieces of bacon just nicely grilled and smelling like horse's hoof. two bottles were sufficient for them. "mamma! mamma!" called out nana suddenly, "augustine's putting her fingers in my plate!" "don't bother me! give her a slap!" replied gervaise, in the act of stuffing herself with green peas. at the children's table in the back-room, nana was playing the role of lady of the house, sitting next to victor and putting her brother etienne beside pauline so they could play house, pretending they were two married couples. nana had served her guests very politely at first, but now she had given way to her passion for grilled bacon, trying to keep every piece for herself. while augustine was prowling around the children's table, she would grab the bits of bacon under the pretext of dividing them amongst the children. nana was so furious that she bit augustine on the wrist. "ah! you know," murmured augustine, "i'll tell your mother that after the veal you asked victor to kiss you." but all became quiet again as gervaise and mother coupeau came in to get the goose. the guests at the big table were leaning back in their chairs taking a breather. the men had unbuttoned their waistcoats, the ladies were wiping their faces with their napkins. the repast was, so to say, interrupted; only one or two persons, unable to keep their jaws still, continued to swallow large mouthfuls of bread, without even knowing that they were doing so. the others were waiting and allowing their food to settle while waiting for the main course. night was slowly coming on; a dirty ashy grey light was gathering behind the curtains. when augustine brought two lamps and placed one at each end of the table, the general disorder became apparent in the bright glare--the greasy forks and plates, the table cloth stained with wine and covered with crumbs. a strong stifling odor pervaded the room. certain warm fumes, however, attracted all the noses in the direction of the kitchen. "can i help you?" cried virginie. she left her chair and passed into the inner room. all the women followed one by one. they surrounded the dutch oven, and watched with profound interest as gervaise and mother coupeau tried to pull the bird out. then a clamor arose, in the midst of which one could distinguish the shrill voices and the joyful leaps of the children. and there was a triumphal entry. gervaise carried the goose, her arms stiff, and her perspiring face expanded in one broad silent laugh; the women walked behind her, laughing in the same way; whilst nana, right at the end, raised herself up to see, her eyes open to their full extent. when the enormous golden goose, streaming with gravy, was on the table, they did not attack it at once. it was a wonder, a respectful wonderment, which for a moment left everyone speechless. they drew one another's attention to it with winks and nods of the head. golly! what a bird! "that one didn't get fat by licking the walls, i'll bet!" said boche. then they entered into details respecting the bird. gervaise gave the facts. it was the best she could get at the poulterer's in the faubourg poissonniers; it weighed twelve and a half pounds on the scales at the charcoal-dealer's; they had burnt nearly half a bushel of charcoal in cooking it, and it had given three bowls full of drippings. virginie interrupted her to boast of having seen it before it was cooked. "you could have eaten it just as it was," she said, "its skin was so fine, like the skin of a blonde." all the men laughed at this, smacking their lips. lorilleux and madame lorilleux sniffed disdainfully, almost choking with rage to see such a goose on clump-clump's table. "well! we can't eat it whole," the laundress observed. "who'll cut it up? no, no, not me! it's too big; i'm afraid of it." coupeau offered his services. _mon dieu!_ it was very simple. you caught hold of the limbs, and pulled them off; the pieces were good all the same. but the others protested; they forcibly took possession of the large kitchen knife which the zinc-worker already held in his hand, saying that whenever he carved he made a regular graveyard of the platter. finally, madame lerat suggested in a friendly tone: "listen, it should be monsieur poisson; yes, monsieur poisson." but, as the others did not appear to understand, she added in a more flattering manner still: "why, yes, of course, it should be monsieur poisson, who's accustomed to the use of arms." and she passed the kitchen knife to the policeman. all round the table they laughed with pleasure and approval. poisson bowed his head with military stiffness, and moved the goose before him. when he thrust the knife into the goose, which cracked, lorilleux was seized with an outburst of patriotism. "ah! if it was a cossack!" he cried. "have you ever fought with cossacks, monsieur poisson?" asked madame boche. "no, but i have with bedouins," replied the policeman, who was cutting off a wing. "there are no more cossacks." a great silence ensued. necks were stretched out as every eye followed the knife. poisson was preparing a surprise. suddenly he gave a last cut; the hind-quarter of the bird came off and stood up on end, rump in the air, making a bishop's mitre. then admiration burst forth. none were so agreeable in company as retired soldiers. the policeman allowed several minutes for the company to admire the bishop's mitre and then finished cutting the slices and arranging them on the platter. the carving of the goose was now complete. when the ladies complained that they were getting rather warm, coupeau opened the door to the street and the gaiety continued against the background of cabs rattling down the street and pedestrians bustling along the pavement. the goose was attacked furiously by the rested jaws. boche remarked that just having to wait and watch the goose being carved had been enough to make the veal and pork slide down to his ankles. then ensued a famous tuck-in; that is to say, not one of the party recollected ever having before run the risk of such a stomach-ache. gervaise, looking enormous, her elbows on the table, ate great pieces of breast, without uttering a word, for fear of losing a mouthful, and merely felt slightly ashamed and annoyed at exhibiting herself thus, as gluttonous as a cat before goujet. goujet, however, was too busy stuffing himself to notice that she was all red with eating. besides, in spite of her greediness, she remained so nice and good! she did not speak, but she troubled herself every minute to look after pere bru, and place some dainty bit on his plate. it was even touching to see this glutton take a piece of wing almost from her mouth to give it to the old fellow, who did not appear to be very particular, and who swallowed everything with bowed head, almost besotted from having gobbled so much after he had forgotten the taste of bread. the lorilleuxs expended their rage on the roast goose; they ate enough to last them three days; they would have stowed away the dish, the table, the very shop, if they could have ruined clump-clump by doing so. all the ladies had wanted a piece of the breast, traditionally the ladies' portion. madame lerat, madame boche, madame putois, were all picking bones; whilst mother coupeau, who adored the neck, was tearing off the flesh with her two last teeth. virginie liked the skin when it was nicely browned, and the other guests gallantly passed their skin to her; so much so, that poisson looked at his wife severely, and bade her stop, because she had had enough as it was. once already, she had been a fortnight in bed, with her stomach swollen out, through having eaten too much roast goose. but coupeau got angry and helped virginie to the upper part of a leg, saying that, by jove's thunder! if she did not pick it, she wasn't a proper woman. had roast goose ever done harm to anybody? on the contrary, it cured all complaints of the spleen. one could eat it without bread, like dessert. he could go on swallowing it all night without being the least bit inconvenienced; and, just to show off, he stuffed a whole drum-stick into his mouth. meanwhile, clemence had got to the end of the rump, and was sucking it with her lips, whilst she wriggled with laughter on her chair because boche was whispering all sorts of smutty things to her. ah, by jove! yes, there was a dinner! when one's at it, one's at it, you know; and if one only has the chance now and then, one would be precious stupid not to stuff oneself up to one's ears. really, one could see their sides puff out by degrees. they were cracking in their skins, the blessed gormandizers! with their mouths open, their chins besmeared with grease, they had such bloated red faces that one would have said they were bursting with prosperity. as for the wine, well, that was flowing as freely around the table as water flows in the seine. it was like a brook overflowing after a rainstorm when the soil is parched. coupeau raised the bottle high when pouring to see the red jet foam in the glass. whenever he emptied a bottle, he would turn it upside down and shake it. one more dead solder! in a corner of the laundry the pile of dead soldiers grew larger and larger, a veritable cemetery of bottles onto which other debris from the table was tossed. coupeau became indignant when madame putois asked for water. he took all the water pitchers from the table. do respectable citizens ever drink water? did she want to grow frogs in her stomach? many glasses were emptied at one gulp. you could hear the liquid gurgling its way down the throats like rainwater in a drainpipe after a storm. one might say it was raining wine. _mon dieu!_ the juice of the grape was a remarkable invention. surely the workingman couldn't get along without his wine. papa noah must have planted his grapevine for the benefit of zinc-workers, tailors and blacksmiths. it brightened you up and refreshed you after a hard day's work. coupeau was in a high mood. he proclaimed that all the ladies present were very cute, and jingled the three sous in his pocket as if they had been five-franc pieces. even goujet, who was ordinarily very sober, had taken plenty of wine. boche's eyes were narrowing, those of lorilleux were paling, and poisson was developing expressions of stern severity on his soldierly face. all the men were as drunk as lords and the ladies had reached a certain point also, feeling so warm that they had to loosen their clothes. only clemence carried this a bit too far. suddenly gervaise recollected the six sealed bottles of wine. she had forgotten to put them on the table with the goose; she fetched them, and all the glasses were filled. then poisson rose, and holding his glass in the air, said: "i drink to the health of the missus." all of them stood up, making a great noise with their chairs as they moved. holding out their arms, they clinked glasses in the midst of an immense uproar. "here's to this day fifty years hence!" cried virginie. "no, no," replied gervaise, deeply moved and smiling; "i shall be too old. ah! a day comes when one's glad to go." through the door, which was wide open, the neighborhood was looking on and taking part in the festivities. passers-by stopped in the broad ray of light which shone over the pavement, and laughed heartily at seeing all these people stuffing away so jovially. the aroma from the roasted goose brought joy to the whole street. the clerks on the sidewalk opposite thought they could almost taste the bird. others came out frequently to stand in front of their shops, sniffing the air and licking their lips. the little jeweler was unable to work, dizzy from having counted so many bottles. he seemed to have lost his head among his merry little cuckoo clocks. yes, the neighbors were devoured with envy, as coupeau said. but why should there be any secret made about the matter? the party, now fairly launched, was no longer ashamed of being seen at table; on the contrary, it felt flattered and excited at seeing the crowd gathered there, gaping with gluttony; it would have liked to have knocked out the shop-front and dragged the table into the road-way, and there to have enjoyed the dessert under the very nose of the public, and amidst the commotion of the thoroughfare. nothing disgusting was to be seen in them, was there? then there was no need to shut themselves in like selfish people. coupeau, noticing the little clockmaker looked very thirsty, held up a bottle; and as the other nodded his head, he carried him the bottle and a glass. a fraternity was established in the street. they drank to anyone who passed. they called in any chaps who looked the right sort. the feast spread, extending from one to another, to the degree that the entire neighborhood of the goutte-d'or sniffed the grub, and held its stomach, amidst a rumpus worthy of the devil and all his demons. for some minutes, madame vigouroux, the charcoal-dealer, had been passing to and fro before the door. "hi! madame vigouroux! madame vigouroux!" yelled the party. she entered with a broad grin on her face, which was washed for once, and so fat that the body of her dress was bursting. the men liked pinching her, because they might pinch her all over without ever encountering a bone. boche made room for her beside him and reached slyly under the table to grab her knee. but she, being accustomed to that sort of thing, quietly tossed off a glass of wine, and related that all the neighbors were at their windows, and that some of the people of the house were beginning to get angry. "oh, that's our business," said madame boche. "we're the concierges, aren't we? well, we're answerable for good order. let them come and complain to us, we'll receive them in a way they don't expect." in the back-room there had just been a furious fight between nana and augustine, on account of the dutch oven, which both wanted to scrape out. for a quarter of an hour, the dutch oven had rebounded over the tile floor with the noise of an old saucepan. nana was now nursing little victor, who had a goose-bone in his throat. she pushed her fingers under his chin, and made him swallow big lumps of sugar by way of a remedy. that did not prevent her keeping an eye on the big table. at every minute she came and asked for wine, bread, or meat, for etienne and pauline, she said. "here! burst!" her mother would say to her. "perhaps you'll leave us in peace now!" the children were scarcely able to swallow any longer, but they continued to eat all the same, banging their forks down on the table to the tune of a canticle, in order to excite themselves. in the midst of the noise, however, a conversation was going on between pere bru and mother coupeau. the old fellow, who was ghastly pale in spite of the wine and the food, was talking of his sons who had died in the crimea. ah! if the lads had only lived, he would have had bread to eat every day. but mother coupeau, speaking thickly, leant towards him and said: "ah! one has many worries with children! for instance, i appear to be happy here, don't i? well! i cry more often than you think. no, don't wish you still had your children." pere bru shook his head. "i can't get work anywhere," murmured he. "i'm too old. when i enter a workshop the young fellows joke, and ask me if i polished henri iv.'s boots. to-day it's all over; they won't have me anywhere. last year i could still earn thirty sous a day painting a bridge. i had to lie on my back with the river flowing under me. i've had a bad cough ever since then. now, i'm finished." he looked at his poor stiff hands and added: "it's easy to understand, i'm no longer good for anything. they're right; were i in their place i should do the same. you see, the misfortune is that i'm not dead. yes, it's my fault. one should lie down and croak when one's no longer able to work." "really," said lorilleux, who was listening, "i don't understand why the government doesn't come to the aid of the invalids of labor. i was reading that in a newspaper the other day." but poisson thought it his duty to defend the government. "workmen are not soldiers," declared he. "the invalides is for soldiers. you must not ask for what is impossible." dessert was now served. in the centre of the table was a savoy cake in the form of a temple, with a dome fluted with melon slices; and this dome was surmounted by an artificial rose, close to which was a silver paper butterfly, fluttering at the end of a wire. two drops of gum in the centre of the flower imitated dew. then, to the left, a piece of cream cheese floated in a deep dish; whilst in another dish to the right, were piled up some large crushed strawberries, with the juice running from them. however, there was still some salad left, some large coss lettuce leaves soaked with oil. "come, madame boche," said gervaise, coaxingly, "a little more salad. i know how fond you are of it." "no, no, thank you! i've already had as much as i can manage," replied the concierge. the laundress turning towards virginie, the latter put her finger in her mouth, as though to touch the food she had taken. "really, i'm full," murmured she. "there's no room left. i couldn't swallow a mouthful." "oh! but if you tried a little," resumed gervaise with a smile. "one can always find a tiny corner empty. once doesn't need to be hungry to be able to eat salad. you're surely not going to let this be wasted?" "you can eat it to-morrow," said madame lerat; "it's nicer when its wilted." the ladies sighed as they looked regretfully at the salad-bowl. clemence related that she had one day eaten three bunches of watercresses at her lunch. madame putois could do more than that, she would take a coss lettuce and munch it up with some salt just as it was without separating the leaves. they could all have lived on salad, would have treated themselves to tubfuls. and, this conversation aiding, the ladies cleaned out the salad-bowl. "i could go on all fours in a meadow," observed the concierge with her mouth full. then they chuckled together as they eyed the dessert. dessert did not count. it came rather late but that did not matter; they would nurse it all the same. when you're that stuffed, you can't let yourself be stopped by strawberries and cake. there was no hurry. they had the entire night if they wished. so they piled their plates with strawberries and cream cheese. meanwhile the men lit their pipes. they were drinking the ordinary wine while they smoked since the special wine had been finished. now they insisted that gervaise cut the savoy cake. poisson got up and took the rose from the cake and presented it in his most gallant manner to the hostess amidst applause from the other guests. she pinned it over her left breast, near the heart. the silver butterfly fluttered with her every movement. "well, look," exclaimed lorilleux, who had just made a discovery, "it's your work-table that we're eating off! ah, well! i daresay it's never seen so much work before!" this malicious joke had a great success. witty allusions came from all sides. clemence could not swallow a spoonful of strawberries without saying that it was another shirt ironed; madame lerat pretended that the cream cheese smelt of starch; whilst madame lorilleux said between her teeth that it was capital fun to gobble up the money so quickly on the very boards on which one had had so much trouble to earn it. there was quite a tempest of shouts and laughter. but suddenly a loud voice called for silence. it was boche who, standing up in an affected and vulgar way, was commencing to sing "the volcano of love, or the seductive trooper." a thunder of applause greeted the first verse. yes, yes, they would sing songs! everyone in turn. it was more amusing than anything else. and they all put their elbows on the table or leant back in their chairs, nodding their heads at the best parts and sipping their wine when they came to the choruses. that rogue boche had a special gift for comic songs. he would almost make the water pitchers laugh when he imitated the raw recruit with his fingers apart and his hat on the back of his head. directly after "the volcano of love," he burst out into "the baroness de follebiche," one of his greatest successes. when he reached the third verse he turned towards clemence and almost murmured it in a slow and voluptuous tone of voice: "the baroness had people there, her sisters four, oh! rare surprise; and three were dark, and one was fair; between them, eight bewitching eyes." then the whole party, carried away, joined in the chorus. the men beat time with their heels, whilst the ladies did the same with their knives against their glasses. all of them singing at the top of their voices: "by jingo! who on earth will pay a drink to the pa--to the pa--pa--? by jingo! who on earth will pay a drink to the pa--to the pa--tro--o--l?" the panes of glass of the shop-front resounded, the singers' great volume of breath agitated the muslin curtains. whilst all this was going on, virginie had already twice disappeared and each time, on returning, had leant towards gervaise's ear to whisper a piece of information. when she returned the third time, in the midst of the uproar, she said to her: "my dear, he's still at francois's; he's pretending to read the newspaper. he's certainly meditating some evil design." she was speaking of lantier. it was him that she had been watching. at each fresh report gervaise became more and more grave. "is he drunk?" asked she of virginie. "no," replied the tall brunette. "he looks as though he had merely had what he required. it's that especially which makes me anxious. why does he remain there if he's had all he wanted? _mon dieu!_ i hope nothing is going to happen!" the laundress, greatly upset, begged her to leave off. a profound silence suddenly succeeded the clamor. madame putois had just risen and was about to sing "the boarding of the pirate." the guests, silent and thoughtful, watched her; even poisson had laid his pipe down on the edge of the table the better to listen to her. she stood up to the full height of her little figure, with a fierce expression about her, though her face looked quite pale beneath her black cap; she thrust out her left fist with a satisfied pride as she thundered in a voice bigger than herself: "if the pirate audacious should o'er the waves chase us, the buccaneer slaughter, accord him no quarter. to the guns every man, and with rum fill each can! while these pests of the seas dangle from the cross-trees." that was something serious. by jove! it gave one a fine idea of the real thing. poisson, who had been on board ship nodded his head in approval of the description. one could see too that that song was in accordance with madame putois's own feeling. coupeau then told how madame putois, one evening on rue poulet, had slapped the face of four men who sought to attack her virtue. with the assistance of mother coupeau, gervaise was now serving the coffee, though some of the guests had not yet finished their savoy cake. they would not let her sit down again, but shouted that it was her turn. with a pale face, and looking very ill at ease, she tried to excuse herself; she seemed so queer that someone inquired whether the goose had disagreed with her. she finally gave them "oh! let me slumber!" in a sweet and feeble voice. when she reached the chorus with its wish for a sleep filled with beautiful dreams, her eyelids partly closed and her rapt gaze lost itself in the darkness of the street. poisson stood next and with an abrupt bow to the ladies, sang a drinking song: "the wines of france." but his voice wasn't very musical and only the final verse, a patriotic one mentioning the tricolor flag, was a success. then he raised his glass high, juggled it a moment, and poured the contents into his open mouth. then came a string of ballads; madame boche's barcarolle was all about venice and the gondoliers; madame lorilleux sang of seville and the andalusians in her bolero; whilst lorilleux went so far as to allude to the perfumes of arabia, in reference to the loves of fatima the dancer. golden horizons were opening up all around the heavily laden table. the men were smoking their pipes and the women unconsciously smiling with pleasure. all were dreaming they were far away. clemence began to sing softly "let's make a nest" with a tremolo in her voice which pleased them greatly for it made them think of the open country, of songbirds, of dancing beneath an arbor, and of flowers. in short, it made them think of the bois de vincennes when they went there for a picnic. but virginie revived the joking with "my little drop of brandy." she imitated a camp follower, with one hand on her hip, the elbow arched to indicate the little barrel; and with the other hand she poured out the brandy into space by turning her fist round. she did it so well that the party then begged mother coupeau to sing "the mouse." the old woman refused, vowing that she did not know that naughty song. yet she started off with the remnants of her broken voice; and her wrinkled face with its lively little eyes underlined the allusions, the terrors of mademoiselle lise drawing her skirts around her at the sight of a mouse. all the table laughed; the women could not keep their countenances, and continued casting bright glances at their neighbors; it was not indecent after all, there were no coarse words in it. all during the song boche was playing mouse up and down the legs of the lady coal-dealer. things might have gotten a bit out of line if goujet, in response to a glance from gervaise, had not brought back the respectful silence with "the farewell of abdul-kader," which he sang out loudly in his bass voice. the song rang out from his golden beard as if from a brass trumpet. all the hearts skipped a beat when he cried, "ah, my noble comrade!" referring to the warrior's black mare. they burst into applause even before the end. "now, pere bru, it's your turn!" said mother coupeau. "sing your song. the old ones are the best any day!" and everybody turned towards the old man, pressing him and encouraging him. he, in a state of torpor, with his immovable mask of tanned skin, looked at them without appearing to understand. they asked him if he knew the "five vowels." he held down his head; he could not recollect it; all the songs of the good old days were mixed up in his head. as they made up their minds to leave him alone, he seemed to remember, and began to stutter in a cavernous voice: "trou la la, trou la la, trou la, trou la, trou la la!" his face assumed an animated expression, this chorus seemed to awake some far-off gaieties within him, enjoyed by himself alone, as he listened with a childish delight to his voice which became more and more hollow. "say there, my dear," virginie came and whispered in gervaise's ear, "i've just been there again, you know. it worried me. well! lantier has disappeared from francois's." "you didn't meet him outside?" asked the laundress. "no, i walked quickly, not as if i was looking for him." but virginie raised her eyes, interrupted herself and heaved a smothered sigh. "ah! _mon dieu!_ he's there, on the pavement opposite; he's looking this way." gervaise, quite beside herself, ventured to glance in the direction indicated. some persons had collected in the street to hear the party sing. and lantier was indeed there in the front row, listening and coolly looking on. it was rare cheek, everything considered. gervaise felt a chill ascend from her legs to her heart, and she no longer dared to move, whilst old bru continued: "trou la la, trou la la, trou la, trou la, trou la la!" "very good. thank you, my ancient one, that's enough!" said coupeau. "do you know the whole of it? you shall sing it for us another day when we need something sad." this raised a few laughs. the old fellow stopped short, glanced round the table with his pale eyes and resumed his look of a meditative animal. coupeau called for more wine as the coffee was finished. clemence was eating strawberries again. with the pause in singing, they began to talk about a woman who had been found hanging that morning in the building next door. it was madame lerat's turn, but she required to prepare herself. she dipped the corner of her napkin into a glass of water and applied it to her temples because she was too hot. then, she asked for a thimbleful of brandy, drank it, and slowly wiped her lips. "the 'child of god,' shall it be?" she murmured, "the 'child of god.'" and, tall and masculine-looking, with her bony nose and her shoulders as square as a grenadier's she began: "the lost child left by its mother alone is sure of a home in heaven above, god sees and protects it on earth from his throne, the child that is lost is the child of god's love." her voice trembled at certain words, and dwelt on them in liquid notes; she looked out of the corner of her eyes to heaven, whilst her right hand swung before her chest or pressed against her heart with an impressive gesture. then gervaise, tortured by lantier's presence, could not restrain her tears; it seemed to her that the song was relating her own suffering, that she was the lost child, abandoned by its mother, and whom god was going to take under his protection. clemence was now very drunk and she burst into loud sobbing and placed her head down onto the table in an effort to smother her gasps. there was a hush vibrant with emotion. the ladies had pulled out their handkerchiefs, and were drying their eyes, with their heads erect from pride. the men had bowed their heads and were staring straight before them, blinking back their tears. poisson bit off the end of his pipe twice while gulping and gasping. boche, with two large tears trickling down his face, wasn't even bothering to squeeze the coal-dealer's knee any longer. all these drunk revelers were as soft-hearted as lambs. wasn't the wine almost coming out of their eyes? when the refrain began again, they all let themselves go, blubbering into their plates. but gervaise and virginie could not, in spite of themselves, take their eyes off the pavement opposite. madame boche, in her turn, caught sight of lantier and uttered a faint cry without ceasing to besmear her face with her tears. then all three had very anxious faces as they exchanged involuntary signs. _mon dieu!_ if coupeau were to turn round, if coupeau caught sight of the other! what a butchery! what carnage! and they went on to such an extent that the zinc-worker asked them: "whatever are you looking at?" he leant forward and recognized lantier. "damnation! it's too much," muttered he. "ah! the dirty scoundrel--ah! the dirty scoundrel. no, it's too much, it must come to an end." and as he rose from his seat muttering most atrocious threats, gervaise, in a low voice, implored him to keep quiet. "listen to me, i implore you. leave the knife alone. remain where you are, don't do anything dreadful." virginie had to take the knife which he had picked up off the table from him. but she could not prevent him leaving the shop and going up to lantier. those around the table saw nothing of this, so involved were they in weeping over the song as madame lerat sang the last verse. it sounded like a moaning wail of the wind and madame putois was so moved that she spilled her wine over the table. gervaise remained frozen with fright, one hand tight against her lips to stifle her sobs. she expected at any moment to see one of the two men fall unconscious in the street. as coupeau rushed toward lantier, he was so astonished by the fresh air that he staggered, and lantier, with his hands in his pockets, merely took a step to the side. now the two men were almost shouting at each other, coupeau calling the other a lousy pig and threatening to make sausage of his guts. they were shouting loudly and angrily and waving their arms violently. gervaise felt faint and as it continued for a while, she closed her eyes. suddenly, she didn't hear any shouting and opened her eyes. the two men were chatting amiably together. madame lerat's voice rose higher and higher, warbling another verse. gervaise exchanged a glance with madame boche and virginie. was it going to end amicably then? coupeau and lantier continued to converse on the edge of the pavement. they were still abusing each other, but in a friendly way. as people were staring at them, they ended by strolling leisurely side by side past the houses, turning round again every ten yards or so. a very animated conversation was now taking place. suddenly coupeau appeared to become angry again, whilst the other was refusing something and required to be pressed. and it was the zinc-worker who pushed lantier along and who forced him to cross the street and enter the shop. "i tell you, you're quite welcome!" shouted he. "you'll take a glass of wine. men are men, you know. we ought to understand each other." madame lerat was finishing the last chorus. the ladies were singing all together as they twisted their handkerchiefs. "the child that is lost is the child of god's love." the singer was greatly complimented and she resumed her seat affecting to be quite broken down. she asked for something to drink because she always put too much feeling into that song and she was constantly afraid of straining her vocal chords. everyone at the table now had their eyes fixed on lantier who, quietly seated beside coupeau, was devouring the last piece of savoy cake which he dipped in his glass of wine. with the exception of virginie and madame boche none of the guests knew him. the lorilleuxs certainly scented some underhand business, but not knowing what, they merely assumed their most conceited air. goujet, who had noticed gervaise's emotion, gave the newcomer a sour look. as an awkward pause ensued coupeau simply said: "a friend of mine." and turning to his wife, added: "come, stir yourself! perhaps there's still some hot coffee left." gervaise, feeling meek and stupid, looked at them one after the other. at first, when her husband pushed her old lover into the shop, she buried her head between her hands, the same as she instinctively did on stormy days at each clap of thunder. she could not believe it possible; the walls would fall in and crush them all. then, when she saw the two sitting together peacefully, she suddenly accepted it as quite natural. a happy feeling of languor benumbed her, retained her all in a heap at the edge of the table, with the sole desire of not being bothered. _mon dieu!_ what is the use of putting oneself out when others do not, and when things arrange themselves to the satisfaction of everybody? she got up to see if there was any coffee left. in the back-room the children had fallen asleep. that squint-eyed augustine had tyrannized over them all during the dessert, pilfering their strawberries and frightening them with the most abominable threats. now she felt very ill, and was bent double upon a stool, not uttering a word, her face ghastly pale. fat pauline had let her head fall against etienne's shoulder, and he himself was sleeping on the edge of the table. nana was seated with victor on the rug beside the bedstead, she had passed her arm round his neck and was drawing him towards her; and, succumbing to drowsiness and with her eyes shut, she kept repeating in a feeble voice: "oh! mamma, i'm not well; oh! mamma, i'm not well." "no wonder!" murmured augustine, whose head was rolling about on her shoulders, "they're drunk; they've been singing like grown up persons." gervaise received another blow on beholding etienne. she felt as though she would choke when she thought of the youngster's father being there in the other room, eating cake, and that he had not even expressed a desire to kiss the little fellow. she was on the point of rousing etienne and of carrying him there in her arms. then she again felt that the quiet way in which matters had been arranged was the best. it would not have been proper to have disturbed the harmony of the end of the dinner. she returned with the coffee-pot and poured out a glass of coffee for lantier, who, by the way, did not appear to take any notice of her. "now, it's my turn," stuttered coupeau, in a thick voice. "you've been keeping the best for the last. well! i'll sing you 'that piggish child.'" "yes, yes, 'that piggish child,'" cried everyone. the uproar was beginning again. lantier was forgotten. the ladies prepared their glasses and their knives for accompanying the chorus. they laughed beforehand, as they looked at the zinc-worker, who steadied himself on his legs as he put on his most vulgar air. mimicking the hoarse voice of an old woman, he sang: "when out of bed each morn i hop, i'm always precious queer; i send him for a little drop to the drinking-den that's near. a good half hour or more he'll stay, and that makes me so riled, he swigs it half upon his way: what a piggish child!" and the ladies, striking their glasses, repeated in chorus in the midst of a formidable gaiety: "what a piggish child! what a piggish child!" even the rue de la goutte-d'or itself joined in now. the whole neighborhood was singing "what a piggish child!" the little clockmaker, the grocery clerks, the tripe woman and the fruit woman all knew the song and joined in the chorus. the entire street seemed to be getting drunk on the odors from the coupeau party. in the reddish haze from the two lamps, the noise of the party was enough to shut out the rumbling of the last vehicles in the street. two policemen rushed over, thinking there was a riot, but on recognizing poisson, they saluted him smartly and went away between the darkened buildings. coupeau was now singing this verse: "on sundays at petite villette, whene'er the weather's fine, we call on uncle, old tinette, who's in the dustman line. to feast upon some cherry stones the young un's almost wild, and rolls amongst the dust and bones, what a piggish child! what a piggish child!" then the house almost collapsed, such a yell ascended in the calm warm night air that the shouters applauded themselves, for it was useless their hoping to be able to bawl any louder. not one of the party could ever recollect exactly how the carouse terminated. it must have been very late, it's quite certain, for not a cat was to be seen in the street. possibly too, they had all joined hands and danced round the table. but all was submerged in a yellow mist, in which red faces were jumping about, with mouths slit from ear to ear. they had probably treated themselves to something stronger than wine towards the end, and there was a vague suspicion that some one had played them the trick of putting salt into the glasses. the children must have undressed and put themselves to bed. on the morrow, madame boche boasted of having treated boche to a couple of clouts in a corner, where he was conversing a great deal too close to the charcoal-dealer; but boche, who recollected nothing, said she must have dreamt it. everyone agreed that it wasn't very decent the way clemence had carried on. she had ended by showing everything she had and then been so sick that she had completely ruined one of the muslin curtains. the men had at least the decency to go into the street; lorilleux and poisson, feeling their stomachs upset, had stumblingly glided as far as the pork-butcher's shop. it is easy to see when a person has been well brought up. for instance, the ladies, madame putois, madame lerat, and virginie, indisposed by the heat, had simply gone into the back-room and taken their stays off; virginie had even desired to lie on the bed for a minute, just to obviate any unpleasant effects. thus the party had seemed to melt away, some disappearing behind the others, all accompanying one another, and being lost sight of in the surrounding darkness, to the accompaniment of a final uproar, a furious quarrel between the lorilleuxs, and an obstinate and mournful "trou la la, trou la la," of old bru's. gervaise had an idea that goujet had burst out sobbing when bidding her good-bye; coupeau was still singing; and as for lantier, he must have remained till the end. at one moment even, she could still feel a breath against her hair, but she was unable to say whether it came from lantier or if it was the warm night air. since madame lerat didn't want to return to les batignolles at such a late hour, they took one of the mattresses off the bed and spread it for her in a corner of the shop, after pushing back the table. she slept right there amid all the dinner crumbs. all night long, while the coupeaus were sleeping, a neighbor's cat took advantage of an open window and was crunching the bones of the goose with its sharp teeth, giving the bird its final resting place. chapter viii on the following saturday coupeau, who had not come home to dinner, brought lantier with him towards ten o'clock. they had had some sheep's trotters at chez thomas at montmartre. "you mustn't scold, wife," said the zinc-worker. "we're sober, as you can see. oh! there's no fear with him; he keeps one on the straight road." and he related how they happened to meet in the rue rochechouart. after dinner lantier had declined to have a drink at the "black ball," saying that when one was married to a pretty and worthy little woman, one ought not to go liquoring-up at all the wineshops. gervaise smiled slightly as she listened. oh! she was not thinking of scolding, she felt too much embarrassed for that. she had been expecting to see her former lover again some day ever since their dinner party; but at such an hour, when she was about to go to bed, the unexpected arrival of the two men had startled her. her hands were quivering as she pinned back the hair which had slid down her neck. "you know," resumed coupeau, "as he was so polite as to decline a drink outside, you must treat us to one here. ah! you certainly owe us that!" the workwomen had left long ago. mother coupeau and nana had just gone to bed. gervaise, who had been just about to put up the shutters when they appeared, left the shop open and brought some glasses which she placed on a corner of the work-table with what was left of a bottle of brandy. lantier remained standing and avoided speaking directly to her. however, when she served him, he exclaimed: "only a thimbleful, madame, if you please." coupeau looked at them and then spoke his mind very plainly. they were not going to behave like a couple of geese he hoped! the past was past was it not? if people nursed grudges for nine and ten years together one would end by no longer seeing anybody. no, no, he carried his heart in his hand, he did! first of all, he knew who he had to deal with, a worthy woman and a worthy man--in short two friends! he felt easy; he knew he could depend upon them. "oh! that's certain, quite certain," repeated gervaise, looking on the ground and scarcely understanding what she said. "she is a sister now--nothing but a sister!" murmured lantier in his turn. "_mon dieu!_ shake hands," cried coupeau, "and let those who don't like it go to blazes! when one has proper feelings one is better off than millionaires. for myself i prefer friendship before everything because friendship is friendship and there's nothing to beat it." he dealt himself heavy blows on the chest, and seemed so moved that they had to calm him. they all three silently clinked glasses, and drank their drop of brandy. gervaise was then able to look at lantier at her ease; for on the night of her saint's day, she had only seen him through a fog. he had grown more stout, his arms and legs seeming too heavy because of his small stature. his face was still handsome even though it was a little puffy now due to his life of idleness. he still took great pains with his narrow moustache. he looked about his actual age. he was wearing grey trousers, a heavy blue overcoat, and a round hat. he even had a watch with a silver chain on which a ring was hanging as a keepsake. he looked quite like a gentleman. "i'm off," said he. "i live no end of a distance from here." he was already on the pavement when the zinc-worker called him back to make him promise never to pass the door without looking in to wish them good day. meanwhile gervaise, who had quietly disappeared, returned pushing etienne before her. the child, who was in his shirt-sleeves and half asleep, smiled as he rubbed his eyes. but when he beheld lantier he stood trembling and embarrassed, and casting anxious glances in the direction of his mother and coupeau. "don't you remember this gentleman?" asked the latter. the child held down his head without replying. then he made a slight sign which meant that he did remember the gentleman. "well! then, don't stand there like a fool; go and kiss him." lantier gravely and quietly waited. when etienne had made up his mind to approach him, he stooped down, presented both his cheeks, and then kissed the youngster on the forehead himself. at this the boy ventured to look at his father; but all on a sudden he burst out sobbing and scampered away like a mad creature with his clothes half falling off him, whilst coupeau angrily called him a young savage. "the emotion's too much for him," said gervaise, pale and agitated herself. "oh! he's generally very gentle and nice," exclaimed coupeau. "i've brought him up properly, as you'll see. he'll get used to you. he must learn to know people. we can't stay mad. we should have made up a long time ago for his sake. i'd rather have my head cut off than keep a father from seeing his own son." having thus delivered himself, he talked of finishing the bottle of brandy. all three clinked glasses again. lantier showed no surprise, but remained perfectly calm. by way of repaying the zinc-worker's politeness he persisted in helping him put up the shutters before taking his departure. then rubbing his hands together to get rid of the dust on them, he wished the couple good-night. "sleep well. i shall try and catch the last bus. i promise you i'll look in again soon." after that evening lantier frequently called at the rue de la goutte-d'or. he came when the zinc-worker was there, inquiring after his health the moment he passed the door and affecting to have solely called on his account. then clean-shaven, his hair nicely combed and always wearing his overcoat, he would take a seat by the window and converse politely with the manners of an educated man. it was thus that the coupeaus learnt little by little the details of his life. during the last eight years he had for a while managed a hat factory; and when they asked him why he had retired from it he merely alluded to the rascality of a partner, a fellow from his native place, a scoundrel who had squandered all the takings with women. his former position as an employer continued to affect his entire personality, like a title of nobility that he could not abandon. he was always talking of concluding a magnificent deal with some hatmakers who were going to set him up in business. while waiting for this he did nothing but stroll around all day like one of the idle rich. if anyone dared to mention a hat factory looking for workers, he smiled and said he was not interested in breaking his back working for others. a smart fellow like lantier, according to coupeau, knew how to take care of himself. he always looked prosperous and it took money to look thus. he must have some deal going. one morning coupeau had seen him having his shoes shined on the boulevard montmartre. lantier was very talkative about others, but the truth was that he told lies about himself. he would not even say where he lived, only that he was staying with a friend and there was no use in coming to see him because he was never in. it was now early november. lantier would gallantly bring bunches of violets for gervaise and the workwomen. he was now coming almost every day. he won the favor of clemence and madame putois with his little attentions. at the end of the month they adored him. the boches, whom he flattered by going to pay his respects in their concierge's lodge, went into ecstasies over his politeness. as soon as the lorilleuxs knew who he was, they howled at the impudence of gervaise in bringing her former lover into her home. however, one day lantier went to visit them and made such a good impression when he ordered a necklace for a lady of his acquaintance that they invited him to sit down. he stayed an hour and they were so charmed by his conversation that they wondered how a man of such distinction had ever lived with clump-clump. soon lantier's visits to the coupeaus were accepted as perfectly natural; he was in the good graces of everyone along the rue de la goutte-d'or. goujet was the only one who remained cold. if he happened to be there when lantier arrived, he would leave at once as he didn't want to be obliged to be friendly to him. in the midst, however, of all this extraordinary affection for lantier, gervaise lived in a state of great agitation for the first few weeks. she felt that burning sensation in the pit of her stomach which affected her on the day when virginie first alluded to her past life. her great fear was that she might find herself without strength, if he came upon her all alone one night and took it into his head to kiss her. she thought of him too much; she was for ever thinking of him. but she gradually became calmer on seeing him behave so well, never looking her in the face, never even touching her with the tips of his fingers when no one was watching. then virginie, who seemed to read within her, made her ashamed of all her wicked thoughts. why did she tremble? once could not hope to come across a nicer man. she certainly had nothing to fear now. and one day the tall brunette maneuvered in such a way as to get them both into a corner, and to turn the conversation to the subject of love. lantier, choosing his words, declared in a grave voice that his heart was dead, that for the future he wished to consecrate his life solely for his son's happiness. every evening he would kiss etienne on the forehead, yet he was apt to forget him in teasing back and forth with clemence. and he never mentioned claude who was still in the south. gervaise began to feel at ease. lantier's actual presence overshadowed her memories, and seeing him all the time, she no longer dreamed about him. she even felt a certain repugnance at the thought of their former relationship. yes, it was over. if he dared to approach her, she'd box his ears, or even better, she'd tell her husband. once again her thoughts turned to goujet and his affection for her. one morning clemence reported that the previous night, at about eleven o'clock, she had seen monsieur lantier with a woman. she told about it maliciously and in coarse terms to see how gervaise would react. yes, monsieur lantier was on the rue notre dame de lorette with a blonde and she followed them. they had gone into a shop where the worn-out and used-up woman had bought some shrimps. then they went to the rue de la rochefoucauld. monsieur lantier had waited on the pavement in front of the house while his lady friend went in alone. then she had beckoned to him from the window to join her. no matter how clemence went on with the story gervaise went on peacefully ironing a white dress. sometimes she smiled faintly. these southerners, she said, are all crazy about women; they have to have them no matter what, even if they come from a dung heap. when lantier came in that evening, gervaise was amused when clemence teased him about the blonde. he seemed to feel flattered that he had been seen. _mon dieu!_ she was just an old friend, he explained. he saw her from time to time. she was quite stylish. he mentioned some of her former lovers, among them a count, an important merchant and the son of a lawyer. he added that a bit of playing around didn't mean a thing, his heart was dead. in the end clemence had to pay a price for her meanness. she certainly felt lantier pinching her hard two or three times without seeming to do so. she was also jealous because she didn't reek of musk like that boulevard work-horse. when spring came, lantier, who was now quite one of the family, talked of living in the neighborhood, so as to be nearer his friends. he wanted a furnished room in a decent house. madame boche, and even gervaise herself went searching about to find it for him. they explored the neighboring streets. but he was always too difficult to please; he required a big courtyard, a room on the ground floor; in fact, every luxury imaginable. and then every evening, at the coupeaus', he seemed to measure the height of the ceilings, study the arrangement of the rooms, and covet a similar lodging. oh, he would never have asked for anything better, he would willingly have made himself a hole in that warm, quiet corner. then each time he wound up his inspection with these words: "by jove! you are comfortably situated here." one evening, when he had dined there, and was making the same remark during the dessert, coupeau, who now treated him most familiarly, suddenly exclaimed: "you must stay here, old boy, if it suits you. it's easily arranged." and he explained that the dirty-clothes room, cleaned out, would make a nice apartment. etienne could sleep in the shop, on a mattress on the floor, that was all. "no, no," said lantier, "i cannot accept. it would inconvenience you too much. i know that it's willingly offered, but we should be too warm all jumbled up together. besides, you know, each one likes his liberty. i should have to go through your room, and that wouldn't be exactly funny." "ah, the rogue!" resumed the zinc-worker, choking with laughter, banging his fist down on the table, "he's always thinking of something smutty! but, you joker, we're of an inventive turn of mind! there're two windows in the room, aren't there? well, we'll knock one out and turn it into a door. then, you understand you come in by way of the courtyard, and we can even stop up the other door, if we like. thus you'll be in your home, and we in ours." a pause ensued. at length the hatter murmured: "ah, yes, in that manner perhaps we might. and yet no, i should be too much in your way." he avoided looking at gervaise. but he was evidently waiting for a word from her before accepting. she was very much annoyed at her husband's idea; not that the thought of seeing lantier living with them wounded her feelings, or made her particularly uneasy, but she was wondering where she would be able to keep the dirty clothes. coupeau was going on about the advantages of the arrangement. their rent, five hundred francs, had always been a bit steep. their friend could pay twenty francs a month for a nicely furnished room and it would help them with the rent. he would be responsible for fixing up a big box under their bed that would be large enough to hold all the dirty clothes. gervaise still hesitated. she looked toward mother coupeau for guidance. lantier had won over mother coupeau months ago by bringing her gum drops for her cough. "you would certainly not be in our way," gervaise ended by saying. "we could so arrange things--" "no, no, thanks," repeated the hatter. "you're too kind; it would be asking too much." coupeau could no longer restrain himself. was he going to continue making objections when they told him it was freely offered? he would be obliging them. there, did he understand? then in an excited tone of voice he yelled: "etienne! etienne!" the youngster had fallen asleep on the table. he raised his head with a start. "listen, tell him that you wish it. yes, that gentleman there. tell him as loud as you can: 'i wish it!'" "i wish it!" stuttered etienne, his voice thick with sleep. everyone laughed. but lantier resumed his grave and impressive air. he squeezed coupeau's hand across the table as he said: "i accept. it's in all good fellowship on both sides, is it not? yes, i accept for the child's sake." the next day when the landlord, monsieur marescot, came to spend an hour with the boches, gervaise mentioned the matter to him. he refused angrily at first. then, after a careful inspection of the premises, particularly gazing upward to verify that the upper floors would not be weakened, he finally granted permission on condition there would be no expense to him. he had the coupeaus sign a paper saying they would restore everything to its original state on the expiration of the lease. coupeau brought in some friends of his that very evening--a mason, a carpenter and a painter. they would do this job in the evenings as a favor to him. still, installing the door and cleaning up the room cost over one hundred francs, not counting the wine that kept the work going. coupeau told his friends he'd pay them something later, out of the rent from his tenant. then the furniture for the room had to be sorted out. gervaise left mother coupeau's wardrobe where it was, and added a table and two chairs taken from her own room. she had to buy a washing-stand and a bed with mattress and bedclothes, costing one hundred and thirty francs, which she was to pay off at ten francs a month. although lantier's twenty francs would be used to pay off these debts for ten months, there would be a nice little profit later. it was during the early days of june that the hatter moved in. the day before, coupeau had offered to go with him and fetch his box, to save him the thirty sous for a cab. but the other became quite embarrassed, saying that the box was too heavy, as though he wished up to the last moment to hide the place where he lodged. he arrived in the afternoon towards three o'clock. coupeau did not happen to be in. and gervaise, standing at the shop door became quite pale on recognizing the box outside the cab. it was their old box, the one with which they had journeyed from plassans, all scratched and broken now and held together by cords. she saw it return as she had often dreamt it would and it needed no great stretch of imagination to believe that the same cab, that cab in which that strumpet of a burnisher had played her such a foul trick, had brought the box back again. meanwhile boche was giving lantier a helping hand. the laundress followed them in silence and feeling rather dazed. when they had deposited their burden in the middle of the room she said for the sake of saying something: "well! that's a good thing finished, isn't it?" then pulling herself together, seeing that lantier, busy in undoing the cords was not even looking at her, she added: "monsieur boche, you must have a drink." and she went and fetched a quart of wine and some glasses. just then poisson passed along the pavement in uniform. she signaled to him, winking her eye and smiling. the policeman understood perfectly. when he was on duty and anyone winked their eye to him it meant a glass of wine. he would even walk for hours up and down before the laundry waiting for a wink. then so as not to be seen, he would pass through the courtyard and toss off the liquor in secret. "ah! ah!" said lantier when he saw him enter, "it's you, badingue." he called him badingue for a joke, just to show how little he cared for the emperor. poisson put up with it in his stiff way without one knowing whether it really annoyed him or not. besides the two men, though separated by their political convictions, had become very good friends. "you know that the emperor was once a policeman in london," said boche in his turn. "yes, on my word! he used to take the drunken women to the station-house." gervaise had filled three glasses on the table. she would not drink herself, she felt too sick at heart, but she stood there longing to see what the box contained and watching lantier remove the last cords. before raising the lid lantier took his glass and clinked it with the others. "good health." "same to you," replied boche and poisson. the laundress filled the glasses again. the three men wiped their lips on the backs of their hands. and at last the hatter opened the box. it was full of a jumble of newspapers, books, old clothes and underlinen, in bundles. he took out successively a saucepan, a pair of boots, a bust of ledru-rollin with the nose broken, an embroidered shirt and a pair of working trousers. gervaise could smell the odor of tobacco and that of a man whose linen wasn't too clean, one who took care only of the outside, of what people could see. the old hat was no longer in the left corner. there was a pincushion she did not recognize, doubtless a present from some woman. she became calmer, but felt a vague sadness as she continued to watch the objects that appeared, wondering if they were from her time or from the time of others. "i say, badingue, do you know this?" resumed lantier. he thrust under his nose a little book printed at brussels. "the amours of napoleon iii.," illustrated with engravings. it related, among other anecdotes, how the emperor had seduced a girl of thirteen, the daughter of a cook; and the picture represented napoleon iii., bare-legged, and also wearing the grand ribbon of the legion of honor, pursuing a little girl who was trying to escape his lust. "ah! that's it exactly!" exclaimed boche, whose slyly ridiculous instincts felt flattered by the sight. "it always happens like that!" poisson was seized with consternation, and he could not find a word to say in the emperor's defense. it was in a book, so he could not deny it. then, lantier, continuing to push the picture under his nose in a jeering way, he extended his arms and exclaimed: "well, so what?" lantier didn't reply. he busied himself arranging his books and newspapers on a shelf in the wardrobe. he seemed upset not to have a small bookshelf over his table, so gervaise promised to get him one. he had "the history of ten years" by louis blanc (except for the first volume), lamartine's "the girondins" in installments, "the mysteries of paris" and "the wandering jew" by eugene sue, and a quantity of booklets on philosophic and humanitarian subjects picked up from used book dealers. his newspapers were his prized possessions, a collection made over a number of years. whenever he read an article in a cafe that seemed to him to agree with his own ideas, he would buy that newspaper and keep it. he had an enormous bundle of them, papers of every date and every title, piled up in no discernable order. he patted them and said to the other two: "you see that? no one else can boast of having anything to match it. you can't imagine all that's in there. i mean, if they put into practice only half the ideas, it would clean up the social order overnight. that would be good medicine for your emperor and all his stool pigeons." the policeman's red mustache and beard began to bristle on his pale face and he interrupted: "and the army, tell me, what are you going to do about that?" lantier flew into a passion. he banged his fists down on the newspapers as he yelled: "i require the suppression of militarism, the fraternity of peoples. i require the abolition of privileges, of titles, and of monopolies. i require the equality of salaries, the division of benefits, the glorification of the protectorate. all liberties, do you hear? all of them! and divorce!" "yes, yes, divorce for morality!" insisted boche. poisson had assumed a majestic air. "yet if i won't have your liberties, i'm free to refuse them," he answered. lantier was choking with passion. "if you don't want them--if you don't want them--" he replied. "no, you're not free at all! if you don't want them, i'll send you off to devil's island. yes, devil's island with your emperor and all the rats of his crew." they always quarreled thus every time they met. gervaise, who did not like arguments, usually interfered. she roused herself from the torpor into which the sight of the box, full of the stale perfume of her past love, had plunged her, and she drew the three men's attention to the glasses. "ah! yes," said lantier, becoming suddenly calm and taking his glass. "good health!" "good health!" replied boche and poisson, clinking glasses with him. boche, however, was moving nervously about, troubled by an anxiety as he looked at the policeman out of the corner of his eye. "all this between ourselves, eh, monsieur poisson?" murmured he at length. "we say and show you things to show off." but poisson did not let him finish. he placed his hand upon his heart, as though to explain that all remained buried there. he certainly did not go spying about on his friends. coupeau arriving, they emptied a second quart. then the policeman went off by way of the courtyard and resumed his stiff and measured tread along the pavement. at the beginning of the new arrangement, the entire routine of the establishment was considerably upset. lantier had his own separate room, with his own entrance and his own key. however, since they had decided not to close off the door between the rooms, he usually came and went through the shop. besides, the dirty clothes were an inconvenience to gervaise because her husband never made the case he had promised and she had to tuck the dirty laundry into any odd corner she could find. they usually ended up under the bed and this was not very pleasant on warm summer nights. she also found it a nuisance having to make up etienne's bed every evening in the shop. when her employees worked late, the lad had to sleep in a chair until they finished. goujet had mentioned sending etienne to lille where a machinist he knew was looking for apprentices. as the boy was unhappy at home and eager to be out on his own, gervaise seriously considered the proposal. her only fear was that lantier would refuse. since he had come to live with them solely to be near his son, surely he wouldn't want to lose him only two weeks after he moved in. however he approved whole-heartedly when she timidly broached the matter to him. he said that young men needed to see a bit of the country. the morning that etienne left lantier made a speech to him, kissed him and ended by saying: "never forget that a workingman is not a slave, and that whoever is not a workingman is a lazy drone." the household was now able to get into the new routine. gervaise became accustomed to having dirty laundry lying all around. lantier was forever talking of important business deals. sometimes he went out, wearing fresh linen and neatly combed. he would stay out all night and on his return pretend that he was completely exhausted because he had been discussing very serious matters. actually he was merely taking life easy. he usually slept until ten. in the afternoons he would take a walk if the weather was nice. if it was raining, he would sit in the shop reading his newspaper. this atmosphere suited him. he always felt at his ease with women and enjoyed listening to them. lantier first took his meals at francois's, at the corner of the rue des poissonniers. but of the seven days in the week he dined with the coupeaus on three or four; so much so that he ended by offering to board with them and to pay them fifteen francs every saturday. from that time he scarcely ever left the house, but made himself completely at home there. morning to night he was in the shop, even giving orders and attending to customers. lantier didn't like the wine from francois's, so he persuaded gervaise to buy her wine from vigouroux, the coal-dealer. then he decided that coudeloup's bread was not baked to his satisfaction, so he sent augustine to the viennese bakery in the faubourg poissonniers for their bread. he changed from the grocer lehongre but kept the butcher, fat charles, because of his political opinions. after a month he wanted all the cooking done with olive oil. clemence joked that with a provencal like him you could never wash out the oil stains. he wanted his omelets fried on both sides, as hard as pancakes. he supervised mother coupeau's cooking, wanting his steaks cooked like shoe leather and with garlic on everything. he got angry if she put herbs in the salad. "they're just weeds and some of them might be poisonous," he declared. his favorite soup was made with over-boiled vermicelli. he would pour in half a bottle of olive oil. only he and gervaise could eat this soup, the others being too used to parisian cooking. little by little lantier also came to mixing himself up in the affairs of the family. as the lorilleuxs always grumbled at having to part with the five francs for mother coupeau, he explained that an action could be brought against them. they must think that they had a set of fools to deal with! it was ten francs a month which they ought to give! and he would go up himself for the ten francs so boldly and yet so amiably that the chainmaker never dared refuse them. madame lerat also gave two five-franc pieces now. mother coupeau could have kissed lantier's hands. he was, moreover, the grand arbiter in all the quarrels between the old woman and gervaise. whenever the laundress, in a moment of impatience, behaved roughly to her mother-in-law and the latter went and cried on her bed, he hustled them about and made them kiss each other, asking them if they thought themselves amusing with their bad tempers. and nana, too; she was being brought up badly, according to his idea. in that he was right, for whenever the father spanked the child, the mother took her part, and if the mother, in her turn, boxed her ears, the father made a disturbance. nana delighted at seeing her parents abuse each other, and knowing that she was forgiven beforehand, was up to all kinds of tricks. her latest mania was to go and play in the blacksmith shop opposite; she would pass the entire day swinging on the shafts of the carts; she would hide with bands of urchins in the remotest corners of the gray courtyard, lighted up with the red glare of the forge; and suddenly she would reappear, running and shouting, unkempt and dirty and followed by the troop of urchins, as though a sudden clash of the hammers had frightened the ragamuffins away. lantier alone could scold her; and yet she knew perfectly well how to get over him. this tricky little girl of ten would walk before him like a lady, swinging herself about and casting side glances at him, her eyes already full of vice. he had ended by undertaking her education: he taught her to dance and to talk patois. a year passed thus. in the neighborhood it was thought that lantier had a private income, for this was the only way to account for the coupeaus' grand style of living. no doubt gervaise continued to earn money; but now that she had to support two men in doing nothing, the shop certainly could not suffice; more especially as the shop no longer had so good a reputation, customers were leaving and the workwomen were tippling from morning till night. the truth was that lantier paid nothing, neither for rent nor board. during the first months he had paid sums on account, then he had contented himself with speaking of a large amount he was going to receive, with which later on he would pay off everything in a lump sum. gervaise no longer dared ask him for a centime. she had the bread, the wine, the meat, all on credit. the bills increased everywhere at the rate of three and four francs a day. she had not paid a sou to the furniture dealer nor to the three comrades, the mason, the carpenter and the painter. all these people commenced to grumble, and she was no longer greeted with the same politeness at the shops. she was as though intoxicated by a mania for getting into debt; she tried to drown her thoughts, ordered the most expensive things, and gave full freedom to her gluttony now that she no longer paid for anything; she remained withal very honest at heart, dreaming of earning from morning to night hundreds of francs, though she did not exactly know how, to enable her to distribute handfuls of five-franc pieces to her tradespeople. in short, she was sinking, and as she sank lower and lower she talked of extending her business. instead she went deeper into debt. clemence left around the middle of the summer because there was no longer enough work for two women and she had not been paid in several weeks. during this impending ruin, coupeau and lantier were, in effect, devouring the shop and growing fat on the ruin of the establishment. at table they would challenge each other to take more helpings and slap their rounded stomachs to make more room for dessert. the great subject of conversation in the neighborhood was as to whether lantier had really gone back to his old footing with gervaise. on this point opinions were divided. according to the lorilleuxs, clump-clump was doing everything she could to hook lantier again, but he would no longer have anything to do with her because she was getting old and faded and he had plenty of younger girls that were prettier. on the other hand, according to the boches, gervaise had gone back to her former mate the very first night, just as soon as poor coupeau had gone to sleep. the picture was not pretty, but there were a lot of worse things in life, so folks ended by accepting the threesome as altogether natural. in fact, they thought them rather nice since there were never any fights and the outward decencies remained. certainly if you stuck your nose into some of the other neighborhood households you could smell far worse things. so what if they slept together like a nice little family. it never kept the neighbors awake. besides, everyone was still very much impressed by lantier's good manners. his charm helped greatly to keep tongues from wagging. indeed, when the fruit dealer insisted to the tripe seller that there had been no intimacies, the latter appeared to feel that this was really too bad, because it made the coupeaus less interesting. gervaise was quite at her ease in this matter, and not much troubled with these thoughts. things reached the point that she was accused of being heartless. the family did not understand why she continued to bear a grudge against the hatter. madame lerat now came over every evening. she considered lantier as utterly irresistible and said that most ladies would be happy to fall into his arms. madame boche declared that her own virtue would not be safe if she were ten years younger. there was a sort of silent conspiracy to push gervaise into the arms of lantier, as if all the women around her felt driven to satisfy their own longings by giving her a lover. gervaise didn't understand this because she no longer found lantier seductive. certainly he had changed for the better. he had gotten a sort of education in the cafes and political meetings but she knew him well. she could pierce to the depths of his soul and she found things there that still gave her the shivers. well, if the others found him so attractive, why didn't they try it themselves. in the end she suggested this one day to virginie who seemed the most eager. then, to excite gervaise, madame lerat and virginie told her of the love of lantier and tall clemence. yes, she had not noticed anything herself; but as soon as she went out on an errand, the hatter would bring the workgirl into his room. now people met them out together; he probably went to see her at her own place. "well," said the laundress, her voice trembling slightly, "what can it matter to me?" she looked straight into virginie's eyes. did this woman still have it in for her? virginie replied with an air of innocence: "it can't matter to you, of course. only, you ought to advise him to break off with that girl, who is sure to cause him some unpleasantness." the worst of it was that lantier, feeling himself supported by public opinion, changed altogether in his behavior towards gervaise. now, whenever he shook hands with her, he held her fingers for a minute between his own. he tried her with his glance, fixing a bold look upon her, in which she clearly read that he wanted her. if he passed behind her, he dug his knees into her skirt, or breathed upon her neck. yet he waited a while before being rough and openly declaring himself. but one evening, finding himself alone with her, he pushed her before him without a word, and viewed her all trembling against the wall at the back of the shop, and tried to kiss her. it so chanced that goujet entered just at that moment. then she struggled and escaped. and all three exchanged a few words, as though nothing had happened. goujet, his face deadly pale, looked on the ground, fancying that he had disturbed them, and that she had merely struggled so as not to be kissed before a third party. the next day gervaise moved restlessly about the shop. she was miserable and unable to iron even a single handkerchief. she only wanted to see goujet and explain to him how lantier happened to have pinned her against the wall. but since etienne had gone to lille, she had hesitated to visit goujet's forge where she felt she would be greeted by his fellow workers with secret laughter. this afternoon, however, she yielded to the impulse. she took an empty basket and went out under the pretext of going for the petticoats of her customer on rue des portes-blanches. then, when she reached rue marcadet, she walked very slowly in front of the bolt factory, hoping for a lucky meeting. goujet must have been hoping to see her, too, for within five minutes he came out as if by chance. "you have been on an errand," he said, smiling. "and now you are on your way home." actually gervaise had her back toward rue des poissonniers. he only said that for something to say. they walked together up toward montmartre, but without her taking his arm. they wanted to get a bit away from the factory so as not to seem to be having a rendezvous in front of it. they turned into a vacant lot between a sawmill and a button factory. it was like a small green meadow. there was even a goat tied to a stake. "it's strange," remarked gervaise. "you'd think you were in the country." they went to sit under a dead tree. gervaise placed the laundry basket by her feet. "yes," gervaise said, "i had an errand to do, and so i came out." she felt deeply ashamed and was afraid to try to explain. yet she realized that they had come here to discuss it. it remained a troublesome burden. then, all in a rush, with tears in her eyes, she told him of the death that morning of madame bijard, her washerwoman. she had suffered horrible agonies. "her husband caused it by kicking her in the stomach," she said in a monotone. "he must have damaged her insides. _mon dieu!_ she was in agony for three days with her stomach all swelled up. plenty of scoundrels have been sent to the galleys for less than that, but the courts won't concern themselves with a wife-beater. especially since the woman said she had hurt herself falling. she wanted to save him from the scaffold, but she screamed all night long before she died." goujet clenched his hands and remained silent. "she weaned her youngest only two weeks ago, little jules," gervaise went on. "that's lucky for the baby, he won't have to suffer. still, there's the child lalie and she has two babies to look after. she isn't eight yet, but she's already sensible. her father will beat her now even more than before." goujet gazed at her silently. then, his lips trembling: "you hurt me yesterday, yes, you hurt me badly." gervaise turned pale and clasped her hands as he continued: "i thought it would happen. you should have told me, you should have trusted me enough to confess what was happening, so as not to leave me thinking that--" goujet could not finish the sentence. gervaise stood up, realizing that he thought she had gone back with lantier as the neighbors asserted. stretching her arms toward him, she cried: "no, no, i swear to you. he was pushing against me, trying to kiss me, but his face never even touched mine. it's true, and that was the first time he tried. oh, i swear on my life, on the life of my children, oh, believe me!" goujet was shaking his head. gervaise said slowly: "monsieur goujet, you know me well. you know that i do not lie. on my word of honor, it never happened, and it never will, do you understand? never! i'd be the lowest of the low if it ever happened, and i wouldn't deserve the friendship of an honest man like you." she seemed so sincere that he took her hand and made her sit down again. he could breathe freely; his heart rejoiced. this was the first time he had ever held her hand like this. he pressed it in his own and they both sat quietly for a time. "i know your mother doesn't like me," gervaise said in a low voice. "don't bother to deny it. we owe you so much money." he squeezed her hand tightly. he didn't want to talk of money. finally he said: "i've been thinking of something for a long time. you are not happy where you are. my mother tells me things are getting worse for you. well, then, we can go away together." she didn't understand at first and stared at him, startled by this sudden declaration of a love that he had never mentioned. finally she asked: "what do you mean?" "we'll get away from here," he said, looking down at the ground. "we'll go live somewhere else, in belgium, if you wish. with both of us working, we would soon be very comfortable." gervaise flushed. she thought she would have felt less shame if he had taken her in his arms and kissed her. goujet was an odd fellow, proposing to elope, just the way it happens in novels. well, she had seen plenty of workingmen making up to married women, but they never took them even as far as saint-denis. "ah, monsieur goujet," she murmured, not knowing what else to say. "don't you see?" he said. "there would only be the two of us. it annoys me having others around." having regained her self-possession, however, she refused his proposal. "it's impossible, monsieur goujet. it would be very wrong. i'm a married woman and i have children. we'd soon regret it. i know you care for me, and i care for you also, too much to let you do anything foolish. it's much better to stay just as we are. we have respect for each other and that's a lot. it's been a comfort to me many times. when people in our situation stay on the straight, it is better in the end." he nodded his head as he listened. he agreed with her and was unable to offer any arguments. suddenly he pulled her into his arms and kissed her, crushing her. then he let her go and said nothing more about their love. she wasn't angry. she felt they had earned that small moment of pleasure. goujet now didn't know what to do with his hands, so he went around picking dandelions and tossing them into her basket. this amused him and gradually soothed him. gervaise was becoming relaxed and cheerful. when they finally left the vacant lot they walked side by side and talked of how much etienne liked being at lille. her basket was full of yellow dandelions. gervaise, at heart, did not feel as courageous when with lantier as she said. she was, indeed, perfectly resolved not to hear his flattery, even with the slightest interest; but she was afraid, if ever he should touch her, of her old cowardice, of that feebleness and gloominess into which she allowed herself to glide, just to please people. lantier, however, did not avow his affection. he several times found himself alone with her and kept quiet. he seemed to think of marrying the tripe-seller, a woman of forty-five and very well preserved. gervaise would talk of the tripe-seller in goujet's presence, so as to set his mind at ease. she would say to virginie and madame lerat, whenever they were singing the hatter's praises, that he could very well do without her admiration, because all the women of the neighborhood were smitten with him. coupeau went braying about everywhere that lantier was a friend and a true one. people might jabber about them; he knew what he knew and did not care a straw for their gossip, for he had respectability on his side. when they all three went out walking on sundays, he made his wife and the hatter walk arm-in-arm before him, just by way of swaggering in the street; and he watched the people, quite prepared to administer a drubbing if anyone had ventured on the least joke. it was true that he regarded lantier as a bit of a high flyer. he accused him of avoiding hard liquor and teased him because he could read and spoke like an educated man. still, he accepted him as a regular comrade. they were ideally suited to each other and friendship between men is more substantial than love for a woman. coupeau and lantier were forever going out junketing together. lantier would now borrow money from gervaise--ten francs, twenty francs at a time, whenever he smelt there was money in the house. then on those days he would keep coupeau away from his work, talk of some distant errand and take him with him. then seated opposite to each other in the corner of some neighboring eating house, they would guzzle fancy dishes which one cannot get at home and wash them down with bottles of expensive wine. the zinc-worker would have preferred to booze in a less pretentious place, but he was impressed by the aristocratic tastes of lantier, who would discover on the bill of fare dishes with the most extraordinary names. it was hard to understand a man so hard to please. maybe it was from being a southerner. lantier didn't like anything too rich and argued about every dish, sending back meat that was too salty or too peppery. he hated drafts. if a door was left open, he complained loudly. at the same time, he was very stingy, only giving the waiter a tip of two sous for a meal of seven or eight francs. he was treated with respect in spite of that. the pair were well known along the exterior boulevards, from batignolles to belleville. they would go to the grand rue des batignolles to eat tripe cooked in the caen style. at the foot of montmartre they obtained the best oysters in the neighborhood at the "town of bar-le-duc." when they ventured to the top of the height as far as the "galette windmill" they had a stewed rabbit. the "lilacs," in the rue des martyrs, had a reputation for their calf's head, whilst the restaurant of the "golden lion" and the "two chestnut trees," in the chaussee clignancourt, served them stewed kidneys which made them lick their lips. usually they went toward belleville where they had tables reserved for them at some places of such excellent repute that you could order anything with your eyes closed. these eating sprees were always surreptitious and the next day they would refer to them indirectly while playing with the potatoes served by gervaise. once lantier brought a woman with him to the "galette windmill" and coupeau left immediately after dessert. one naturally cannot both guzzle and work; so that ever since the hatter was made one of the family, the zinc-worker, who was already pretty lazy, had got to the point of never touching a tool. when tired of doing nothing, he sometimes let himself be prevailed upon to take a job. then his comrade would look him up and chaff him unmercifully when he found him hanging to his knotty cord like a smoked ham, and he would call to him to come down and have a glass of wine. and that settled it. the zinc-worker would send the job to blazes and commence a booze which lasted days and weeks. oh, it was a famous booze--a general review of all the dram shops of the neighborhood, the intoxication of the morning slept off by midday and renewed in the evening; the goes of "vitriol" succeeded one another, becoming lost in the depths of the night, like the venetian lanterns of an illumination, until the last candle disappeared with the last glass! that rogue of a hatter never kept on to the end. he let the other get elevated, then gave him the slip and returned home smiling in his pleasant way. he could drink a great deal without people noticing it. when one got to know him well one could only tell it by his half-closed eyes and his overbold behavior to women. the zinc-worker, on the contrary, became quite disgusting, and could no longer drink without putting himself into a beastly state. thus, towards the beginning of november, coupeau went in for a booze which ended in a most dirty manner, both for himself and the others. the day before he had been offered a job. this time lantier was full of fine sentiments; he lauded work, because work ennobles a man. in the morning he even rose before it was light, for he gravely wished to accompany his friend to the workshop, honoring in him the workman really worthy of the name. but when they arrived before the "little civet," which was just opening, they entered to have a plum in brandy, only one, merely to drink together to the firm observance of a good resolution. on a bench opposite the counter, and with his back against the wall, bibi-the-smoker was sitting smoking with a sulky look on his face. "hallo! here's bibi having a snooze," said coupeau. "are you down in the dumps, old bloke?" "no, no," replied the comrade, stretching his arm. "it's the employers who disgust me. i sent mine to the right about yesterday. they're all toads and scoundrels." bibi-the-smoker accepted a plum. he was, no doubt, waiting there on that bench for someone to stand him a drink. lantier, however, took the part of the employers; they often had some very hard times, as he who had been in business himself well knew. the workers were a bad lot, forever getting drunk! they didn't take their work seriously. sometimes they quit in the middle of a job and only returned when they needed something in their pockets. then lantier would switch his attack to the employers. they were nasty exploiters, regular cannibals. but he could sleep with a clear conscience as he had always acted as a friend to his employees. he didn't want to get rich the way others did. "let's be off, my boy," he said, speaking to coupeau. "we must be going or we shall be late." bibi-the-smoker followed them, swinging his arms. outside the sun was scarcely rising, the pale daylight seemed dirtied by the muddy reflection of the pavement; it had rained the night before and it was very mild. the gas lamps had just been turned out; the rue des poissonniers, in which shreds of night rent by the houses still floated, was gradually filling with the dull tramp of the workmen descending towards paris. coupeau, with his zinc-worker's bag slung over his shoulder, walked along in the imposing manner of a fellow who feels in good form for a change. he turned round and asked: "bibi, do you want a job. the boss told me to bring a pal if i could." "no thanks," answered bibi-the-smoker; "i'm purging myself. you should ask my-boots. he was looking for something yesterday. wait a minute. my-boots is most likely in there." and as they reached the bottom of the street they indeed caught sight of my-boots inside pere colombe's. in spite of the early hour l'assommoir was flaring, the shutters down, the gas lighted. lantier stood at the door, telling coupeau to make haste, because they had only ten minutes left. "what! you're going to work for that rascal bourguignon?" yelled my-boots, when the zinc-worker had spoken to him. "you'll never catch me in his hutch again! no, i'd rather go till next year with my tongue hanging out of my mouth. but, old fellow, you won't stay three days, and it's i who tell you so." "really now, is it such a dirty hole?" asked coupeau anxiously. "oh, it's about the dirtiest. you can't move there. the ape's for ever on your back. and such queer ways too--a missus who always says you're drunk, a shop where you mustn't spit. i sent them to the right about the first night, you know." "good; now i'm warned. i shan't stop there for ever. i'll just go this morning to see what it's like; but if the boss bothers me, i'll catch him up and plant him upon his missus, you know, bang together like two fillets of sole!" then coupeau thanked his friend for the useful information and shook his hand. as he was about to leave, my-boots cursed angrily. was that lousy bourguignon going to stop them from having a drink? weren't they free any more? he could well wait another five minutes. lantier came in to share in the round and they stood together at the counter. my-boots, with his smock black with dirt and his cap flattened on his head had recently been proclaimed king of pigs and drunks after he had eaten a salad of live beetles and chewed a piece of a dead cat. "say there, old borgia," he called to pere colombe, "give us some of your yellow stuff, first class mule's wine." and when pere colombe, pale and quiet in his blue-knitted waistcoat, had filled the four glasses, these gentlemen tossed them off, so as not to let the liquor get flat. "that does some good when it goes down," murmured bibi-the-smoker. the comic my-boots had a story to tell. he was so drunk on the friday that his comrades had stuck his pipe in his mouth with a handful of plaster. anyone else would have died of it; he merely strutted about and puffed out his chest. "do you gentlemen require anything more?" asked pere colombe in his oily voice. "yes, fill us up again," said lantier. "it's my turn." now they were talking of women. bibi-the-smoker had taken his girl to an aunt's at montrouge on the previous sunday. coupeau asked for the news of the "indian mail," a washerwoman of chaillot who was known in the establishment. they were about to drink, when my-boots loudly called to goujet and lorilleux who were passing by. they came just to the door, but would not enter. the blacksmith did not care to take anything. the chainmaker, pale and shivering, held in his pocket the gold chains he was going to deliver; and he coughed and asked them to excuse him, saying that the least drop of brandy would nearly make him split his sides. "there are hypocrites for you!" grunted my-boots. "i bet they have their drinks on the sly." and when he had poked his nose in his glass he attacked pere colombe. "vile druggist, you've changed the bottle! you know it's no good your trying to palm your cheap stuff off on me." the day had advanced; a doubtful sort of light lit up l'assommoir, where the landlord was turning out the gas. coupeau found excuses for his brother-in-law who could not stand drink, which after all was no crime. he even approved goujet's behavior for it was a real blessing never to be thirsty. and as he talked of going off to his work lantier, with his grand air of a gentleman, sharply gave him a lesson. one at least stood one's turn before sneaking off; one should not leave one's friends like a mean blackguard, even when going to do one's duty. "is he going to badger us much longer about his work?" cried my-boots. "so this is your turn, sir?" asked pere colombe of coupeau. the latter paid. but when it came to bibi-the-smoker's turn he whispered to the landlord who refused with a shake of the head. my-boots understood, and again set to abusing the old jew colombe. what! a rascal like him dared to behave in that way to a comrade! everywhere else one could get drink on tick! it was only in such low boozing-dens that one was insulted! the landlord remained calm, leaning his big fists on the edge of the counter. he politely said: "lend the gentleman some money--that will be far simpler." "_mon dieu!_ yes, i'll lend him some," yelled my-boots. "here! bibi, throw this money in his face, the limb of satan!" then, excited and annoyed at seeing coupeau with his bag slung over his shoulder, he continued speaking to the zinc-worker: "you look like a wet-nurse. drop your brat. it'll give you a hump-back." coupeau hesitated an instant; and then, quietly, as though he had only made up his mind after considerable reflection, he laid his bag on the ground saying: "it's too late now. i'll go to bourguignon's after lunch. i'll tell him that the missus was ill. listen, pere colombe, i'll leave my tools under this seat and i'll call for them at twelve o'clock." lantier gave his blessing to this arrangement with an approving nod. labor was necessary, yes, but when you're with good friends, courtesy comes first. now the four had five hours of idleness before them. they were full of noisy merriment. coupeau was especially relieved. they had another round and then went to a small bar that had a billiard table. at first lantier turned up his nose at this establishment because it was rather shabby. so much liquor had been spilled on the billiard table that the balls stuck to it. once the game got started though, lantier recovered his good humor and began to flaunt his extraordinary knack with a cue. when lunch time came coupeau had an idea. he stamped his feet and cried: "we must go and fetch salted-mouth. i know where he's working. we'll take him to mere louis' to have some pettitoes." the idea was greeted with acclamation. yes, salted-mouth, otherwise drink-without-thirst, was no doubt in want of some pettitoes. they started off. coupeau took them to the bolt factory in the rue marcadet. as they arrived a good half hour before the time the workmen came out, the zinc-worker gave a youngster two sous to go in and tell salted-mouth that his wife was ill and wanted him at once. the blacksmith made his appearance, waddling in his walk, looking very calm, and scenting a tuck-out. "ah! you jokers!" said he, as soon as he caught sight of them hiding in a doorway. "i guessed it. well, what are we going to eat?" at mother louis', whilst they sucked the little bones of the pettitoes, they again fell to abusing the employers. salted-mouth, otherwise drink-without-thirst, related that they had a most pressing order to execute at the shop. oh! the ape was pleasant for the time being. one could be late, and he would say nothing; he no doubt considered himself lucky when one turned up at all. at any rate, no boss would dare to throw salted-mouth out the door, because you couldn't find lads of his capacity any more. after the pettitoes they had an omelet. when each of them had emptied his bottle, mere louis brought out some auvergne wine, thick enough to cut with a knife. the party was really warming up. "what do you think is the ape's latest idea?" cried salted-mouth at dessert. "why, he's been and put a bell up in his shed! a bell! that's good for slaves. ah, well! it can ring to-day! they won't catch me again at the anvil! for five days past i've been sticking there; i may give myself a rest now. if he deducts anything, i'll send him to blazes." "i," said coupeau, with an air of importance, "i'm obliged to leave you; i'm off to work. yes, i promised my wife. amuse yourselves; my spirit you know remains with my pals." the others chuffed him. but he seemed so decided that they all accompanied him when he talked of going to fetch his tools from pere colombe's. he took his bag from under the seat and laid it on the ground before him whilst they had a final drink. but at one o'clock the party was still standing drinks. then coupeau, with a bored gesture placed the tools back again under the seat. they were in his way; he could not get near the counter without stumbling against them. it was too absurd; he would go to bourguignon's on the morrow. the other four, who were quarrelling about the question of salaries, were not at all surprised when the zinc-worker, without any explanation, proposed a little stroll on the boulevard, just to stretch their legs. they didn't go very far. they seemed to have nothing to say to each other out in the fresh air. without even consulting each other with so much as a nudge, they slowly and instinctively ascended the rue des poissonniers, where they went to francois's and had a glass of wine out of the bottle. lantier pushed his comrades inside the private room at the back; it was a narrow place with only one table in it, and was separated from the shop by a dull glazed partition. he liked to do his drinking in private rooms because it seemed more respectable. didn't they like it here? it was as comfortable as being at home. you could even take a nap here without being embarrassed. he called for the newspaper, spread it out open before him, and looked through it, frowning the while. coupeau and my-boots had commenced a game of piquet. two bottles of wine and five glasses were scattered about the table. they emptied their glasses. then lantier read out loud: "a frightful crime has just spread consternation throughout the commune of gaillon, department of seine-et-marne. a son has killed his father with blows from a spade in order to rob him of thirty sous." they all uttered a cry of horror. there was a fellow whom they would have taken great pleasure in seeing guillotined! no, the guillotine was not enough; he deserved to be cut into little pieces. the story of an infanticide equally aroused their indignation; but the hatter, highly moral, found excuses for the woman, putting all the wrong on the back of her husband; for after all, if some beast of a man had not put the wretched woman into the way of bleak poverty, she could not have drowned it in a water closet. they were most delighted though by the exploit of a marquis who, coming out of a dance hall at two in the morning, had defended himself against an attack by three blackguards on the boulevard des invalides. without taking off his gloves, he had disposed of the first two villains by ramming his head into their stomachs, and then had marched the third one off to the police. what a man! too bad he was a noble. "listen to this now," continued lantier. "here's some society news: 'a marriage is arranged between the eldest daughter of the countess de bretigny and the young baron de valancay, aide-de-camp to his majesty. the wedding trousseau will contain more than three hundred thousand francs' worth of lace." "what's that to us?" interrupted bibi-the-smoker. "we don't want to know the color of her mantle. the girl can have no end of lace; nevertheless she'll see the folly of loving." as lantier seemed about to continue his reading, salted-mouth, otherwise drink-without-thirst, took the newspaper from him and sat upon it, saying: "ah! no, that's enough! this is all the paper is good for." meanwhile, my-boots, who had been looking at his hand, triumphantly banged his fist down on the table. he scored ninety-three. "i've got the revolution!" he exulted. "you're out of luck, comrade," the others told coupeau. they ordered two fresh bottles. the glasses were filled up again as fast as they were emptied, the booze increased. towards five o'clock it began to get disgusting, so much so that lantier kept very quiet, thinking of how to give the others the slip; brawling and throwing the wine about was no longer his style. just then coupeau stood up to make the drunkard's sign of the cross. touching his head he pronounced montpernasse, then menilmonte as he brought his hand to his right shoulder, bagnolet giving himself a blow in the chest, and wound up by saying stewed rabbit three times as he hit himself in the pit of the stomach. then the hatter took advantage of the clamor which greeted the performance of this feat and quietly made for the door. his comrades did not even notice his departure. he had already had a pretty good dose. but once outside he shook himself and regained his self-possession; and he quietly made for the shop, where he told gervaise that coupeau was with some friends. two days passed by. the zinc-worker had not returned. he was reeling about the neighborhood, but no one knew exactly where. several persons, however, stated that they had seen him at mother baquet's, at the "butterfly," and at the "little old man with a cough." only some said that he was alone, whilst others affirmed that he was in the company of seven or eight drunkards like himself. gervaise shrugged her shoulders in a resigned sort of way. _mon dieu!_ she just had to get used to it. she never ran about after her old man; she even went out of her way if she caught sight of him inside a wineshop, so as to not anger him; and she waited at home till he returned, listening at night-time to hear if he was snoring outside the door. he would sleep on a rubbish heap, or on a seat, or in a piece of waste land, or across a gutter. on the morrow, after having only badly slept off his booze of the day before, he would start off again, knocking at the doors of all the consolation dealers, plunging afresh into a furious wandering, in the midst of nips of spirits, glasses of wine, losing his friends and then finding them again, going regular voyages from which he returned in a state of stupor, seeing the streets dance, the night fall and the day break, without any other thought than to drink and sleep off the effects wherever he happened to be. when in the latter state, the world was ended so far as he was concerned. on the second day, however, gervaise went to pere colombe's l'assommoir to find out something about him; he had been there another five times, they were unable to tell her anything more. all she could do was to take away his tools which he had left under a seat. in the evening lantier, seeing that the laundress seemed very worried, offered to take her to a music-hall, just by way of passing a pleasant hour or two. she refused at first, she was in no mood for laughing. otherwise she would not have said, "no," for the hatter made the proposal in too straightforward a manner for her to feel any mistrust. he seemed to feel for her in quite a paternal way. never before had coupeau slept out two nights running. so that in spite of herself, she would go every ten minutes to the door, with her iron in her hand, and look up and down the street to see if her old man was coming. it might be that coupeau had broken a leg, or fallen under a wagon and been crushed and that might be good riddance to bad rubbish. she saw no reason for cherishing in her heart any affection for a filthy character like him, but it was irritating, all the same, to have to wonder every night whether he would come in or not. when it got dark, lantier again suggested the music-hall, and this time she accepted. she decided it would be silly to deny herself a little pleasure when her husband had been out on the town for three days. if he wasn't coming in, then she might as well go out herself. let the entire dump burn up if it felt like it. she might even put a torch to it herself. she was getting tired of the boring monotony of her present life. they ate their dinner quickly. then, when she went off at eight o'clock, arm-in-arm with the hatter, gervaise told mother coupeau and nana to go to bed at once. the shop was shut and the shutters up. she left by the door opening into the courtyard and gave madame boche the key, asking her, if her pig of a husband came home, to have the kindness to put him to bed. the hatter was waiting for her under the big doorway, arrayed in his best and whistling a tune. she had on her silk dress. they walked slowly along the pavement, keeping close to each other, lighted up by the glare from the shop windows which showed them smiling and talking together in low voices. the music-hall was in the boulevard de rochechouart. it had originally been a little cafe and had been enlarged by means of a kind of wooden shed erected in the courtyard. at the door a string of glass globes formed a luminous porch. tall posters pasted on boards stood upon the ground, close to the gutter. "here we are," said lantier. "to-night, first appearance of mademoiselle amanda, serio-comic." then he caught sight of bibi-the-smoker, who was also reading the poster. bibi had a black eye; some punch he had run up against the day before. "well! where's coupeau?" inquired the hatter, looking about. "have you, then, lost coupeau?" "oh! long ago, since yesterday," replied the other. "there was a bit of a free-for-all on leaving mother baquet's. i don't care for fisticuffs. we had a row, you know, with mother baquet's pot-boy, because he wanted to make us pay for a quart twice over. then i left. i went and had a bit of a snooze." he was still yawning; he had slept eighteen hours at a stretch. he was, moreover, quite sobered, with a stupid look on his face, and his jacket smothered with fluff; for he had no doubt tumbled into bed with his clothes on. "and you don't know where my husband is, sir?" asked the laundress. "well, no, not a bit. it was five o'clock when we left mother baquet's. that's all i know about it. perhaps he went down the street. yes, i fancy now that i saw him go to the 'butterfly' with a coachman. oh! how stupid it is! really, we deserve to be shot." lantier and gervaise spent a very pleasant evening at the music-hall. at eleven o'clock when the place closed, they strolled home without hurrying themselves. the cold was quite sharp. people seemed to be in groups. some of the girls were giggling in the darkness as their men pressed close to them. lantier was humming one of mademoiselle amanda's songs. gervaise, with her head spinning from too much drink, hummed the refrain with him. it had been very warm at the music-hall and the two drinks she had had, along with all the smoke, had upset her stomach a bit. she had been quite impressed with mademoiselle amanda. she wouldn't dare to appear in public wearing so little, but she had to admit that the lady had lovely skin. "everyone's asleep," said gervaise, after ringing three times without the boches opening the door. at length the door opened, but inside the porch it was very dark, and when she knocked at the window of the concierge's room to ask for her key, the concierge, who was half asleep, pulled out some rigmarole which she could make nothing of at first. she eventually understood that poisson, the policeman, had brought coupeau home in a frightful state, and that the key was no doubt in the lock. "the deuce!" murmured lantier, when they had entered, "whatever has he been up to here? the stench is abominable." there was indeed a most powerful stench. as gervaise went to look for matches, she stepped into something messy. after she succeeded in lighting a candle, a pretty sight met their eyes. coupeau appeared to have disgorged his very insides. the bed was splattered all over, so was the carpet, and even the bureau had splashes on its sides. besides that, he had fallen from the bed where poisson had probably thrown him, and was snoring on the floor in the midst of the filth like a pig wallowing in the mire, exhaling his foul breath through his open mouth. his grey hair was straggling into the puddle around his head. "oh! the pig! the pig!" repeated gervaise, indignant and exasperated. "he's dirtied everything. no, a dog wouldn't have done that, even a dead dog is cleaner." they both hesitated to move, not knowing where to place their feet. coupeau had never before come home and put the bedroom into such a shocking state. this sight was a blow to whatever affection his wife still had for him. previously she had been forgiving and not seriously offended, even when he had been blind drunk. but this made her sick; it was too much. she wouldn't have touched coupeau for the world, and just the thought of this filthy bum touching her caused a repugnance such as she might have felt had she been required to sleep beside the corpse of someone who had died from a terrible disease. "oh, i must get into that bed," murmured she. "i can't go and sleep in the street. oh! i'll crawl into it foot first." she tried to step over the drunkard, but had to catch hold of a corner of the chest of drawers to save herself from slipping in the mess. coupeau completely blocked the way to the bed. then, lantier, who laughed to himself on seeing that she certainly could not sleep on her own pillow that night, took hold of her hand, saying, in a low and angry voice: "gervaise, he is a pig." she understood what he meant and pulled her hand free. she sighed to herself, and, in her bewilderment, addressed him familiarly, as in the old days. "no, leave me alone, auguste. go to your own bed. i'll manage somehow to lie at the foot of the bed." "come, gervaise, don't be foolish," resumed he. "it's too abominable; you can't remain here. come with me. he won't hear us. what are you afraid of?" "no," she replied firmly, shaking her head vigorously. then, to show that she would remain where she was, she began to take off her clothes, throwing her silk dress over a chair. she was quickly in only her chemise and petticoat. well, it was her own bed. she wanted to sleep in her own bed and made two more attempts to reach a clean corner of the bed. lantier, having no intention of giving up, whispered things to her. what a predicament she was in, with a louse of a husband that prevented her from crawling under her own blankets and a low skunk behind her just waiting to take advantage of the situation to possess her again. she begged lantier to be quiet. turning toward the small room where nana and mother coupeau slept, she listened anxiously. she could hear only steady breathing. "leave me alone, auguste," she repeated. "you'll wake them. be sensible." lantier didn't answer, but just smiled at her. then he began to kiss her on the ear just as in the old days. gervaise felt like sobbing. her strength deserted her; she felt a great buzzing in her ears, a violent tremor passed through her. she advanced another step forward. and she was again obliged to draw back. it was not possible, the disgust was too great. she felt on the verge of vomiting herself. coupeau, overpowered by intoxication, lying as comfortably as though on a bed of down, was sleeping off his booze, without life in his limbs, and with his mouth all on one side. the whole street might have entered and laughed at him, without a hair of his body moving. "well, i can't help it," she faltered. "it's his own fault. _mon dieu!_ he's forcing me out of my own bed. i've no bed any longer. no, i can't help it. it's his own fault." she was trembling so she scarcely knew what she was doing. while lantier was urging her into his room, nana's face appeared at one of the glass panes in the door of the little room. the young girl, pale from sleep, had awakened and gotten out of bed quietly. she stared at her father lying in his vomit. then, she stood watching until her mother disappeared into lantier's room. she watched with the intensity and the wide-open eyes of a vicious child aflame with curiosity. chapter ix that winter mother coupeau nearly went off in one of her coughing fits. each december she could count on her asthma keeping her on her back for two and three weeks at a time. she was no longer fifteen, she would be seventy-three on saint-anthony's day. with that she was very rickety, getting a rattling in her throat for nothing at all, though she was plump and stout. the doctor said she would go off coughing, just time enough to say: "good-night, the candle's out!" when she was in her bed mother coupeau became positively unbearable. it is true though that the little room in which she slept with nana was not at all gay. there was barely room for two chairs between the beds. the wallpaper, a faded gray, hung loose in long strips. the small window near the ceiling let in only a dim light. it was like a cavern. at night, as she lay awake, she could listen to the breathing of the sleeping nana as a sort of distraction; but in the day-time, as there was no one to keep her company from morning to night, she grumbled and cried and repeated to herself for hours together, as she rolled her head on the pillow: "good heavens! what a miserable creature i am! good heavens! what a miserable creature i am! they'll leave me to die in prison, yes, in prison!" as soon as anyone called, virginie or madame boche, to ask after her health, she would not reply directly, but immediately started on her list of complaints: "oh, i pay dearly for the food i eat here. i'd be much better off with strangers. i asked for a cup of tisane and they brought me an entire pot of hot water. it was a way of saying that i drank too much. i brought nana up myself and she scurries away in her bare feet every morning and i never see her again all day. then at night she sleeps so soundly that she never wakes up to ask me if i'm in pain. i'm just a nuisance to them. they're waiting for me to die. that will happen soon enough. i don't even have a son any more; that laundress has taken him from me. she'd beat me to death if she wasn't afraid of the law." gervaise was indeed rather hasty at times. the place was going to the dogs, everyone's temper was getting spoilt and they sent each other to the right about for the least word. coupeau, one morning that he had a hangover, exclaimed: "the old thing's always saying she's going to die, and yet she never does!" the words struck mother coupeau to the heart. they frequently complained of how much she cost them, observing that they would save a lot of money when she was gone. when at her worst that winter, one afternoon, when madame lorilleux and madame lerat had met at her bedside, mother coupeau winked her eye as a signal to them to lean over her. she could scarcely speak. she rather hissed than said in a low voice: "it's becoming indecent. i heard them last night. yes, clump-clump and the hatter. and they were kicking up such a row together! coupeau's too decent for her." and she related in short sentences, coughing and choking between each, that her son had come home dead drunk the night before. then, as she was not asleep, she was easily able to account for all the noises, of clump-clump's bare feet tripping over the tiled floor, the hissing voice of the hatter calling her, the door between the two rooms gently closed, and the rest. it must have lasted till daylight. she could not tell the exact time, because, in spite of her efforts, she had ended by falling into a dose. "what's most disgusting is that nana might have heard everything," continued she. "she was indeed restless all the night, she who usually sleeps so sound. she tossed about and kept turning over as though there had been some lighted charcoal in her bed." the other two women did not seem at all surprised. "of course!" murmured madame lorilleux, "it probably began the very first night. but as it pleases coupeau, we've no business to interfere. all the same, it's not very respectable." "as for me," declared madame lerat through clenched teeth, "if i'd been there, i'd have thrown a fright into them. i'd have shouted something, anything. a doctor's maid told me once that the doctor had told her that a surprise like that, at a certain moment, could strike a woman dead. if she had died right there, that would have been well, wouldn't it? she would have been punished right where she had sinned." it wasn't long until the entire neighborhood knew that gervaise visited lantier's room every night. madame lorilleux was loudly indignant, calling her brother a poor fool whose wife had shamed him. and her poor mother, forced to live in the midst of such horrors. as a result, the neighbors blamed gervaise. yes, she must have led lantier astray; you could see it in her eyes. in spite of the nasty gossip, lantier was still liked because he was always so polite. he always had candy or flowers to give the ladies. _mon dieu!_ men shouldn't be expected to push away women who threw themselves at them. there was no excuse for gervaise. she was a disgrace. the lorilleuxs used to bring nana up to their apartment in order to find out more details from her, their godchild. but nana would put on her expression of innocent stupidity and lower her long silky eyelashes to hide the fire in her eyes as she replied. in the midst of this general indignation, gervaise lived quietly on, feeling tired out and half asleep. at first she considered herself very sinful and felt a disgust for herself. when she left lantier's room she would wash her hands and scrub herself as if trying to get rid of an evil stain. if coupeau then tried to joke with her, she would fly into a passion, and run and shiveringly dress herself in the farthest corner of the shop; neither would she allow lantier near her soon after her husband had kissed her. she would have liked to have changed her skin as she changed men. but she gradually became accustomed to it. soon it was too much trouble to scrub herself each time. her thirst for happiness led her to enjoy as much as she could the difficult situation. she had always been disposed to make allowances for herself, so why not for others? she only wanted to avoid causing trouble. as long as the household went along as usual, there was nothing to complain about. then, after all, she could not be doing anything to make coupeau stop drinking; matters were arranged so easily to the general satisfaction. one is generally punished if one does what is not right. his dissoluteness had gradually become a habit. now it was as regular an affair as eating and drinking. each time coupeau came home drunk, she would go to lantier's room. this was usually on mondays, tuesdays and wednesdays. sometimes on other nights, if coupeau was snoring too loudly, she would leave in the middle of the night. it was not that she cared more for lantier, but just that she slept better in his room. mother coupeau never dared speak openly of it. but after a quarrel, when the laundress had bullied her, the old woman was not sparing in her allusions. she would say that she knew men who were precious fools and women who were precious hussies, and she would mutter words far more biting, with the sharpness of language pertaining to an old waistcoat-maker. the first time this had occurred gervaise looked at her straight in the face without answering. then, also avoiding going into details, she began to defend herself with reasons given in a general sort of way. when a woman had a drunkard for a husband, a pig who lived in filth, that woman was to be excused if she sought for cleanliness elsewhere. once she pointed out that lantier was just as much her husband as coupeau was. hadn't she known him since she was fourteen and didn't she have children by him? anyway, she'd like to see anyone make trouble for her. she wasn't the only one around the rue de la goutte-d'or. madame vigouroux, the coal-dealer had a merry dance from morning to night. then there was the grocer's wife, madame lehongre with her brother-in-law. _mon dieu!_ what a slob of a fellow. he wasn't worth touching with a shovel. even the neat little clockmaker was said to have carried on with his own daughter, a streetwalker. ah, the entire neighborhood. oh, she knew plenty of dirt. one day when mother coupeau was more pointed than usual in her observations, gervaise had replied to her, clinching her teeth: "you're confined to your bed and you take advantage of it. listen! you're wrong. you see that i behave nicely to you, for i've never thrown your past life into your teeth. oh! i know all about it. no, don't cough. i've finished what i had to say. it's only to request you to mind your own business, that's all!" the old woman almost choked. on the morrow, goujet having called about his mother's washing when gervaise happened to be out, mother coupeau called him to her and kept him some time seated beside her bed. she knew all about the blacksmith's friendship, and had noticed that for some time past he had looked dismal and wretched, from a suspicion of the melancholy things that were taking place. so, for the sake of gossiping, and out of revenge for the quarrel of the day before, she bluntly told him the truth, weeping and complaining as though gervaise's wicked behavior did her some special injury. when goujet quitted the little room, he leant against the wall, almost stifling with grief. then, when the laundress returned home, mother coupeau called to her that madame goujet required her to go round with her clothes, ironed or not; and she was so animated that gervaise, seeing something was wrong, guessed what had taken place and had a presentiment of the unpleasantness which awaited her. very pale, her limbs already trembling, she placed the things in a basket and started off. for years past she had not returned the goujets a sou of their money. the debt still amounted to four hundred and twenty-five francs. she always spoke of her embarrassments and received the money for the washing. it filled her with shame, because she seemed to be taking advantage of the blacksmith's friendship to make a fool of him. coupeau, who had now become less scrupulous, would chuckle and say that goujet no doubt had fooled around with her a bit, and had so paid himself. but she, in spite of the relations she had fallen into with coupeau, would indignantly ask her husband if he already wished to eat of that sort of bread. she would not allow anyone to say a word against goujet in her presence; her affection for the blacksmith remained like a last shred of her honor. thus, every time she took the washing home to those worthy people, she felt a spasm of her heart the moment she put a foot on their stairs. "ah! it's you, at last!" said madame goujet sharply, on opening the door to her. "when i'm in want of death, i'll send you to fetch him." gervaise entered, greatly embarrassed, not even daring to mutter an excuse. she was no longer punctual, never came at the time arranged, and would keep her customers waiting for days on end. little by little she was giving way to a system of thorough disorder. "for a week past i've been expecting you," continued the lace-mender. "and you tell falsehoods too; you send your apprentice to me with all sorts of stories; you are then busy with my things, you will deliver them the same evening, or else you've had an accident, the bundle's fallen into a pail of water. whilst all this is going on, i waste my time, nothing turns up, and it worries me exceedingly. no, you're most unreasonable. come, what have you in your basket? is everything there now? have you brought me the pair of sheets you've been keeping back for a month past, and the chemise which was missing the last time you brought home the washing?" "yes, yes," murmured gervaise, "i have the chemise. here it is." but madame goujet cried out. that chemise was not hers, she would have nothing to do with it. her things were changed now; it was too bad! only the week before, there were two handkerchiefs which hadn't her mark on them. it was not to her taste to have clothes coming from no one knew where. besides that, she liked to have her own things. "and the sheets?" she resumed. "they're lost, aren't they? well! woman, you must see about them, for i insist upon having them to-morrow morning, do you hear?" there was a silence which particularly bothered gervaise when she noticed that the door to goujet's room was open. if he was in there, it was most annoying that he should hear these just criticisms. she made no reply, meekly bowing her head, and placing the laundry on the bed as quickly as possible. matters became worse when madame goujet began to look over the things, one by one. she took hold of them and threw them down again saying: "ah! you don't get them up nearly so well as you used to do. one can't compliment you every day now. yes, you've taken to mucking your work--doing it in a most slovenly way. just look at this shirt-front, it's scorched, there's the mark of the iron on the plaits; and the buttons have all been torn off. i don't know how you manage it, but there's never a button left on anything. oh! now, here's a petticoat body which i shall certainly not pay you for. look there! the dirt's still on it, you've simply smoothed it over. so now the things are not even clean!" she stopped whilst she counted the different articles. then she exclaimed: "what! this is all you've brought? there are two pairs of stockings, six towels, a table-cloth, and several dish-cloths short. you're regularly trifling with me, it seems! i sent word that you were to bring me everything, ironed or not. if your apprentice isn't here on the hour with the rest of the things, we shall fall out, madame coupeau, i warn you." at this moment goujet coughed in his room. gervaise slightly started. _mon dieu!_ how she was treated before him. and she remained standing in the middle of the rooms, embarrassed and confused and waiting for the dirty clothes; but after making up the account madame goujet had quietly returned to her seat near the window, and resumed the mending of a lace shawl. "and the dirty things?" timidly inquired the laundress. "no, thank you," replied the old woman, "there will be no laundry this week." gervaise turned pale. she was no longer to have the washing. then she quite lost her head; she was obliged to sit down on a chair, for her legs were giving way under her. she did not attempt to vindicate herself. all that she would find to say was: "is monsieur goujet ill?" yes, he was not well. he had been obliged to come home instead of returning to the forge, and he had gone to lie down on his bed to get a rest. madame goujet talked gravely, wearing her black dress as usual and her white face framed in her nun-like coif. the pay at the forge had been cut again. it was now only seven francs a day because the machines did so much of the work. this forced her to save money every way she could. she would do her own washing from now on. it would naturally have been very helpful if the coupeaus had been able to return her the money lent them by her son; but she was not going to set the lawyers on them, as they were unable to pay. as she was talking about the debt, gervaise lowered her eyes in embarrassment. "all the same," continued the lace-maker, "by pinching yourselves a little you could manage to pay it off. for really now, you live very well; and spend a great deal, i'm sure. if you were only to pay off ten francs a month--" she was interrupted by the sound of goujet's voice as he called: "mamma! mamma!" and when she returned to her seat, which was almost immediately, she changed the conversation. the blacksmith had doubtless begged her not to ask gervaise for money; but in spite of herself she again spoke of the debt at the expiration of five minutes. oh! she had foreseen long ago what was now happening. coupeau was drinking all that the laundry business brought in and dragging his wife down with him. her son would never have loaned the money if he had only listened to her. by now he would have been married, instead of miserably sad with only unhappiness to look forward to for the rest of his life. she grew quite stern and angry, even accusing gervaise of having schemed with coupeau to take advantage of her foolish son. yes, some women were able to play the hypocrite for years, but eventually the truth came out. "mamma! mamma!" again called goujet, but louder this time. she rose from her seat and when she returned she said, as she resumed her lace mending: "go in, he wishes to see you." gervaise, all in a tremble left the door open. this scene filled her with emotion because it was like an avowal of their affection before madame goujet. she again beheld the quiet little chamber, with its narrow iron bedstead, and papered all over with pictures, the whole looking like the room of some girl of fifteen. goujet's big body was stretched on the bed. mother coupeau's disclosures and the things his mother had been saying seemed to have knocked all the life out of his limbs. his eyes were red and swollen, his beautiful yellow beard was still wet. in the first moment of rage he must have punched away at his pillow with his terrible fists, for the ticking was split and the feathers were coming out. "listen, mamma's wrong," said he to the laundress in a voice that was scarcely audible. "you owe me nothing. i won't have it mentioned again." he had raised himself up and was looking at her. big tears at once filled his eyes. "do you suffer, monsieur goujet?" murmured she. "what is the matter with you? tell me!" "nothing, thanks. i tired myself with too much work yesterday. i will rest a bit." then, his heart breaking, he could not restrain himself and burst out: "_mon dieu!_ ah! _mon dieu!_ it was never to be--never. you swore it. and now it is--it is! ah, it pains me too much, leave me!" and with his hand he gently and imploringly motioned to her to go. she did not draw nearer to the bed. she went off as he requested her to, feeling stupid, unable to say anything to soothe him. when in the other room she took up her basket; but she did not go home. she stood there trying to find something to say. madame goujet continued her mending without raising her head. it was she who at length said: "well! good-night; send me back my things and we will settle up afterwards." "yes, it will be best so--good-night," stammered gervaise. she took a last look around the neatly arranged room and thought as she shut the door that she seemed to be leaving some part of her better self behind. she plodded blindly back to the laundry, scarcely knowing where she was going. when gervaise arrived, she found mother coupeau out of her bed, sitting on a chair by the stove. gervaise was too tired to scold her. her bones ached as though she had been beaten and she was thinking that her life was becoming too hard to bear. surely a quick death was the only escape from the pain in her heart. after this, gervaise became indifferent to everything. with a vague gesture of her hand she would send everybody about their business. at each fresh worry she buried herself deeper in her only pleasure, which was to have her three meals a day. the shop might have collapsed. so long as she was not beneath it, she would have gone off willingly without a chemise to her back. and the little shop was collapsing, not suddenly, but little by little, morning and evening. one by one the customers got angry, and sent their washing elsewhere. monsieur madinier, mademoiselle remanjou, the boches themselves had returned to madame fauconnier, where they could count on great punctuality. one ends by getting tired of asking for a pair of stockings for three weeks straight, and of putting on shirts with grease stains dating from the previous sunday. gervaise, without losing a bite, wished them a pleasant journey, and spoke her mind about them, saying that she was precious glad she would no longer have to poke her nose into their filth. the entire neighborhood could quit her; that would relieve her of the piles of stinking junk and give her less work to do. now her only customers were those who didn't pay regularly, the street-walkers, and women like madame gaudron, whose laundry smelled so bad that not one of the laundresses on the rue neuve would take it. she had to let madame putois go, leaving only her apprentice, squint-eyed augustine, who seemed to grow more stupid as time passed. frequently there was not even enough work for the two of them and they sat on stools all afternoon doing nothing. whilst idleness and poverty entered, dirtiness naturally entered also. one would never have recognised that beautiful blue shop, the color of heaven, which had once been gervaise's pride. its window-frames and panes, which were never washed, were covered from top to bottom with the splashes of the passing vehicles. on the brass rods in the windows were displayed three grey rags left by customers who had died in the hospital. and inside it was more pitiable still; the dampness of the clothes hung up at the ceiling to dry had loosed all the wallpaper; the pompadour chintz hung in strips like cobwebs covered with dust; the big stove, broken and in holes from the rough use of the poker, looked in its corner like the stock in trade of a dealer in old iron; the work-table appeared as though it had been used by a regiment, covered as it was with wine and coffee stains, sticky with jam, greasy from spilled gravy. gervaise was so at ease among it all that she never even noticed the shop was getting filthy. she became used to it all, just as she got used to wearing torn skirts and no longer washing herself carefully. the disorder was like a warm nest. her own ease was her sole consideration; she did not care a pin for anything else. the debts, though still increasing, no longer troubled her. her honesty gradually deserted her; whether she would be able to pay or not was altogether uncertain, and she preferred not to think about it. when her credit was stopped at one shop, she would open an account at some other shop close by. she was in debt all over the neighborhood, she owed money every few yards. to take merely the rue de la goutte-d'or, she no longer dared pass in front of the grocer's, nor the charcoal-dealer's, nor the greengrocer's; and this obliged her, whenever she required to be at the wash-house, to go round by the rue des poissonniers, which was quite ten minutes out of her way. the tradespeople came and treated her as a swindler. one evening the dealer from whom she had purchased lantier's furniture made a scene in the street. scenes like this upset her at the time, but were soon forgotten and never spoiled her appetite. what a nerve to bother her like that when she had no money to pay. they were all robbers anyway and it served them right to have to wait. well, she'd have to go bankrupt, but she didn't intend to fret about it now. meanwhile mother coupeau had recovered. for another year the household jogged along. during the summer months there was naturally a little more work--the white petticoats and the cambric dresses of the street-walkers of the exterior boulevard. the catastrophe was slowly approaching; the home sank deeper into the mire every week; there were ups and downs, however--days when one had to rub one's stomach before the empty cupboard, and others when one ate veal enough to make one burst. mother coupeau was for ever being seen in the street, hiding bundles under her apron, and strolling in the direction of the pawn-place in the rue polonceau. she strutted along with the air of a devotee going to mass; for she did not dislike these errands; haggling about money amused her; this crying up of her wares like a second-hand dealer tickled the old woman's fancy for driving hard bargains. the clerks knew her well and called her "mamma four francs," because she always demanded four francs when they offered three, on bundles no bigger than two sous' worth of butter. at the start, gervaise took advantage of good weeks to get things back from the pawn-shops, only to put them back again the next week. later she let things go altogether, selling her pawn tickets for cash. one thing alone gave gervaise a pang--it was having to pawn her clock to pay an acceptance for twenty francs to a bailiff who came to seize her goods. until then, she had sworn rather to die of hunger than to part with her clock. when mother coupeau carried it away in a little bonnet-box, she sunk on to a chair, without a particle of strength left in her arms, her eyes full of tears, as though a fortune was being torn from her. but when mother coupeau reappeared with twenty-five francs, the unexpected loan, the five francs profit consoled her; she at once sent the old woman out again for four sous' worth of brandy in a glass, just to toast the five-franc piece. the two of them would often have a drop together, when they were on good terms with each other. mother coupeau was very successful at bringing back a full glass hidden in her apron pocket without spilling a drop. well, the neighbors didn't need to know, did they. but the neighbors knew perfectly well. this turned the neighborhood even more against gervaise. she was devouring everything; a few more mouthfuls and the place would be swept clean. in the midst of this general demolishment, coupeau continued to prosper. the confounded tippler was as well as well could be. the sour wine and the "vitriol" positively fattened him. he ate a great deal, and laughed at that stick lorilleux, who accused drink of killing people, and answered him by slapping himself on the stomach, the skin of which was so stretched by the fat that it resembled the skin of a drum. he would play him a tune on it, the glutton's vespers, with rolls and beats loud enough to have made a quack's fortune. lorilleux, annoyed at not having any fat himself, said that it was soft and unhealthy. coupeau ignored him and went on drinking more and more, saying it was for his health's sake. his hair was beginning to turn grey and his face to take on the drunkard's hue of purplish wine. he continued to act like a mischievous child. well, it wasn't his concern if there was nothing about the place to eat. when he went for weeks without work he became even more difficult. still, he was always giving lantier friendly slaps on the back. people swore he had no suspicion at all. surely something terrible would happen if he ever found out. madame lerat shook her head at this. his sister said she had known of husbands who didn't mind at all. lantier wasn't wasting away either. he took great care of himself, measuring his stomach by the waist-band of his trousers, with the constant dread of having to loosen the buckle or draw it tighter; for he considered himself just right, and out of coquetry neither desired to grow fatter nor thinner. that made him hard to please in the matter of food, for he regarded every dish from the point of view of keeping his waist as it was. even when there was not a sou in the house, he required eggs, cutlets, light and nourishing things. since he was sharing the lady of the house, he considered himself to have a half interest in everything and would pocket any franc pieces he saw lying about. he kept gervaise running here and there and seemed more at home than coupeau. nana was his favorite because he adored pretty little girls, but he paid less and less attention to etienne, since boys, according to him, ought to know how to take care of themselves. if anyone came to see coupeau while he was out, lantier, in shirt sleeves and slippers, would come out of the back room with the bored expression of a husband who has been disturbed, saying he would answer for coupeau as it was all the same. between these two gentlemen, gervaise had nothing to laugh about. she had nothing to complain of as regards her health, thank goodness! she was growing too fat. but two men to coddle was often more than she could manage. ah! _mon dieu!_ one husband is already too much for a woman! the worst was that they got on very well together, the rogues. they never quarreled; they would chuckle in each other's faces, as they sat of an evening after dinner, their elbows on the table; they would rub up against one another all the live-long day, like cats which seek and cultivate their pleasure. the days when they came home in a rage, it was on her that they vented it. go it! hammer away at the animal! she had a good back; it made them all the better friends when they yelled together. and it never did for her to give them tit-for-tat. in the beginning, whenever one of them yelled at her, she would appeal to the other, but this seldom worked. coupeau had a foul mouth and called her horrible things. lantier chose his insults carefully, but they often hurt her even more. but one can get used to anything. soon their nasty remarks and all the wrongs done her by these two men slid off her smooth skin like water off a duck's back. it was even easier to have them angry, because when they were in good moods they bothered her too much, never giving her time to get a bonnet ironed. yes, coupeau and lantier were wearing her out. the zinc-worker, sure enough, lacked education; but the hatter had too much, or at least he had education in the same way that dirty people have a white shirt, with uncleanliness underneath it. one night, she dreamt that she was on the edge of a wall; coupeau was knocking her into it with a blow of his fist, whilst lantier was tickling her in the ribs to make her fall quicker. well! that resembled her life. it was no surprise if she was becoming slipshod. the neighbors weren't fair in blaming her for the frightful habits she had fallen into. sometimes a cold shiver ran through her, but things could have been worse, so she tried to make the best of it. once she had seen a play in which the wife detested her husband and poisoned him for the sake of her lover. wasn't it more sensible for the three of them to live together in peace? in spite of her debts and poverty she thought she was quite happy and could live in peace if only coupeau and lantier would stop yelling at her so much. towards the autumn, unfortunately, things became worse. lantier pretended he was getting thinner, and pulled a longer face over the matter every day. he grumbled at everything, sniffed at the dishes of potatoes--a mess he could not eat, he would say, without having the colic. the least jangling now turned to quarrels, in which they accused one another of being the cause of all their troubles, and it was a devil of a job to restore harmony before they all retired for the night. lantier sensed a crisis coming and it exasperated him to realise that this place was already so thoroughly cleaned out that he could see the day coming when he'd have to take his hat and seek elsewhere for his bed and board. he had become accustomed to this little paradise where he was nicely treated by everybody. he should have blamed himself for eating himself out of house and home, but instead he blamed the coupeaus for letting themselves be ruined in less than two years. he thought gervaise was too extravagant. what was going to happen to them now? one evening in december they had no dinner at all. there was not a radish left. lantier, who was very glum, went out early, wandering about in search of some other den where the smell of the kitchen would bring a smile to one's face. he would now remain for hours beside the stove wrapt in thought. then, suddenly, he began to evince a great friendship for the poissons. he no longer teased the policeman and even went so far as to concede that the emperor might not be such a bad fellow after all. he seemed to especially admire virginie. no doubt he was hoping to board with them. virginie having acquainted him with her desire to set up in some sort of business, he agreed with everything she said, and declared that her idea was a most brilliant one. she was just the person for trade--tall, engaging and active. oh! she would make as much as she liked. the capital had been available for some time, thanks to an inheritance from an aunt. lantier told her of all the shopkeepers who were making fortunes. the time was right for it; you could sell anything these days. virginie, however, hesitated; she was looking for a shop that was to be let, she did not wish to leave the neighborhood. then lantier would take her into corners and converse with her in an undertone for ten minutes at a time. he seemed to be urging her to do something in spite of herself; and she no longer said "no," but appeared to authorize him to act. it was as a secret between them, with winks and words rapidly exchanged, some mysterious understanding which betrayed itself even in their handshakings. from this moment the hatter would covertly watch the coupeaus whilst eating their dry bread, and becoming very talkative again, would deafen them with his continual jeremiads. all day long gervaise moved in the midst of that poverty which he so obligingly spread out. _mon dieu!_ he wasn't thinking of himself; he would go on starving with his friends as long as they liked. but look at it with common sense. they owed at least five hundred francs in the neighborhood. besides which, they were two quarters' rent behind with the rent, which meant another two hundred and fifty francs; the landlord, monsieur marescot, even spoke of having them evicted if they did not pay him by the first of january. finally the pawn-place had absorbed everything, one could not have got together three francs' worth of odds and ends, the clearance had been so complete; the nails remained in the walls and that was all and perhaps there were two pounds of them at three sous the pound. gervaise, thoroughly entangled in it all, her nerves quite upset by this calculation, would fly into a passion and bang her fists down upon the table or else she would end by bursting into tears like a fool. one night she exclaimed: "i'll be off to-morrow! i prefer to put the key under the door and to sleep on the pavement rather than continue to live in such frights." "it would be wiser," said lantier slyly, "to get rid of the lease if you could find someone to take it. when you are both decided to give up the shop--" she interrupted him more violently: "at once, at once! ah! it'll be a good riddance!" then the hatter became very practical. on giving up the lease one would no doubt get the new tenant to be responsible for the two overdue quarters. and he ventured to mention the poissons, he reminded them that virginie was looking for a shop; theirs would perhaps suit her. he remembered that he had heard her say she longed for one just like it. but when virginie's name was mentioned the laundress suddenly regained her composure. we'll see how things go along. when you're angry you always talk of quitting, but it isn't so easy when you just stop to think about it. during the following days it was in vain that lantier harped upon the subject. gervaise replied that she had seen herself worse off and had pulled through. how would she be better off when she no longer had her shop? that would not put bread into their mouths. she would, on the contrary, engage some fresh workwomen and work up a fresh connection. lantier made the mistake of mentioning virginie again. this stirred gervaise into furious obstinacy. no! never! she had always had her suspicions of what was in virginie's heart. virginie only wanted to humiliate her. she would rather turn it over to the first woman to come in from the street than to that hypocrite who had been waiting for years to see her fail. yes, virginie still had in mind that fight in the wash-house. well, she'd be wiser to forget about it, unless she wanted another one now. in the face of this flow of angry retorts, lantier began by attacking gervaise. he called her stupid and stuck-up. he even went so far as to abuse coupeau, accusing him of not knowing how to make his wife respect his friend. then, realising that passion would compromise everything, he swore that he would never again interest himself in the affairs of other people, for one always got more kicks than thanks; and indeed he appeared to have given up all idea of talking them into parting with the lease, but he was really watching for a favorable opportunity of broaching the subject again and of bringing the laundress round to his views. january had now arrived; the weather was wretched, both damp and cold. mother coupeau, who had coughed and choked all through december, was obliged to take to her bed after twelfth-night. it was her annuity, which she expected every winter. this winter though, those around her said she'd never come out of her bedroom except feet first. indeed, her gaspings sounded like a death rattle. she was still fat, but one eye was blind and one side of her face was twisted. the doctor made one call and didn't return again. they kept giving her tisanes and going to check on her every hour. she could no longer speak because her breathing was so difficult. one monday evening, coupeau came home totally drunk. ever since his mother was in danger, he had lived in a continual state of deep emotion. when he was in bed, snoring soundly, gervaise walked about the place for a while. she was in the habit of watching over mother coupeau during a part of the night. nana had showed herself very brave, always sleeping beside the old woman, and saying that if she heard her dying, she would wake everyone. since the invalid seemed to be sleeping peacefully this night, gervaise finally yielded to the appeals of lantier to come into his room for a little rest. they only kept a candle alight, standing on the ground behind the wardrobe. but towards three o'clock gervaise abruptly jumped out of bed, shivering and oppressed with anguish. she thought she had felt a cold breath pass over her body. the morsel of candle had burnt out; she tied on her petticoats in the dark, all bewildered, and with feverish hands. it was not till she got into the little room, after knocking up against the furniture, that she was able to light a small lamp. in the midst of the oppressive silence of night, the zinc-worker's snores alone sounded as two grave notes. nana, stretched on her back, was breathing gently between her pouting lips. and gervaise, holding down the lamp which caused big shadows to dance about the room, cast the light on mother coupeau's face, and beheld it all white, the head lying on the shoulder, the eyes wide open. mother coupeau was dead. gently, without uttering a cry, icy cold yet prudent, the laundress returned to lantier's room. he had gone to sleep again. she bent over him and murmured: "listen, it's all over, she's dead." heavy with sleep, only half awake, he grunted at first: "leave me alone, get into bed. we can't do her any good if she's dead." then he raised himself on his elbow and asked: "what's the time?" "three o'clock." "only three o'clock! get into bed quick. you'll catch cold. when it's daylight, we'll see what's to be done." but she did not listen to him, she dressed herself completely. bundling himself in the blankets, lantier muttered about how stubborn women were. what was the hurry to announce a death in the house? he was irritated at having his sleep spoiled by such gloomy matters. meanwhile, gervaise had moved her things back into her own room. then she felt free to sit down and cry, no longer fearful of being caught in lantier's room. she had been fond of mother coupeau and felt a deep sorrow at her loss. she sat, crying by herself, her sobs loud in the silence, but coupeau never stirred. she had spoken to him and even shaken him and finally decided to let him sleep. he would be more of a nuisance if he woke up. on returning to the body, she found nana sitting up in bed rubbing her eyes. the child understood, and with her vicious urchin's curiosity, stretched out her neck to get a better view of her grandmother; she said nothing but she trembled slightly, surprised and satisfied in the presence of this death which she had been promising herself for two days past, like some nasty thing hidden away and forbidden to children; and her young cat-like eyes dilated before that white face all emaciated at the last gasp by the passion of life, she felt that tingling in her back which she felt behind the glass door when she crept there to spy on what was no concern of chits like her. "come, get up," said her mother in a low voice. "you can't remain here." she regretfully slid out of bed, turning her head round and not taking her eyes off the corpse. gervaise was much worried about her, not knowing where to put her till day-time. she was about to tell her to dress herself, when lantier, in his trousers and slippers, rejoined her. he could not get to sleep again, and was rather ashamed of his behavior. then everything was arranged. "she can sleep in my bed," murmured he. "she'll have plenty of room." nana looked at her mother and lantier with her big, clear eyes and put on her stupid air, the same as on new year's day when anyone made her a present of a box of chocolate candy. and there was certainly no need for them to hurry her. she trotted off in her night-gown, her bare feet scarcely touching the tiled floor; she glided like a snake into the bed, which was still quite warm, and she lay stretched out and buried in it, her slim body scarcely raising the counterpane. each time her mother entered the room she beheld her with her eyes sparkling in her motionless face--not sleeping, not moving, very red with excitement, and appearing to reflect on her own affairs. lantier assisted gervaise in dressing mother coupeau--and it was not an easy matter, for the body was heavy. one would never have thought that that old woman was so fat and so white. they put on her stockings, a white petticoat, a short linen jacket and a white cap--in short, the best of her linen. coupeau continued snoring, a high note and a low one, the one sharp, the other flat. one could almost have imagined it to be church music accompanying the good friday ceremonies. when the corpse was dressed and properly laid out on the bed, lantier poured himself out a glass of wine, for he felt quite upset. gervaise searched the chest of drawers to find a little brass crucifix which she had brought from plassans, but she recollected that mother coupeau had, in all probability, sold it herself. they had lighted the stove, and they passed the rest of the night half asleep on chairs, finishing the bottle of wine that had been opened, worried and sulking, as though it was their own fault. towards seven o'clock, before daylight, coupeau at length awoke. when he learnt his loss he at first stood still with dry eyes, stuttering and vaguely thinking that they were playing him some joke. then he threw himself on the ground and went and knelt beside the corpse. his kissed it and wept like a child, with such a copious flow of tears that he quite wetted the sheet with wiping his cheeks. gervaise had recommenced sobbing, deeply affected by her husband's grief, and the best of friends with him again. yes, he was better at heart than she thought he was. coupeau's despair mingled with a violent pain in his head. he passed his fingers through his hair. his mouth was dry, like on the morrow of a booze, and he was still a little drunk in spite of his ten hours of sleep. and, clenching his fist, he complained aloud. _mon dieu!_ she was gone now, his poor mother, whom he loved so much! ah! what a headache he had; it would settle him! it was like a wig of fire! and now they were tearing out his heart! no, it was not just of fate thus to set itself against one man! "come, cheer up, old fellow," said lantier, raising him from the ground; "you must pull yourself together." he poured him out a glass of wine, but coupeau refused to drink. "what's the matter with me? i've got copper in my throat. it's mamma. when i saw her i got a taste of copper in my mouth. mamma! _mon dieu!_ mamma, mamma!" and he recommenced crying like a child. then he drank the glass of wine, hoping to put out the flame searing his breast. lantier soon left, using the excuse of informing the family and filing the necessary declaration at the town hall. really though, he felt the need of fresh air, and so he took his time, smoking cigarettes and enjoying the morning air. when he left madame lerat's house, he went into a dairy place on les batignolles for a cup of hot coffee and remained there an hour, thinking things over. towards nine o'clock the family were all united in the shop, the shutters of which were kept up. lorilleux did not cry. moreover he had some pressing work to attend to, and he returned almost directly to his room, after having stalked about with a face put on for the occasion. madame lorilleux and madame lerat embraced the coupeaus and wiped their eyes, from which a few tears were falling. but madame lorilleux, after giving a hasty glance round the death chamber, suddenly raised her voice to say that it was unheard of, that one never left a lighted lamp beside a corpse; there should be a candle, and nana was sent to purchase a packet of tall ones. ah, well! it made one long to die at clump-clump's, she laid one out in such a fine fashion! what a fool, not even to know what to do with a corpse! had she then never buried anyone in her life? madame lerat had to go to the neighbors and borrow a crucifix; she brought one back which was too big, a cross of black wood with a christ in painted cardboard fastened to it, which covered the whole of mother coupeau's chest, and seemed to crush her under its weight. then they tried to obtain some holy water, but no one had any, and it was again nana who was sent to the church to bring some back in a bottle. in practically no time the tiny room presented quite another appearance; on a little table a candle was burning beside a glass full of holy water into which a sprig of boxwood was dipped. now, if anyone came, it would at least look decent. and they arranged the chairs in a circle in the shop for receiving people. lantier only returned at eleven o'clock. he had been to the undertaker's for information. "the coffin is twelve francs," said he. "if you desire a mass, it will be ten francs more. then there's the hearse, which is charged for according to the ornaments." "oh! it's quite unnecessary to be fancy," murmured madame lorilleux, raising her head in a surprised and anxious manner. "we can't bring mamma to life again, can we? one must do according to one's means." "of course, that's just what i think," resumed the hatter. "i merely asked the prices to guide you. tell me what you desire; and after lunch i will give the orders." they were talking in lowered voices. only a dim light came into the room through the cracks in the shutters. the door to the little room stood half open, and from it came the deep silence of death. children's laughter echoed in the courtyard. suddenly they heard the voice of nana, who had escaped from the boches to whom she had been sent. she was giving commands in her shrill voice and the children were singing a song about a donkey. gervaise waited until it was quiet to say: "we're not rich certainly; but all the same we wish to act decently. if mother coupeau has left us nothing, it's no reason for pitching her into the ground like a dog. no; we must have a mass, and a hearse with a few ornaments." "and who will pay for them?" violently inquired madame lorilleux. "not we, who lost some money last week; and you either, as you're stumped. ah! you ought, however, to see where it has led you, this trying to impress people!" coupeau, when consulted, mumbled something with a gesture of profound indifference, and then fell asleep again on his chair. madame lerat said that she would pay her share. she was of gervaise's opinion, they should do things decently. then the two of them fell to making calculations on a piece of paper: in all, it would amount to about ninety francs, because they decided, after a long discussion, to have a hearse ornamented with a narrow scallop. "we're three," concluded the laundress. "we'll give thirty francs each. it won't ruin us." but madame lorilleux broke out in a fury. "well! i refuse, yes, i refuse! it's not for the thirty francs. i'd give a hundred thousand, if i had them, and if it would bring mamma to life again. only, i don't like vain people. you've got a shop, you only dream of showing off before the neighborhood. we don't fall in with it, we don't. we don't try to make ourselves out what we are not. oh! you can manage it to please yourself. put plumes on the hearse if it amuses you." "no one asks you for anything," gervaise ended by answering. "even though i should have to sell myself, i'll not have anything to reproach myself with. i've fed mother coupeau without your help, and i can certainly bury her without your help also. i already once before gave you a bit of my mind; i pick up stray cats, i'm not likely to leave your mother in the mire." then madame lorilleux burst into tears and lantier had to prevent her from leaving. the argument became so noisy that madame lerat felt she had to go quietly into the little room and glance tearfully at her dead mother, as though fearing to find her awake and listening. just at this moment the girls playing in the courtyard, led by nana, began singing again. "_mon dieu!_ how those children grate on one's nerves with their singing!" said gervaise, all upset and on the point of sobbing with impatience and sadness. turning to the hatter, she said: "do please make them leave off, and send nana back to the concierge's with a kick." madame lerat and madame lorilleux went away to eat lunch, promising to return. the coupeaus sat down to eat a bite without much appetite, feeling hesitant about even raising a fork. after lunch lantier went to the undertaker's again with the ninety francs. thirty had come from madame lerat and gervaise had run, with her hair all loose, to borrow sixty francs from goujet. several of the neighbors called in the afternoon, mainly out of curiosity. they went into the little room to make the sign of the cross and sprinkle some holy water with the boxwood sprig. then they sat in the shop and talked endlessly about the departed. mademoiselle remanjou had noticed that her right eye was still open. madame gaudron maintained that she had a fine complexion for her age. madame fauconnier kept repeating that she had seen her having coffee only three days earlier. towards evening the coupeaus were beginning to have had enough of it. it was too great an affliction for a family to have to keep a corpse so long a time. the government ought to have made a new law on the subject. all through another evening, another night, and another morning--no! it would never come to an end. when one no longer weeps, grief turns to irritation; is it not so? one would end by misbehaving oneself. mother coupeau, dumb and stiff in the depths of the narrow chamber, was spreading more and more over the lodging and becoming heavy enough to crush the people in it. and the family, in spite of itself, gradually fell into the ordinary mode of life, and lost some portion of its respect. "you must have a mouthful with us," said gervaise to madame lerat and madame lorilleux, when they returned. "we're too sad; we must keep together." they laid the cloth on the work-table. each one, on seeing the plates, thought of the feastings they had had on it. lantier had returned. lorilleux came down. a pastry-cook had just brought a meat pie, for the laundress was too upset to attend to any cooking. as they were taking their seats, boche came to say that monsieur marescot asked to be admitted, and the landlord appeared, looking very grave, and wearing a broad decoration on his frock-coat. he bowed in silence and went straight to the little room, where he knelt down. all the family, leaving the table, stood up, greatly impressed. monsieur marescot, having finished his devotions, passed into the shop and said to the coupeaus: "i have come for the two quarters' rent that's overdue. are you prepared to pay?" "no, sir, not quite," stammered gervaise, greatly put out at hearing this mentioned before the lorilleuxs. "you see, with the misfortune which has fallen upon us--" "no doubt, but everyone has their troubles," resumed the landlord, spreading out his immense fingers, which indicated the former workman. "i am very sorry, but i cannot wait any longer. if i am not paid by the morning after to-morrow, i shall be obliged to have you put out." gervaise, struck dumb, imploringly clasped her hands, her eyes full of tears. with an energetic shake of his big bony head, he gave her to understand that supplications were useless. besides, the respect due to the dead forbade all discussion. he discreetly retired, walking backwards. "a thousand pardons for having disturbed you," murmured he. "the morning after to-morrow; do not forget." and as on withdrawing he again passed before the little room, he saluted the corpse a last time through the wide open door by devoutly bending his knee. they began eating and gobbled the food down very quickly, so as not to seem to be enjoying it, only slowing down when they reached the dessert. occasionally gervaise or one of the sisters would get up, still holding her napkin, to look into the small room. they made plenty of strong coffee to keep them awake through the night. the poissons arrived about eight and were invited for coffee. then lantier, who had been watching gervaise's face, seemed to seize an opportunity that he had been waiting for ever since the morning. in speaking of the indecency of landlords who entered houses of mourning to demand their money, he said: "he's a jesuit, the beast, with his air of officiating at a mass! but in your place, i'd just chuck up the shop altogether." gervaise, quite worn out and feeling weak and nervous, gave way and replied: "yes, i shall certainly not wait for the bailiffs. ah! it's more than i can bear--more than i can bear." the lorilleuxs, delighted at the idea that clump-clump would no longer have a shop, approved the plan immensely. one could hardly conceive the great cost a shop was. if she only earned three francs working for others she at least had no expenses; she did not risk losing large sums of money. they repeated this argument to coupeau, urging him on; he drank a great deal and remained in a continuous fit of sensibility, weeping all day by himself in his plate. as the laundress seemed to be allowing herself to be convinced, lantier looked at the poissons and winked. and tall virginie intervened, making herself most amiable. "you know, we might arrange the matter between us. i would relieve you of the rest of the lease and settle your matter with the landlord. in short, you would not be worried nearly so much." "no thanks," declared gervaise, shaking herself as though she felt a shudder pass over her. "i'll work; i've got my two arms, thank heaven! to help me out of my difficulties." "we can talk about it some other time," the hatter hastened to put in. "it's scarcely the thing to do so this evening. some other time--in the morning for instance." at this moment, madame lerat, who had gone into the little room, uttered a faint cry. she had had a fright because she had found the candle burnt out. they all busied themselves in lighting another; they shook their heads, saying that it was not a good sign when the light went out beside a corpse. the wake commenced. coupeau had gone to lie down, not to sleep, said he, but to think; and five minutes afterwards he was snoring. when they sent nana off to sleep at the boches' she cried; she had been looking forward ever since the morning to being nice and warm in her good friend lantier's big bed. the poissons stayed till midnight. some hot wine had been made in a salad-bowl because the coffee affected the ladies' nerves too much. the conversation became tenderly effusive. virginie talked of the country: she would like to be buried at the corner of a wood with wild flowers on her grave. madame lerat had already put by in her wardrobe the sheet for her shroud, and she kept it perfumed with a bunch of lavender; she wished always to have a nice smell under her nose when she would be eating the dandelions by the roots. then, with no sort of transition, the policeman related that he had arrested a fine girl that morning who had been stealing from a pork-butcher's shop; on undressing her at the commissary of police's they had found ten sausages hanging round her body. and madame lorilleux having remarked, with a look of disgust, that she would not eat any of those sausages, the party burst into a gentle laugh. the wake became livelier, though not ceasing to preserve appearances. but just as they were finishing the hot wine a peculiar noise, a dull trickling sound, issued from the little room. all raised their heads and looked at each other. "it's nothing," said lantier quietly, lowering his voice. "she's emptying." the explanation caused the others to nod their heads in a reassured way, and they replaced their glasses on the table. when the poissons left for home, lantier left also, saying he would sleep with a friend and leave his bed for the ladies in case they wanted to take turns napping. lorilleux went upstairs to bed. gervaise and the two sisters arranged themselves by the stove where they huddled together close to the warmth, talking quietly. coupeau was still snoring. madame lorilleux was complaining that she didn't have a black dress and asked gervaise about the black skirt they had given mother coupeau on her saint's day. gervaise went to look for it. madame lorilleux then wanted some of the old linen and mentioned the bed, the wardrobe, and the two chairs as she looked around for other odds and ends. madame lerat had to serve as peace maker when a quarrel nearly broke out. she pointed out that as the coupeaus had cared for their mother, they deserved to keep the few things she had left. soon they were all dozing around the stove. the night seemed terribly long to them. now and again they shook themselves, drank some coffee and stretched their necks in the direction of the little room, where the candle, which was not to be snuffed, was burning with a dull red flame, flickering the more because of the black soot on the wick. towards morning, they shivered, in spite of the great heat of the stove. anguish, and the fatigue of having talked too much was stifling them, whilst their mouths were parched, and their eyes ached. madame lerat threw herself on lantier's bed, and snored as loud as a man; whilst the other two, their heads falling forward, and almost touching their knees, slept before the fire. at daybreak, a shudder awoke them. mother coupeau's candle had again gone out; and as, in the obscurity, the dull trickling sound recommenced, madame lorilleux gave the explanation of it anew in a loud voice, so as to reassure herself: "she's emptying," repeated she, lighting another candle. the funeral was to take place at half-past ten. a nice morning to add to the night and the day before! gervaise, though without a sou, said she would have given a hundred francs to anybody who would have come and taken mother coupeau away three hours sooner. no, one may love people, but they are too great a weight when they are dead; and the more one has loved them, the sooner one would like to be rid of their bodies. the morning of a funeral is, fortunately, full of diversions. one has all sorts of preparations to make. to begin with, they lunched. then it happened to be old bazouge, the undertaker's helper, who lived on the sixth floor, who brought the coffin and the sack of bran. he was never sober, the worthy fellow. at eight o'clock that day, he was still lively from the booze of the day before. "this is for here, isn't it?" asked he. and he laid down the coffin, which creaked like a new box. but as he was throwing the sack of bran on one side, he stood with a look of amazement in his eyes, his mouth opened wide, on beholding gervaise before him. "beg pardon, excuse me. i've made a mistake," stammered he. "i was told it was for you." he had already taken up the sack again, and the laundress was obliged to call to him: "leave it alone, it's for here." "ah! _mon dieu!_ now i understand!" resumed he, slapping his thigh. "it's for the old lady." gervaise had turned quite pale. old bazouge had brought the coffin for her. by way of apology, he tried to be gallant, and continued: "i'm not to blame, am i? it was said yesterday that someone on the ground floor had passed away. then i thought--you know, in our business, these things enter by one ear and go out by the other. all the same, my compliments to you. as late as possible, eh? that's best, though life isn't always amusing; ah! no, by no means." as gervaise listened to him, she draw back, afraid he would grab her and take her away in the box. she remembered the time before, when he had told her he knew of women who would thank him to come and get them. well, she wasn't ready yet. _mon dieu!_ the thought sent chills down her spine. her life may have been bitter, but she wasn't ready to give it up yet. no, she would starve for years first. "he's abominably drunk," murmured she, with an air of disgust mingled with dread. "they at least oughtn't to send us tipplers. we pay dear enough." then he became insolent, and jeered: "see here, little woman, it's only put off until another time. i'm entirely at your service, remember! you've only to make me a sign. i'm the ladies' consoler. and don't spit on old bazouge, because he's held in his arms finer ones than you, who let themselves be tucked in without a murmur, very pleased to continue their by-by in the dark." "hold your tongue, old bazouge!" said lorilleux severely, having hastened to the spot on hearing the noise, "such jokes are highly improper. if we complained about you, you would get the sack. come, be off, as you've no respect for principles." bazouge moved away, but one could hear him stuttering as he dragged along the pavement: "well! what? principles! there's no such thing as principles, there's no such thing as principles--there's only common decency!" at length ten o'clock struck. the hearse was late. there were already several people in the shop, friends and neighbors--monsieur madinier, my-boots, madame gaudron, mademoiselle remanjou; and every minute, a man's or a woman's head was thrust out of the gaping opening of the door between the closed shutters, to see if that creeping hearse was in sight. the family, all together in the back room, was shaking hands. short pauses occurred interrupted by rapid whisperings, a tiresome and feverish waiting with sudden rushes of skirts--madame lorilleux who had forgotten her handkerchief, or else madame lerat who was trying to borrow a prayer-book. everyone, on arriving, beheld the open coffin in the centre of the little room before the bed; and in spite of oneself, each stood covertly studying it, calculating that plump mother coupeau would never fit into it. they all looked at each other with this thought in their eyes, though without communicating it. but there was a slight pushing at the front door. monsieur madinier, extending his arms, came and said in a low grave voice: "here they are!" it was not the hearse though. four helpers entered hastily in single file, with their red faces, their hands all lumpy like persons in the habit of moving heavy things, and their rusty black clothes worn and frayed from constant rubbing against coffins. old bazouge walked first, very drunk and very proper. as soon as he was at work he found his equilibrium. they did not utter a word, but slightly bowed their heads, already weighing mother coupeau with a glance. and they did not dawdle; the poor old woman was packed in, in the time one takes to sneeze. a young fellow with a squint, the smallest of the men, poured the bran into the coffin and spread it out. the tall and thin one spread the winding sheet over the bran. then, two at the feet and two at the head, all four took hold of the body and lifted it. mother coupeau was in the box, but it was a tight fit. she touched on every side. the undertaker's helpers were now standing up and waiting; the little one with the squint took the coffin lid, by way of inviting the family to bid their last farewell, whilst bazouge had filled his mouth with nails and was holding the hammer in readiness. then coupeau, his two sisters and gervaise threw themselves on their knees and kissed the mamma who was going away, weeping bitterly, the hot tears falling on and streaming down the stiff face now cold as ice. there was a prolonged sound of sobbing. the lid was placed on, and old bazouge knocked the nails in with the style of a packer, two blows for each; and they none of them could hear any longer their own weeping in that din, which resembled the noise of furniture being repaired. it was over. the time for starting had arrived. "what a fuss to make at such a time!" said madame lorilleux to her husband as she caught sight of the hearse before the door. the hearse was creating quite a revolution in the neighborhood. the tripe-seller called to the grocer's men, the little clockmaker came out on to the pavement, the neighbors leant out of their windows; and all these people talked about the scallop with its white cotton fringe. ah! the coupeaus would have done better to have paid their debts. but as the lorilleuxs said, when one is proud it shows itself everywhere and in spite of everything. "it's shameful!" gervaise was saying at the same moment, speaking of the chainmaker and his wife. "to think that those skinflints have not even brought a bunch of violets for their mother!" the lorilleuxs, true enough, had come empty-handed. madame lerat had given a wreath of artificial flowers. and a wreath of immortelles and a bouquet bought by the coupeaus were also placed on the coffin. the undertaker's helpers had to give a mighty heave to lift the coffin and carry it to the hearse. it was some time before the procession was formed. coupeau and lorilleux, in frock coats and with their hats in their hands, were chief mourners. the first, in his emotion which two glasses of white wine early in the morning had helped to sustain, clung to his brother-in-law's arm, with no strength in his legs, and a violent headache. then followed the other men--monsieur madinier, very grave and all in black; my-boots, wearing a great-coat over his blouse; boche, whose yellow trousers produced the effect of a petard; lantier, gaudron, bibi-the-smoker, poisson and others. the ladies came next--in the first row madame lorilleux, dragging the deceased's skirt, which she had altered; madame lerat, hiding under a shawl her hastily got-up mourning, a gown with lilac trimmings; and following them, virginie, madame gaudron, madame fauconnier, mademoiselle remanjou and the rest. when the hearse started and slowly descended the rue de la goutte-d'or, amidst signs of the cross and heads bared, the four helpers took the lead, two in front, the two others on the right and left. gervaise had remained behind to close the shop. she left nana with madame boche and ran to rejoin the procession, whilst the child, firmly held by the concierge under the porch, watched with a deeply interested gaze her grandmother disappear at the end of the street in that beautiful carriage. at the moment when gervaise caught up with the procession, goujet arrived from another direction. he nodded to her so sympathetically that she was reminded of how unhappy she was, and began to cry again as goujet took his place with the men. the ceremony at the church was soon got through. the mass dragged a little, though, because the priest was very old. my-boots and bibi-the-smoker preferred to remain outside on account of the collection. monsieur madinier studied the priests all the while, and communicated his observations to lantier. those jokers, though so glib with their latin, did not even know a word of what they were saying. they buried a person just in the same way that they would have baptized or married him, without the least feeling in their heart. happily, the cemetery was not far off, the little cemetery of la chapelle, a bit of a garden which opened on to the rue marcadet. the procession arrived disbanded, with stampings of feet and everybody talking of his own affairs. the hard earth resounded, and many would have liked to have moved about to keep themselves warm. the gaping hole beside which the coffin was laid was already frozen over, and looked white and stony, like a plaster quarry; and the followers, grouped round little heaps of gravel, did not find it pleasant standing in such piercing cold, whilst looking at the hole likewise bored them. at length a priest in a surplice came out of a little cottage. he shivered, and one could see his steaming breath at each _de profundis_ that he uttered. at the final sign of the cross he bolted off, without the least desire to go through the service again. the sexton took his shovel, but on account of the frost, he was only able to detach large lumps of earth, which beat a fine tune down below, a regular bombardment of the coffin, an enfilade of artillery sufficient to make one think the wood was splitting. one may be a cynic; nevertheless that sort of music soon upsets one's stomach. the weeping recommenced. they moved off, they even got outside, but they still heard the detonations. my-boots, blowing on his fingers, uttered an observation aloud. "_tonnerre de dieu!_ poor mother coupeau won't feel very warm!" "ladies and gentlemen," said the zinc-worker to the few friends who remained in the street with the family, "will you permit us to offer you some refreshments?" he led the way to a wine shop in the rue marcadet, the "arrival at the cemetery." gervaise, remaining outside, called goujet, who was moving off, after again nodding to her. why didn't he accept a glass of wine? he was in a hurry; he was going back to the workshop. then they looked at each other a moment without speaking. "i must ask your pardon for troubling you about the sixty francs," at length murmured the laundress. "i was half crazy, i thought of you--" "oh! don't mention it; you're fully forgiven," interrupted the blacksmith. "and you know, i am quite at your service if any misfortune should overtake you. but don't say anything to mamma, because she has her ideas, and i don't wish to cause her annoyance." she gazed at him. he seemed to her such a good man, and sad-looking, and so handsome. she was on the verge of accepting his former proposal, to go away with him and find happiness together somewhere else. then an evil thought came to her. it was the idea of borrowing the six months' back rent from him. she trembled and resumed in a caressing tone of voice: "we're still friends, aren't we?" he shook his head as he answered: "yes, we'll always be friends. it's just that, you know, all is over between us." and he went off with long strides, leaving gervaise bewildered, listening to his last words which rang in her ears with the clang of a big bell. on entering the wine shop, she seemed to hear a hollow voice within her which said, "all is over, well! all is over; there is nothing more for me to do if all is over!" sitting down, she swallowed a mouthful of bread and cheese, and emptied a glass full of wine which she found before her. the wine shop was a single, long room with a low ceiling occupied by two large tables on which loaves of bread, large chunks of brie cheese and bottles of wine were set out. they ate informally, without a tablecloth. near the stove at the back the undertaker's helpers were finishing their lunch. "_mon dieu!_" exclaimed monsieur madinier, "we each have our time. the old folks make room for the young ones. your lodging will seem very empty to you now when you go home." "oh! my brother is going to give notice," said madame lorilleux quickly. "that shop's ruined." they had been working upon coupeau. everyone was urging him to give up the lease. madame lerat herself, who had been on very good terms with lantier and virginie for some time past, and who was tickled with the idea that they were a trifle smitten with each other, talked of bankruptcy and prison, putting on the most terrified airs. and suddenly, the zinc-worker, already overdosed with liquor, flew into a passion, his emotion turned to fury. "listen," cried he, poking his nose in his wife's face; "i intend that you shall listen to me! your confounded head will always have its own way. but, this time, i intend to have mine, i warn you!" "ah! well," said lantier, "one never yet brought her to reason by fair words; it wants a mallet to drive it into her head." for a time they both went on at her. meanwhile, the brie was quickly disappearing and the wine bottles were pouring like fountains. gervaise began to weaken under this persistent pounding. she answered nothing, but hurried herself, her mouth ever full, as though she had been very hungry. when they got tired, she gently raised her head and said: "that's enough, isn't it? i don't care a straw for the shop! i want no more of it. do you understand? it can go to the deuce! all is over!" then they ordered some more bread and cheese and talked business. the poissons took the rest of the lease and agreed to be answerable for the two quarters' rent overdue. boche, moreover, pompously agreed to the arrangement in the landlord's name. he even then and there let a lodging to the coupeaus--the vacant one on the sixth floor, in the same passage as the lorilleuxs' apartment. as for lantier, well! he would like to keep his room, if it did not inconvenience the poissons. the policeman bowed; it did not inconvenience him at all; friends always get on together, in spite of any difference in their political ideas. and lantier, without mixing himself up any more in the matter, like a man who has at length settled his little business, helped himself to an enormous slice of bread and cheese; he leant back in his chair and ate devoutly, his blood tingling beneath his skin, his whole body burning with a sly joy, and he blinked his eyes to peep first at gervaise, and then at virginie. "hi! old bazouge!" called coupeau, "come and have a drink. we're not proud; we're all workers." the four undertaker's helpers, who had started to leave, came back to raise glasses with the group. they thought that the lady had weighed quite a bit and they had certainly earned a glass of wine. old bazouge gazed steadily at gervaise without saying a word. it made her feel uneasy though and she got up and left the men who were beginning to show signs of being drunk. coupeau began to sob again, saying he was feeling very sad. that evening when gervaise found herself at home again, she remained in a stupefied state on a chair. it seemed to her that the rooms were immense and deserted. really, it would be a good riddance. but it was certainly not only mother coupeau that she had left at the bottom of the hole in the little garden of the rue marcadet. she missed too many things, most likely a part of her life, and her shop, and her pride of being an employer, and other feelings besides, which she had buried on that day. yes, the walls were bare, and her heart also; it was a complete clear out, a tumble into the pit. and she felt too tired; she would pick herself up again later on if she could. at ten o'clock, when undressing, nana cried and stamped. she wanted to sleep in mother coupeau's bed. her mother tried to frighten her; but the child was too precocious. corpses only filled her with a great curiosity; so that, for the sake of peace, she was allowed to lie down in mother coupeau's place. she liked big beds, the chit; she spread herself out and rolled about. she slept uncommonly well that night in the warm and pleasant feather bed. chapter x the coupeaus' new lodging was on the sixth floor, staircase b. after passing mademoiselle remanjou's door, you took the corridor to the left, and then turned again further along. the first door was for the apartment of the bijards. almost opposite, in an airless corner under a small staircase leading to the roof, was where pere bru slept. two doors further was bazouge's room and the coupeaus were opposite him, overlooking the court, with one room and a closet. there were only two more doors along the corridor before reaching that of the lorilleuxs at the far end. a room and a closet, no more. the coupeaus perched there now. and the room was scarcely larger than one's hand. and they had to do everything in there--eat, sleep, and all the rest. nana's bed just squeezed into the closet; she had to dress in her father and mother's room, and her door was kept open at night-time so that she should not be suffocated. there was so little space that gervaise had left many things in the shop for the poissons. a bed, a table, and four chairs completely filled their new apartment but she didn't have the courage to part with her old bureau and so it blocked off half the window. this made the room dark and gloomy, especially since one shutter was stuck shut. gervaise was now so fat that there wasn't room for her in the limited window space and she had to lean sideways and crane her neck if she wanted to see the courtyard. during the first few days, the laundress would continually sit down and cry. it seemed to her too hard, not being able to move about in her home, after having been used to so much room. she felt stifled; she remained at the window for hours, squeezed between the wall and the drawers and getting a stiff neck. it was only there that she could breathe freely. however, the courtyard inspired rather melancholy thoughts. opposite her, on the sunny side, she would see that same window she had dreamed about long ago where the spring brought scarlet vines. her own room was on the shady side where pots of mignonette died within a week. oh, this wasn't at all the sort of life she had dreamed of. she had to wallow in filth instead of having flowers all about her. on leaning out one day, gervaise experienced a peculiar sensation: she fancied she beheld herself down below, near the concierge's room under the porch, her nose in the air, and examining the house for the first time; and this leap thirteen years backwards caused her heart to throb. the courtyard was a little dingier and the walls more stained, otherwise it hadn't changed much. but she herself felt terribly changed and worn. to begin with, she was no longer below, her face raised to heaven, feeling content and courageous and aspiring to a handsome lodging. she was right up under the roof, among the most wretched, in the dirtiest hole, the part that never received a ray of sunshine. and that explained her tears; she could scarcely feel enchanted with her fate. however, when gervaise had grown somewhat used to it, the early days of the little family in their new home did not pass off so badly. the winter was almost over, and the trifle of money received for the furniture sold to virginie helped to make things comfortable. then with the fine weather came a piece of luck, coupeau was engaged to work in the country at etampes; and he was there for nearly three months without once getting drunk, cured for a time by the fresh air. one has no idea what a quench it is to the tippler's thirst to leave paris where the very streets are full of the fumes of wine and brandy. on his return he was as fresh as a rose, and he brought back in his pocket four hundred francs with which they paid the two overdue quarters' rent at the shop that the poissons had become answerable for, and also the most pressing of their little debts in the neighborhood. gervaise thus opened two or three streets through which she had not passed for a long time. she had naturally become an ironer again. madame fauconnier was quite good-hearted if you flattered her a bit, and she was happy to take gervaise back, even paying her the same three francs a day as her best worker. this was out of respect for her former status as an employer. the household seemed to be getting on well and gervaise looked forward to the day when all the debts would be paid. hard work and economy would solve all their money troubles. unfortunately, she dreamed of this in the warm satisfaction of the large sum earned by her husband. soon, she said that the good things never lasted and took things as they came. what the coupeaus most suffered from at that time was seeing the poissons installing themselves at their former shop. they were not naturally of a particularly jealous disposition, but people aggravated them by purposely expressing amazement in their presence at the embellishments of their successors. the boches and the lorilleuxs especially, never tired. according to them, no one had ever seen so beautiful a shop. they were also continually mentioning the filthy state in which the poissons had found the premises, saying that it had cost thirty francs for the cleaning alone. after much deliberation, virginie had decided to open a shop specializing in candies, chocolate, coffee and tea. lantier had advised this, saying there was much money to be made from such delicacies. the shop was stylishly painted black with yellow stripes. three carpenters worked for eight days on the interior, putting up shelves, display cases and counters. poisson's small inheritance must have been almost completely used, but virginie was ecstatic. the lorilleuxs and the boches made sure that gervaise did not miss a single improvement and chuckled to themselves while watching her expression. there was also a question of a man beneath all this. it was reported that lantier had broken off with gervaise. the neighborhood declared that it was quite right. in short, it gave a moral tone to the street. and all the honor of the separation was accorded to the crafty hatter on whom all the ladies continued to dote. some said that she was still crazy about him and he had to slap her to make her leave him alone. of course, no one told the actual truth. it was too simple and not interesting enough. actually lantier climbed to the sixth floor to see her whenever he felt the impulse. mademoiselle remanjou had often seen him coming out of the coupeaus' at odd hours. the situation was even more complicated by neighborhood gossip linking lantier and virginie. the neighbors were a bit too hasty in this also; he had not even reached the stage of buttock-pinching with her. still, the lorilleuxs delighted in talking sympathetically to gervaise about the affair between lantier and virginie. the boches maintained they had never seen a more handsome couple. the odd thing in all this was that the rue de la goutte-d'or seemed to have no objection to this new arrangement which everyone thought was progressing nicely. those who had been so harsh to gervaise were now quite lenient toward virginie. gervaise had previously heard numerous reports about lantier's affairs with all sorts of girls on the street and they had bothered her so little that she hadn't even felt enough resentment to break off the affair. however, this new intrigue with virginie wasn't quite so easy to accept because she was sure that the two of them were just out to spite her. she hid her resentment though to avoid giving any satisfaction to her enemies. mademoiselle remanjou thought that gervaise had words with lantier over this because one afternoon she heard the sound of a slap. there was certainly a quarrel because lantier stopped speaking to gervaise for a couple of weeks, but then he was the first one to make up and things seemed to go along the same as before. coupeau found all this most amusing. the complacent husband who had been blind to his own situation laughed heartily at poisson's predicament. then coupeau even teased gervaise. her lovers always dropped her. first the blacksmith and now the hatmaker. the trouble was that she got involved with undependable trades. she should take up with a mason, a good solid man. he said such things as if he were joking, but they upset gervaise because his small grey eyes seemed to be boring right into her. on evenings when coupeau became bored being alone with his wife up in their tiny hole under the roof, he would go down for lantier and invite him up. he thought their dump was too dreary without lantier's company so he patched things up between gervaise and lantier whenever they had a falling out. in the midst of all this lantier put on the most consequential airs. he showed himself both paternal and dignified. on three successive occasions he had prevented a quarrel between the coupeaus and the poissons. the good understanding between the two families formed a part of his contentment. thanks to the tender though firm glances with which he watched over gervaise and virginie, they always pretended to entertain a great friendship for each other. he reigned over both blonde and brunette with the tranquillity of a pasha, and fattened on his cunning. the rogue was still digesting the coupeaus when he already began to devour the poissons. oh, it did not inconvenience him much! as soon as one shop was swallowed, he started on a second. it was only men of his sort who ever have any luck. it was in june of that year that nana was confirmed. she was then nearly thirteen years old, as tall as an asparagus shoot run to seed, and had a bold, impudent air about her. the year before she had been sent away from the catechism class on account of her bad behavior; and the priest had only allowed her to join it this time through fear of losing her altogether, and of casting one more heathen onto the street. nana danced for joy as she thought of the white dress. the lorilleuxs, being godfather and godmother, had promised to provide it, and took care to let everyone in the house know of their present. madame lerat was to give the veil and the cap, virginie the purse, and lantier the prayer-book; so that the coupeaus looked forward to the ceremony without any great anxiety. even the poissons, wishing to give a house-warming, chose this occasion, no doubt on the hatter's advice. they invited the coupeaus and the boches, whose little girl was also going to be confirmed. they provided a leg of mutton and trimmings for the evening in question. it so happened that on the evening before, coupeau returned home in a most abominable condition, just as nana was lost in admiration before the presents spread out on the top of the chest of drawers. the paris atmosphere was getting the better of him again; and he fell foul of his wife and child with drunken arguments and disgusting language which no one should have uttered at such a time. nana herself was beginning to get hold of some very bad expressions in the midst of the filthy conversations she was continually hearing. on the days when there was a row, she would often call her mother an old camel and a cow. "where's my food?" yelled the zinc-worker. "i want my soup, you couple of jades! there's females for you, always thinking of finery! i'll sit on the gee-gaws, you know, if i don't get my soup!" "he's unbearable when he's drunk," murmured gervaise, out of patience; and turning towards him, she exclaimed: "it's warming up, don't bother us." nana was being modest, because she thought it nice on such a day. she continued to look at the presents on the chest of drawers, affectedly lowering her eyelids and pretending not to understand her father's naughty words. but the zinc-worker was an awful plague on the nights when he had had too much. poking his face right against her neck, he said: "i'll give you white dresses! so the finery tickles your fancy. they excite your imagination. just you cut away from there, you ugly little brat! move your hands about, bundle them all into a drawer!" nana, with bowed head, did not answer a word. she had taken up the little tulle cap and was asking her mother how much it cost. and as coupeau thrust out his hand to seize hold of the cap, it was gervaise who pushed him aside exclaiming: "do leave the child alone! she's very good, she's doing no harm." then the zinc-worker let out in real earnest. "ah! the viragos! the mother and daughter, they make the pair. it's a nice thing to go to church just to leer at the men. dare to say it isn't true, little slattern! i'll dress you in a sack, just to disgust you, you and your priests. i don't want you to be taught anything worse than you know already. _mon dieu!_ just listen to me, both of you!" at this nana turned round in a fury, whilst gervaise had to spread out her arms to protect the things which coupeau talked of tearing. the child looked her father straight in the face; then, forgetting the modest bearing inculcated by her confessor, she said, clinching her teeth: "pig!" as soon as the zinc-worker had had his soup he went off to sleep. on the morrow he awoke in a very good humor. he still felt a little of the booze of the day before but only just sufficient to make him amiable. he assisted at the dressing of the child, deeply affected by the white dress and finding that a mere nothing gave the little vermin quite the look of a young lady. the two families started off together for the church. nana and pauline walked first, their prayer-books in their hands and holding down their veils on account of the wind; they did not speak but were bursting with delight at seeing people come to their shop-doors, and they smiled primly and devoutly every time they heard anyone say as they passed that they looked very nice. madame boche and madame lorilleux lagged behind, because they were interchanging their ideas about clump-clump, a gobble-all, whose daughter would never have been confirmed if the relations had not found everything for her; yes, everything, even a new chemise, out of respect for the holy altar. madame lorilleux was rather concerned about the dress, calling nana a dirty thing every time the child got dust on her skirt by brushing against the store fronts. at church coupeau wept all the time. it was stupid but he could not help it. it affected him to see the priest holding out his arms and all the little girls, looking like angels, pass before him, clasping their hands; and the music of the organ stirred up his stomach and the pleasant smell of the incense forced him to sniff, the same as though someone had thrust a bouquet of flowers into his face. in short he saw everything cerulean, his heart was touched. anyway, other sensitive souls around him were wetting their handkerchiefs. this was a beautiful day, the most beautiful of his life. after leaving the church, coupeau went for a drink with lorilleux, who had remained dry-eyed. that evening the poissons' house-warming was very lively. friendship reigned without a hitch from one end of the feast to the other. when bad times arrive one thus comes in for some pleasant evenings, hours during which sworn enemies love each other. lantier, with gervaise on his left and virginie on his right, was most amiable to both of them, lavishing little tender caresses like a cock who desires peace in his poultry-yard. but the queens of the feast were the two little ones, nana and pauline, who had been allowed to keep on their things; they sat bolt upright through fear of spilling anything on their white dresses and at every mouthful they were told to hold up their chins so as to swallow cleanly. nana, greatly bored by all this fuss, ended by slobbering her wine over the body of her dress, so it was taken off and the stains were at once washed out in a glass of water. then at dessert the children's future careers were gravely discussed. madame boche had decided that pauline would enter a shop to learn how to punch designs on gold and silver. that paid five or six francs a day. gervaise didn't know yet because nana had never indicated any preference. "in your place," said madame lerat, "i would bring nana up as an artificial flower-maker. it is a pleasant and clean employment." "flower-makers?" muttered lorilleux. "every one of them might as well walk the streets." "well, what about me?" objected madame lerat, pursing her lips. "you're certainly not very polite. i assure you that i don't lie down for anyone who whistles." then all the rest joined together in hushing her. "madame lerat! oh, madame lerat!" by side glances they reminded her of the two girls, fresh from communion, who were burying their noses in their glasses to keep from laughing out loud. the men had been very careful, for propriety's sake, to use only suitable language, but madame lerat refused to follow their example. she flattered herself on her command of language, as she had often been complimented on the way she could say anything before children, without any offence to decency. "just you listen, there are some very fine women among the flower-makers!" she insisted. "they're just like other women and they show good taste when they choose to commit a sin." "_mon dieu!_" interrupted gervaise, "i've no dislike for artificial flower-making. only it must please nana, that's all i care about; one should never thwart children on the question of a vocation. come nana, don't be stupid; tell me now, would you like to make flowers?" the child was leaning over her plate gathering up the cake crumbs with her wet finger, which she afterwards sucked. she did not hurry herself. she grinned in her vicious way. "why yes, mamma, i should like to," she ended by declaring. then the matter was at once settled. coupeau was quite willing that madame lerat should take the child with her on the morrow to the place where she worked in the rue du caire. and they all talked very gravely of the duties of life. boche said that nana and pauline were women now that they had partaken of communion. poisson added that for the future they ought to know how to cook, mend socks and look after a house. something was even said of their marrying, and of the children they would some day have. the youngsters listened, laughing to themselves, elated by the thought of being women. what pleased them the most was when lantier teased them, asking if they didn't already have little husbands. nana eventually admitted that she cared a great deal for victor fauconnier, son of her mother's employer. "ah well," said madame lorilleux to the boches, as they were all leaving, "she's our goddaughter, but as they're going to put her into artificial flower-making, we don't wish to have anything more to do with her. just one more for the boulevards. she'll be leading them a merry chase before six months are over." on going up to bed, the coupeaus agreed that everything had passed off well and that the poissons were not at all bad people. gervaise even considered the shop was nicely got up. she was surprised to discover that it hadn't pained her at all to spend an evening there. while nana was getting ready for bed she contemplated her white dress and asked her mother if the young lady on the third floor had had one like it when she was married last month. this was their last happy day. two years passed by, during which they sank deeper and deeper. the winters were especially hard for them. if they had bread to eat during the fine weather, the rain and cold came accompanied by famine, by drubbings before the empty cupboard, and by dinner-hours with nothing to eat in the little siberia of their larder. villainous december brought numbing freezing spells and the black misery of cold and dampness. the first winter they occasionally had a fire, choosing to keep warm rather than to eat. but the second winter, the stove stood mute with its rust, adding a chill to the room, standing there like a cast-iron gravestone. and what took the life out of their limbs, what above all utterly crushed them was the rent. oh! the january quarter, when there was not a radish in the house and old boche came up with the bill! it was like a bitter storm, a regular tempest from the north. monsieur marescot then arrived the following saturday, wrapped up in a good warm overcoat, his big hands hidden in woolen gloves; and he was for ever talking of turning them out, whilst the snow continued to fall outside, as though it were preparing a bed for them on the pavement with white sheets. to have paid the quarter's rent they would have sold their very flesh. it was the rent which emptied the larder and the stove. no doubt the coupeaus had only themselves to blame. life may be a hard fight, but one always pulls through when one is orderly and economical--witness the lorilleuxs, who paid their rent to the day, the money folded up in bits of dirty paper. but they, it is true, led a life of starved spiders, which would disgust one with hard work. nana as yet earned nothing at flower-making; she even cost a good deal for her keep. at madame fauconnier's gervaise was beginning to be looked down upon. she was no longer so expert. she bungled her work to such an extent that the mistress had reduced her wages to two francs a day, the price paid to the clumsiest bungler. but she was still proud, reminding everyone of her former status as boss of her own shop. when madame fauconnier hired madame putois, gervaise was so annoyed at having to work beside her former employee that she stayed away for two weeks. as for coupeau, he did perhaps work, but in that case he certainly made a present of his labor to the government, for since the time he returned from etampes gervaise had never seen the color of his money. she no longer looked in his hands when he came home on paydays. he arrived swinging his arms, his pockets empty, and often without his handkerchief; well, yes, he had lost his rag, or else some rascally comrade had sneaked it. at first he always fibbed; there was a donation to charity, or some money slipped through the hole in his pocket, or he paid off some imaginary debts. later, he didn't even bother to make up anything. he had nothing left because it had all gone into his stomach. madame boche suggested to gervaise that she go to wait for him at the shop exit. this rarely worked though, because coupeau's comrades would warn him and the money would disappear into his shoe or someone else's pocket. yes, it was their own fault if every season found them lower and lower. but that's the sort of thing one never tells oneself, especially when one is down in the mire. they accused their bad luck; they pretended that fate was against them. their home had become a regular shambles where they wrangled the whole day long. however, they had not yet come to blows, with the exception of a few impulsive smacks, which somehow flew about at the height of their quarrels. the saddest part of the business was that they had opened the cage of affection; all their better feelings had taken flight, like so many canaries. the genial warmth of father, mother and child, when united together and wrapped up in each other, deserted them, and left them shivering, each in his or her own corner. all three--coupeau, gervaise and nana--were always in the most abominable tempers, biting each other's noses off for nothing at all, their eyes full of hatred; and it seemed as though something had broken the mainspring of the family, the mechanism which, with happy people, causes hearts to beat in unison. ah! it was certain gervaise was no longer moved as she used to be when she saw coupeau at the edge of a roof forty or fifty feet above the pavement. she would not have pushed him off herself, but if he had fallen accidentally, in truth it would have freed the earth of one who was of but little account. the days when they were more especially at enmity she would ask him why he didn't come back on a stretcher. she was awaiting it. it would be her good luck they were bringing back to her. what use was he--that drunkard? to make her weep, to devour all she possessed, to drive her to sin. well! men so useless as he should be thrown as quickly as possible into the hole and the polka of deliverance be danced over them. and when the mother said "kill him!" the daughter responded "knock him on the head!" nana read all of the reports of accidents in the newspapers, and made reflections that were unnatural for a girl. her father had such good luck an omnibus had knocked him down without even sobering him. would the beggar never croak? in the midst of her own poverty gervaise suffered even more because other families around her were also starving to death. their corner of the tenement housed the most wretched. there was not a family that ate every day. gervaise felt the most pity for pere bru in his cubbyhole under the staircase where he hibernated. sometimes he stayed on his bed of straw without moving for days. even hunger no longer drove him out since there was no use taking a walk when no one would invite him to dinner. whenever he didn't show his face for several days, the neighbors would push open his door to see if his troubles were over. no, he was still alive, just barely. even death seemed to have neglected him. whenever gervaise had any bread she gave him the crusts. even when she hated all men because of her husband, she still felt sincerely sorry for pere bru, the poor old man. they were letting him starve to death because he could no longer hold tools in his hand. the laundress also suffered a great deal from the close neighborhood of bazouge, the undertaker's helper. a simple partition, and a very thin one, separated the two rooms. he could not put his fingers down his throat without her hearing it. as soon as he came home of an evening she listened, in spite of herself, to everything he did. his black leather hat laid with a dull thud on the chest of drawers, like a shovelful of earth; the black cloak hung up and rustling against the walls like the wings of some night bird; all the black toggery flung into the middle of the room and filling it with the trappings of mourning. she heard him stamping about, felt anxious at the least movement, and was quite startled if he knocked against the furniture or rattled any of his crockery. this confounded drunkard was her preoccupation, filling her with a secret fear mingled with a desire to know. he, jolly, his belly full every day, his head all upside down, coughed, spat, sang "mother godichon," made use of many dirty expressions and fought with the four walls before finding his bedstead. and she remained quite pale, wondering what he could be doing in there. she imagined the most atrocious things. she got into her head that he must have brought a corpse home, and was stowing it away under his bedstead. well! the newspapers had related something of the kind--an undertaker's helper who collected the coffins of little children at his home, so as to save himself trouble and to make only one journey to the cemetery. for certain, directly bazouge arrived, a smell of death seemed to permeate the partition. one might have thought oneself lodging against the pere lachaise cemetery, in the midst of the kingdom of moles. he was frightful, the animal, continually laughing all by himself, as though his profession enlivened him. even when he had finished his rumpus and had laid himself on his back, he snored in a manner so extraordinary that it caused the laundress to hold her breath. for hours she listened attentively, with an idea that funerals were passing through her neighbor's room. the worst was that, in spite of her terrors, something incited gervaise to put her ear to the wall, the better to find out what was taking place. bazouge had the same effect on her as handsome men have on good women: they would like to touch them. well! if fear had not kept her back, gervaise would have liked to have handled death, to see what it was like. she became so peculiar at times, holding her breath, listening attentively, expecting to unravel the secret through one of bazouge's movements, that coupeau would ask her with a chuckle if she had a fancy for that gravedigger next door. she got angry and talked of moving, the close proximity of this neighbor was so distasteful to her; and yet, in spite of herself, as soon as the old chap arrived, smelling like a cemetery, she became wrapped again in her reflections, with the excited and timorous air of a wife thinking of passing a knife through the marriage contract. had he not twice offered to pack her up and carry her off with him to some place where the enjoyment of sleep is so great, that in a moment one forgets all one's wretchedness? perhaps it was really very pleasant. little by little the temptation to taste it became stronger. she would have liked to have tried it for a fortnight or a month. oh! to sleep a month, especially in winter, the month when the rent became due, when the troubles of life were killing her! but it was not possible--one must sleep forever, if one commences to sleep for an hour; and the thought of this froze her, her desire for death departed before the eternal and stern friendship which the earth demanded. however, one evening in january she knocked with both her fists against the partition. she had passed a frightful week, hustled by everyone, without a sou, and utterly discouraged. that evening she was not at all well, she shivered with fever, and seemed to see flames dancing about her. then, instead of throwing herself out of the window, as she had at one moment thought of doing, she set to knocking and calling: "old bazouge! old bazouge!" the undertaker's helper was taking off his shoes and singing, "there were three lovely girls." he had probably had a good day, for he seemed even more maudlin than usual. "old bazouge! old bazouge!" repeated gervaise, raising her voice. did he not hear her then? she was ready to give herself at once; he might come and take her on his neck, and carry her off to the place where he carried his other women, the poor and the rich, whom he consoled. it pained her to hear his song, "there were three lovely girls," because she discerned in it the disdain of a man with too many sweethearts. "what is it? what is it?" stuttered bazouge; "who's unwell? we're coming, little woman!" but the sound of this husky voice awoke gervaise as though from a nightmare. and a feeling of horror ascended from her knees to her shoulders at the thought of seeing herself lugged along in the old fellow's arms, all stiff and her face as white as a china plate. "well! is there no one there now?" resumed bazouge in silence. "wait a bit, we're always ready to oblige the ladies." "it's nothing, nothing," said the laundress at length in a choking voice. "i don't require anything, thanks." she remained anxious, listening to old bazouge grumbling himself to sleep, afraid to stir for fear he would think he heard her knocking again. in her corner of misery, in the midst of her cares and the cares of others, gervaise had, however, a beautiful example of courage in the home of her neighbors, the bijards. little lalie, only eight years old and no larger than a sparrow, took care of the household as competently as a grown person. the job was not an easy one because she had two little tots, her brother jules and her sister henriette, aged three and five, to watch all day long while sweeping and cleaning. ever since bijard had killed his wife with a kick in the stomach, lalie had become the little mother of them all. without saying a word, and of her own accord, she filled the place of one who had gone, to the extent that her brute of a father, no doubt to complete the resemblance, now belabored the daughter as he had formerly belabored the mother. whenever he came home drunk, he required a woman to massacre. he did not even notice that lalie was quite little; he would not have beaten some old trollop harder. little lalie, so thin it made you cry, took it all without a word of complaint in her beautiful, patient eyes. never would she revolt. she bent her neck to protect her face and stifled her sobs so as not to alarm the neighbors. when her father got tired of kicking her, she would rest a bit until she got her strength back and then resume her work. it was part of her job, being beaten daily. gervaise entertained a great friendship for her little neighbor. she treated her as an equal, as a grown-up woman of experience. it must be said that lalie had a pale and serious look, with the expression of an old girl. one might have thought her thirty on hearing her speak. she knew very well how to buy things, mend the clothes, attend to the home, and she spoke of the children as though she had already gone through two or thee nurseries in her time. it made people smile to hear her talk thus at eight years old; and then a lump would rise in their throats, and they would hurry away so as not to burst out crying. gervaise drew the child towards her as much as she could, gave her all she could spare of food and old clothing. one day as she tried one of nana's old dresses on her, she almost choked with anger on seeing her back covered with bruises, the skin off her elbow, which was still bleeding, and all her innocent flesh martyred and sticking to her bones. well! old bazouge could get a box ready; she would not last long at that rate! but the child had begged the laundress not to say a word. she would not have her father bothered on her account. she took his part, affirming that he would not have been so wicked if it had not been for the drink. he was mad, he did not know what he did. oh! she forgave him, because one ought to forgive madmen everything. from that time gervaise watched and prepared to interfere directly she heard bijard coming up the stairs. but on most of the occasions she only caught some whack for her trouble. when she entered their room in the day-time, she often found lalie tied to the foot of the iron bedstead; it was an idea of the locksmith's, before going out, to tie her legs and her body with some stout rope, without anyone being able to find out why--a mere whim of a brain diseased by drink, just for the sake, no doubt, of maintaining his tyranny over the child when he was no longer there. lalie, as stiff as a stake, with pins and needles in her legs, remained whole days at the post. she once even passed a night there, bijard having forgotten to come home. whenever gervaise, carried away by her indignation, talked of unfastening her, she implored her not to disturb the rope, because her father became furious if he did not find the knots tied the same way he had left them. really, it wasn't so bad, it gave her a rest. she smiled as she said this though her legs were swollen and bruised. what upset her the most was that she couldn't do her work while tied to the bed. she could watch the children though, and even did some knitting, so as not to entirely waste the time. the locksmith had thought of another little game too. he heated sous in the frying pan, then placed them on a corner of the mantle-piece; and he called lalie, and told her to fetch a couple of pounds of bread. the child took up the sous unsuspectingly, uttered a cry and threw them on the ground, shaking her burnt hand. then he flew into a fury. who had saddled him with such a piece of carrion? she lost the money now! and he threatened to beat her to a jelly if she did not pick the sous up at once. when the child hesitated she received the first warning, a clout of such force that it made her see thirty-six candles. speechless and with two big tears in the corners of her eyes, she would pick up the sous and go off, tossing them in the palm of her hand to cool them. no, one could never imagine the ferocious ideas which may sprout from the depths of a drunkard's brain. one afternoon, for instance, lalie having made everything tidy was playing with the children. the window was open, there was a draught, and the wind blowing along the passage gently shook the door. "it's monsieur hardy," the child was saying. "come in, monsieur hardy. pray have the kindness to walk in." and she curtsied before the door, she bowed to the wind. henriette and jules, behind her, also bowed, delighted with the game and splitting their sides with laughing, as though being tickled. she was quite rosy at seeing them so heartily amused and even found some pleasure in it on her own account, which generally only happened to her on the thirty-sixth day of each month. "good day, monsieur hardy. how do you do, monsieur hardy?" but a rough hand pushed open the door, and bijard entered. then the scene changed. henriette and jules fell down flat against the wall; whilst lalie, terrified, remained standing in the very middle of the curtsey. the locksmith held in his hand a big waggoner's whip, quite new, with a long white wooden handle, and a leather thong, terminating with a bit of whip-cord. he placed the whip in the corner against the bed and did not give the usual kick to the child who was already preparing herself by presenting her back. a chuckle exposed his blackened teeth and he was very lively, very drunk, his red face lighted up by some idea that amused him immensely. "what's that?" said he. "you're playing the deuce, eh, you confounded young hussy! i could hear you dancing about from downstairs. now then, come here! nearer and full face. i don't want to sniff you from behind. am i touching you that you tremble like a mass of giblets? take my shoes off." lalie turned quite pale again and, amazed at not receiving her usual drubbing, took his shoes off. he had seated himself on the edge of the bed. he lay down with his clothes on and remained with his eyes open, watching the child move about the room. she busied herself with one thing and another, gradually becoming bewildered beneath his glance, her limbs overcome by such a fright that she ended by breaking a cup. then, without getting off the bed, he took hold of the whip and showed it to her. "see, little chickie, look at this. it's a present for you. yes, it's another fifty sous you've cost me. with this plaything i shall no longer be obliged to run after you, and it'll be no use you getting into the corners. will you have a try? ah! you broke a cup! now then, gee up! dance away, make your curtsies to monsieur hardy!" he did not even raise himself but lay sprawling on his back, his head buried in his pillow, making the big whip crack about the room with the noise of a postillion starting his horses. then, lowering his arm he lashed lalie in the middle of the body, encircling her with the whip and unwinding it again as though she were a top. she fell and tried to escape on her hands and knees; but lashing her again he jerked her to her feet. "gee up, gee up!" yelled he. "it's the donkey race! eh, it'll be fine of a cold morning in winter. i can lie snug without getting cold or hurting my chilblains and catch the calves from a distance. in that corner there, a hit, you hussy! and in that other corner, a hit again! and in that one, another hit. ah! if you crawl under the bed i'll whack you with the handle. gee up, you jade! gee up! gee up!" a slight foam came to his lips, his yellow eyes were starting from their black orbits. lalie, maddened, howling, jumped to the four corners of the room, curled herself up on the floor and clung to the walls; but the lash at the end of the big whip caught her everywhere, cracking against her ears with the noise of fireworks, streaking her flesh with burning weals. a regular dance of the animal being taught its tricks. this poor kitten waltzed. it was a sight! her heels in the air like little girls playing at skipping, and crying "father!" she was all out of breath, rebounding like an india-rubber ball, letting herself be beaten, unable to see or any longer to seek a refuge. and her wolf of a father triumphed, calling her a virago, asking her if she had had enough and whether she understood sufficiently that she was in future to give up all hope of escaping from him. but gervaise suddenly entered the room, attracted by the child's howls. on beholding such a scene she was seized with a furious indignation. "ah! you brute of a man!" cried she. "leave her alone, you brigand! i'll put the police on to you." bijard growled like an animal being disturbed, and stuttered: "mind your own business a bit, limper. perhaps you'd like me to put gloves on when i stir her up. it's merely to warm her, as you can plainly see--simply to show her that i've a long arm." and he gave a final lash with the whip which caught lalie across the face. the upper lip was cut, the blood flowed. gervaise had seized a chair, and was about to fall on to the locksmith; but the child held her hands towards her imploringly, saying that it was nothing and that it was all over. she wiped away the blood with the corner of her apron and quieted the babies, who were sobbing bitterly, as though they had received all the blows. whenever gervaise thought of lalie, she felt she had no right to complain for herself. she wished she had as much patient courage as the little girl who was only eight years old and had to endure more than the rest of the women on their staircase put together. she had seen lalie living on stale bread for months and growing thinner and weaker. whenever she smuggled some remnants of meat to lalie, it almost broke her heart to see the child weeping silently and nibbling it down only by little bits because her throat was so shrunken. gervaise looked on lalie as a model of suffering and forgiveness and tried to learn from her how to suffer in silence. in the coupeau household the vitriol of l'assommoir was also commencing its ravages. gervaise could see the day coming when her husband would get a whip like bijard's to make her dance. yes, coupeau was spinning an evil thread. the time was past when a drink would make him feel good. his unhealthy soft fat of earlier years had melted away and he was beginning to wither and turn a leaden grey. he seemed to have a greenish tint like a corpse putrefying in a pond. he no longer had a taste for food, not even the most beautifully prepared stew. his stomach would turn and his decayed teeth refuse to touch it. a pint a day was his daily ration, the only nourishment he could digest. when he awoke in the mornings he sat coughing and spitting up bile for at least a quarter of an hour. it never failed, you might as well have the basin ready. he was never steady on his pins till after his first glass of consolation, a real remedy, the fire of which cauterized his bowels; but during the day his strength returned. at first he would feel a tickling sensation, a sort of pins-and-needles in his hands and feet; and he would joke, relating that someone was having a lark with him, that he was sure his wife put horse-hair between the sheets. then his legs would become heavy, the tickling sensation would end by turning into the most abominable cramps, which gripped his flesh as though in a vise. that though did not amuse him so much. he no longer laughed; he stopped suddenly on the pavement in a bewildered way with a ringing in his ears and his eyes blinded with sparks. everything appeared to him to be yellow; the houses danced and he reeled about for three seconds with the fear of suddenly finding himself sprawling on the ground. at other times, while the sun was shining full on his back, he would shiver as though iced water had been poured down his shoulders. what bothered him the most was a slight trembling of both his hands; the right hand especially must have been guilty of some crime, it suffered from so many nightmares. _mon dieu!_ was he then no longer a man? he was becoming an old woman! he furiously strained his muscles, he seized hold of his glass and bet that he would hold it perfectly steady as with a hand of marble; but in spite of his efforts the glass danced about, jumped to the right, jumped to the left with a hurried and regular trembling movement. then in a fury he emptied it into his gullet, yelling that he would require dozens like it, and afterwards he undertook to carry a cask without so much as moving a finger. gervaise, on the other hand, told him to give up drink if he wished to cease trembling, and he laughed at her, emptying quarts until he experienced the sensation again, flying into a rage and accusing the passing omnibuses of shaking up his liquor. in the month of march coupeau returned home one evening soaked through. he had come with my-boots from montrouge, where they had stuffed themselves full of eel soup, and he had received the full force of the shower all the way from the barriere des fourneaux to the barriere poissonniere, a good distance. during the night he was seized with a confounded fit of coughing. he was very flushed, suffering from a violent fever and panting like a broken bellows. when the boches' doctor saw him in the morning and listened against his back he shook his head, and drew gervaise aside to advise her to have her husband taken to the hospital. coupeau was suffering from pneumonia. gervaise did not worry herself, you may be sure. at one time she would have been chopped into pieces before trusting her old man to the saw-bones. after the accident in the rue de la nation she had spent their savings in nursing him. but those beautiful sentiments don't last when men take to wallowing in the mire. no, no; she did not intend to make a fuss like that again. they might take him and never bring him back; she would thank them heartily. yet, when the litter arrived and coupeau was put into it like an article of furniture, she became all pale and bit her lips; and if she grumbled and still said it was a good job, her heart was no longer in her words. had she but ten francs in her drawer she would not have let him go. she accompanied him to the lariboisiere hospital, saw the nurses put him to bed at the end of a long hall, where the patients in a row, looking like corpses, raised themselves up and followed with their eyes the comrade who had just been brought in. it was a veritable death chamber. there was a suffocating, feverish odor and a chorus of coughing. the long hall gave the impression of a small cemetery with its double row of white beds looking like an aisle of marble tombs. when coupeau remained motionless on his pillow, gervaise left, having nothing to say, nor anything in her pocket that could comfort him. outside, she turned to look up at the monumental structure of the hospital and recalled the days when coupeau was working there, putting on the zinc roof, perched up high and singing in the sun. he wasn't drinking in those days. she used to watch for him from her window in the hotel boncoeur and they would both wave their handkerchiefs in greeting. now, instead of being on the roof like a cheerful sparrow, he was down below. he had built his own place in the hospital where he had come to die. _mon dieu!_ it all seemed so far way now, that time of young love. on the day after the morrow, when gervaise called to obtain news of him, she found the bed empty. a sister of charity told her that they had been obliged to remove her husband to the asylum of sainte-anne, because the day before he had suddenly gone wild. oh! a total leave-taking of his senses; attempts to crack his skull against the wall; howls which prevented the other patients from sleeping. it all came from drink, it seemed. gervaise went home very upset. well, her husband had gone crazy. what would it be like if he came home? nana insisted that they should leave him in the hospital because he might end by killing both of them. gervaise was not able to go to sainte-anne until sunday. it was a tremendous journey. fortunately, the omnibus from the boulevard rochechouart to la glaciere passed close to the asylum. she went down the rue de la sante, buying two oranges on her way, so as not to arrive empty-handed. it was another monumental building, with grey courtyards, interminable corridors and a smell of rank medicaments, which did not exactly inspire liveliness. but when they had admitted her into a cell she was quite surprised to see coupeau almost jolly. he was just then seated on the throne, a spotlessly clean wooden case, and they both laughed at her finding him in this position. well, one knows what an invalid is. he squatted there like a pope with his cheek of earlier days. oh! he was better, as he could do this. "and the pneumonia?" inquired the laundress. "done for!" replied he. "they cured it in no time. i still cough a little, but that's all that is left of it." then at the moment of leaving the throne to get back into his bed, he joked once more. "it's lucky you have a strong nose and are not bothered." they laughed louder than ever. at heart they felt joyful. it was by way of showing their contentment without a host of phrases that they thus joked together. one must have had to do with patients to know the pleasure one feels at seeing all their functions at work again. when he was back in bed she gave him the two oranges and this filled him with emotion. he was becoming quite nice again ever since he had had nothing but tisane to drink. she ended by venturing to speak to him about his violent attack, surprised at hearing him reason like in the good old times. "ah, yes," said he, joking at his own expense; "i talked a precious lot of nonsense! just fancy, i saw rats and ran about on all fours to put a grain of salt under their tails. and you, you called to me, men were trying to kill you. in short, all sorts of stupid things, ghosts in broad daylight. oh! i remember it well, my noodle's still solid. now it's over, i dream a bit when i'm asleep. i have nightmares, but everyone has nightmares." gervaise remained with him until the evening. when the house surgeon came, at the six o'clock inspection, he made him spread his hands; they hardly trembled at all, scarcely a quiver at the tips of the fingers. however, as night approached, coupeau was little by little seized with uneasiness. he twice sat up in bed looking on the ground and in the dark corners of the room. suddenly he thrust out an arm and appeared to crush some vermin against the wall. "what is it?" asked gervaise, frightened. "the rats! the rats!" murmured he. then, after a pause, gliding into sleep, he tossed about, uttering disconnected phrases. "_mon dieu!_ they're tearing my skin!--oh! the filthy beasts!--keep steady! hold your skirts right round you! beware of the dirty bloke behind you!--_mon dieu!_ she's down and the scoundrels laugh!--scoundrels! blackguards! brigands!" he dealt blows into space, caught hold of his blanket and rolled it into a bundle against his chest, as though to protect the latter from the violence of the bearded men whom he beheld. then, an attendant having hastened to the spot, gervaise withdrew, quite frozen by the scene. but when she returned a few days later, she found coupeau completely cured. even the nightmares had left him; he could sleep his ten hours right off as peacefully as a child and without stirring a limb. so his wife was allowed to take him away. the house surgeon gave him the usual good advice on leaving and advised him to follow it. if he recommenced drinking, he would again collapse and would end by dying. yes, it solely depended upon himself. he had seen how jolly and healthy one could become when one did not get drunk. well, he must continue at home the sensible life he had led at sainte-anne, fancy himself under lock and key and that dram-shops no longer existed. "the gentleman's right," said gervaise in the omnibus which was taking them back to the rue de la goutte-d'or. "of course he's right," replied coupeau. then, after thinking a minute, he resumed: "oh! you know, a little glass now and again can't kill a man; it helps the digestion." and that very evening he swallowed a glass of bad spirit, just to keep his stomach in order. for eight days he was pretty reasonable. he was a great coward at heart; he had no desire to end his days in the bicetre mad-house. but his passion got the better of him; the first little glass led him, in spite of himself, to a second, to a third and to a fourth, and at the end of a fortnight, he had got back to his old ration, a pint of vitriol a day. gervaise, exasperated, could have beaten him. to think that she had been stupid enough to dream once more of leading a worthy life, just because she had seen him at the asylum in full possession of his good sense! another joyful hour had flown, the last one no doubt! oh! now, as nothing could reclaim him, not even the fear of his near death, she swore she would no longer put herself out; the home might be all at sixes and sevens, she did not care any longer; and she talked also of leaving him. then hell upon earth recommenced, a life sinking deeper into the mire, without a glimmer of hope for something better to follow. nana, whenever her father clouted her, furiously asked why the brute was not at the hospital. she was awaiting the time when she would be earning money, she would say, to treat him to brandy and make him croak quicker. gervaise, on her side, flew into a passion one day that coupeau was regretting their marriage. ah! she had brought him her saucy children; ah! she had got herself picked up from the pavement, wheedling him with rosy dreams! _mon dieu!_ he had a rare cheek! so many words, so many lies. she hadn't wished to have anything to do with him, that was the truth. he had dragged himself at her feet to make her give way, whilst she was advising him to think well what he was about. and if it was all to come over again, he would hear how she would just say "no!" she would sooner have an arm cut off. yes, she'd had a lover before him; but a woman who has had a lover, and who is a worker, is worth more than a sluggard of a man who sullies his honor and that of his family in all the dram-shops. that day, for the first time, the coupeaus went in for a general brawl, and they whacked each other so hard that an old umbrella and the broom were broken. gervaise kept her word. she sank lower and lower; she missed going to her work oftener, spent whole days in gossiping, and became as soft as a rag whenever she had a task to perform. if a thing fell from her hands, it might remain on the floor; it was certainly not she who would have stooped to pick it up. she took her ease about everything, and never handled a broom except when the accumulation of filth almost brought her to the ground. the lorilleuxs now made a point of holding something to their noses whenever they passed her room; the stench was poisonous, said they. those hypocrites slyly lived at the end of the passage, out of the way of all these miseries which filled the corner of the house with whimpering, locking themselves in so as not to have to lend twenty sou pieces. oh! kind-hearted folks, neighbors awfully obliging! yes, you may be sure! one had only to knock and ask for a light or a pinch of salt or a jug of water, one was certain of getting the door banged in one's face. with all that they had vipers' tongues. they protested everywhere that they never occupied themselves with other people. this was true whenever it was a question of assisting a neighbor; but they did so from morning to night, directly they had a chance of pulling any one to pieces. with the door bolted and a rug hung up to cover the chinks and the key-hole, they would treat themselves to a spiteful gossip without leaving their gold wire for a moment. the fall of clump-clump in particular kept them purring like pet cats. completely ruined! not a sou remaining. they smiled gleefully at the small piece of bread she would bring back when she went shopping and kept count of the days when she had nothing at all to eat. and the clothes she wore now. disgusting rags! that's what happened when one tried to live high. gervaise, who had an idea of the way in which they spoke of her, would take her shoes off, and place her ear against their door; but the rug over the door prevented her from hearing much. she was heartily sick of them; she continued to speak to them, to avoid remarks, though expecting nothing but unpleasantness from such nasty persons, but no longer having strength even to give them as much as they gave her, passed the insults off as a lot of nonsense. and besides she only wanted her own pleasure, to sit in a heap twirling her thumbs, and only moving when it was a question of amusing herself, nothing more. one saturday coupeau had promised to take her to the circus. it was well worth while disturbing oneself to see ladies galloping along on horses and jumping through paper hoops. coupeau had just finished a fortnight's work, he could well spare a couple of francs; and they had also arranged to dine out, just the two of them, nana having to work very late that evening at her employer's because of some pressing order. but at seven o'clock there was no coupeau; at eight o'clock it was still the same. gervaise was furious. her drunkard was certainly squandering his earnings with his comrades at the dram-shops of the neighborhood. she had washed a cap and had been slaving since the morning over the holes of an old dress, wishing to look decent. at last, towards nine o'clock, her stomach empty, her face purple with rage, she decided to go down and look for coupeau. "is it your husband you want?" called madame boche, on catching sight of gervaise looking very glum. "he's at pere colombe's. boche has just been having some cherry brandy with him." gervaise uttered her thanks and stalked stiffly along the pavement with the determination of flying at coupeau's eyes. a fine rain was falling which made the walk more unpleasant still. but when she reached l'assommoir, the fear of receiving the drubbing herself if she badgered her old man suddenly calmed her and made her prudent. the shop was ablaze with the lighted gas, the flames of which were as brilliant as suns, and the bottles and jars illuminated the walls with their colored glass. she stood there an instant stretching her neck, her eyes close to the window, looking between two bottle placed there for show, watching coupeau who was right at the back; he was sitting with some comrades at a little zinc table, all looking vague and blue in the tobacco smoke; and, as one could not hear them yelling, it created a funny effect to see them gesticulating with their chins thrust forward and their eyes starting out of their heads. good heavens! was it really possible that men could leave their wives and their homes to shut themselves up thus in a hole where they were choking? the rain trickled down her neck; she drew herself up and went off to the exterior boulevard, wrapped in thought and not daring to enter. ah! well coupeau would have welcomed her in a pleasant way, he who objected to be spied upon! besides, it really scarcely seemed to her the proper place for a respectable woman. twice she went back and stood before the shop window, her eyes again riveted to the glass, annoyed at still beholding those confounded drunkards out of the rain and yelling and drinking. the light of l'assommoir was reflected in the puddles on the pavement, which simmered with little bubbles caused by the downpour. at length she thought she was too foolish, and pushing open the door, she walked straight up to the table where coupeau was sitting. after all it was her husband she came for, was it not? and she was authorized in doing so, because he had promised to take her to the circus that evening. so much the worse! she had no desire to melt like a cake of soap out on the pavement. "hullo! it's you, old woman!" exclaimed the zinc-worker, half choking with a chuckle. "ah! that's a good joke. isn't it a good joke now?" all the company laughed. gervaise remained standing, feeling rather bewildered. coupeau appeared to her to be in a pleasant humor, so she ventured to say: "you remember, we've somewhere to go. we must hurry. we shall still be in time to see something." "i can't get up, i'm glued, oh! without joking," resumed coupeau, who continued laughing. "try, just to satisfy yourself; pull my arm with all your strength; try it! harder than that, tug away, up with it! you see it's that louse pere colombe who's screwed me to his seat." gervaise had humored him at this game, and when she let go of his arm, the comrades thought the joke so good that they tumbled up against one another, braying and rubbing their shoulders like donkeys being groomed. the zinc-worker's mouth was so wide with laughter that you could see right down his throat. "you great noodle!" said he at length, "you can surely sit down a minute. you're better here than splashing about outside. well, yes; i didn't come home as i promised, i had business to attend to. though you may pull a long face, it won't alter matters. make room, you others." "if madame would accept my knees she would find them softer than the seat," gallantly said my-boots. gervaise, not wishing to attract attention, took a chair and sat down at a short distance from the table. she looked at what the men were drinking, some rotgut brandy which shone like gold in the glasses; a little of it had dropped upon the table and salted-mouth, otherwise drink-without-thirst, dipped his finger in it whilst conversing and wrote a woman's name--"eulalie"--in big letters. she noticed that bibi-the-smoker looked shockingly jaded and thinner than a hundred-weight of nails. my-boot's nose was in full bloom, a regular purple burgundy dahlia. they were all quite dirty, their beards stiff, their smocks ragged and stained, their hands grimy with dirt. yet they were still quite polite. gervaise noticed a couple of men at the bar. they were so drunk that they were spilling the drink down their chins when they thought they were wetting their whistles. fat pere colombe was calmly serving round after round. the atmosphere was very warm, the smoke from the pipes ascended in the blinding glare of the gas, amidst which it rolled about like dust, drowning the customers in a gradually thickening mist; and from this cloud there issued a deafening and confused uproar, cracked voices, clinking of glasses, oaths and blows sounding like detonations. so gervaise pulled a very wry face, for such a sight is not funny for a woman, especially when she is not used to it; she was stifling, with a smarting sensation in her eyes, and her head already feeling heavy from the alcoholic fumes exhaled by the whole place. then she suddenly experienced the sensation of something more unpleasant still behind her back. she turned round and beheld the still, the machine which manufactured drunkards, working away beneath the glass roof of the narrow courtyard with the profound trepidation of its hellish cookery. of an evening, the copper parts looked more mournful than ever, lit up only on their rounded surface with one big red glint; and the shadow of the apparatus on the wall at the back formed most abominable figures, bodies with tails, monsters opening their jaws as though to swallow everyone up. "listen, mother talk-too-much, don't make any of your grimaces!" cried coupeau. "to blazes, you know, with all wet blankets! what'll you drink?" "nothing, of course," replied the laundress. "i haven't dined yet." "well! that's all the more reason for having a glass; a drop of something sustains one." but, as she still retained her glum expression, my-boots again did the gallant. "madame probably likes sweet things," murmured he. "i like men who don't get drunk," retorted she, getting angry. "yes, i like a fellow who brings home his earnings, and who keeps his word when he makes a promise." "ah! so that's what upsets you?" said the zinc-worker, without ceasing to chuckle. "yes, you want your share. then, big goose, why do you refuse a drink? take it, it's so much to the good." she looked at him fixedly, in a grave manner, a wrinkle marking her forehead with a black line. and she slowly replied: "why, you're right, it's a good idea. that way, we can drink up the coin together." bibi-the-smoker rose from his seat to fetch her a glass of anisette. she drew her chair up to the table. whilst she was sipping her anisette, a recollection suddenly flashed across her mind, she remembered the plum she had taken with coupeau, near the door, in the old days, when he was courting her. at that time, she used to leave the juice of fruits preserved in brandy. and now, here was she going back to liqueurs. oh! she knew herself well, she had not two thimblefuls of will. one would only have had to have given her a walloping across the back to have made her regularly wallow in drink. the anisette even seemed to be very good, perhaps rather too sweet and slightly sickening. she went on sipping as she listened to salted-mouth, otherwise drink-without-thirst, tell of his affair with fat eulalie, a fish peddler and very shrewd at locating him. even if his comrades tried to hide him, she could usually sniff him out when he was late. just the night before she had slapped his face with a flounder to teach him not to neglect going to work. bibi-the-smoker and my-boots nearly split their sides laughing. they slapped gervaise on the shoulder and she began to laugh also, finding it amusing in spite of herself. they then advised her to follow eulalie's example and bring an iron with her so as to press coupeau's ears on the counters of the wineshops. "ah, well, no thanks," cried coupeau as he turned upside down the glass his wife had emptied. "you pump it out pretty well. just look, you fellows, she doesn't take long over it." "will madame take another?" asked salted-mouth, otherwise drink-without-thirst. no, she had had enough. yet she hesitated. the anisette had slightly bothered her stomach. she should have taken straight brandy to settle her digestion. she cast side glances at the drunkard manufacturing machine behind her. that confounded pot, as round as the stomach of a tinker's fat wife, with its nose that was so long and twisted, sent a shiver down her back, a fear mingled with a desire. yes, one might have thought it the metal pluck of some big wicked woman, of some witch who was discharging drop by drop the fire of her entrails. a fine source of poison, an operation which should have been hidden away in a cellar, it was so brazen and abominable! but all the same she would have liked to have poked her nose inside it, to have sniffed the odor, have tasted the filth, though the skin might have peeled off her burnt tongue like the rind off an orange. "what's that you're drinking?" asked she slyly of the men, her eyes lighted up by the beautiful golden color of their glasses. "that, old woman," answered coupeau, "is pere colombe's camphor. don't be silly now and we'll give you a taste." and when they had brought her a glass of the vitriol, the rotgut, and her jaws had contracted at the first mouthful, the zinc-worker resumed, slapping his thighs: "ha! it tickles your gullet! drink it off at one go. each glassful cheats the doctor of six francs." at the second glass gervaise no longer felt the hunger which had been tormenting her. now she had made it up with coupeau, she no longer felt angry with him for not having kept his word. they would go to the circus some other day; it was not so funny to see jugglers galloping about on houses. there was no rain inside pere colombe's and if the money went in brandy, one at least had it in one's body; one drank it bright and shining like beautiful liquid gold. ah! she was ready to send the whole world to blazes! life was not so pleasant after all, besides it seemed some consolation to her to have her share in squandering the cash. as she was comfortable, why should she not remain? one might have a discharge of artillery; she did not care to budge once she had settled in a heap. she nursed herself in a pleasant warmth, her bodice sticking to her back, overcome by a feeling of comfort which benumbed her limbs. she laughed all to herself, her elbows on the table, a vacant look in her eyes, highly amused by two customers, a fat heavy fellow and a tiny shrimp, seated at a neighboring table, and kissing each other lovingly. yes, she laughed at the things to see in l'assommoir, at pere colombe's full moon face, a regular bladder of lard, at the customers smoking their short clay pipes, yelling and spitting, and at the big flames of gas which lighted up the looking-glasses and the bottles of liqueurs. the smell no longer bothered her, on the contrary it tickled her nose, and she thought it very pleasant. her eyes slightly closed, whilst she breathed very slowly, without the least feeling of suffocation, tasting the enjoyment of the gentle slumber which was overcoming her. then, after her third glass, she let her chin fall on her hands; she now only saw coupeau and his comrades, and she remained nose to nose with them, quite close, her cheeks warmed by their breath, looking at their dirty beards as though she had been counting the hairs. my-boots drooled, his pipe between his teeth, with the dumb and grave air of a dozing ox. bibi-the-smoker was telling a story--the manner in which he emptied a bottle at a draught, giving it such a kiss that one instantly saw its bottom. meanwhile salted-mouth, otherwise drink-without-thirst, had gone and fetched the wheel of fortune from the counter, and was playing with coupeau for drinks. "two hundred! you're lucky; you get high numbers every time!" the needle of the wheel grated, and the figure of fortune, a big red woman placed under glass, turned round and round until it looked like a mere spot in the centre, similar to a wine stain. "three hundred and fifty! you must have been inside it, you confounded lascar! ah! i shan't play any more!" gervaise amused herself with the wheel of fortune. she was feeling awfully thirsty, and calling my-boots "my child." behind her the machine for manufacturing drunkards continued working, with its murmur of an underground stream; and she despaired of ever stopping it, of exhausting it, filled with a sullen anger against it, feeling a longing to spring upon the big still as upon some animal, to kick it with her heels and stave in its belly. then everything began to seem all mixed up. the machine seemed to be moving itself and she thought she was being grabbed by its copper claws, and that the underground stream was now flowing over her body. then the room danced round, the gas-jets seemed to shoot like stars. gervaise was drunk. she heard a furious wrangle between salted-mouth, otherwise drink-without-thirst, and that rascal pere colombe. there was a thief of a landlord who wanted one to pay for what one had not had! yet one was not at a gangster's hang-out. suddenly there was a scuffling, yells were heard and tables were upset. it was pere colombe who was turning the party out without the least hesitation, and in the twinkling of an eye. on the other side of the door they blackguarded him and called him a scoundrel. it still rained and blew icy cold. gervaise lost coupeau, found him and then lost him again. she wished to go home; she felt the shops to find her way. this sudden darkness surprised her immensely. at the corner of the rue des poissonniers, she sat down in the gutter thinking she was at the wash-house. the water which flowed along caused her head to swim, and made her very ill. at length she arrived, she passed stiffly before the concierge's room where she perfectly recognized the lorilleuxs and the poissons seated at the table having dinner, and who made grimaces of disgust on beholding her in that sorry state. she never remembered how she had got up all those flights of stairs. just as she was turning into the passage at the top, little lalie, who heard her footsteps, hastened to meet her, opening her arms caressingly, and saying, with a smile: "madame gervaise, papa has not returned. just come and see my little children sleeping. oh! they look so pretty!" but on beholding the laundress' besotted face, she tremblingly drew back. she was acquainted with that brandy-laden breath, those pale eyes, that convulsed mouth. then gervaise stumbled past without uttering a word, whilst the child, standing on the threshold of her room, followed her with her dark eyes, grave and speechless. chapter xi nana was growing up and becoming wayward. at fifteen years old she had expanded like a calf, white-skinned and very fat; so plump, indeed, you might have called her a pincushion. yes, such she was--fifteen years old, full of figure and no stays. a saucy magpie face, dipped in milk, a skin as soft as a peach skin, a funny nose, pink lips and eyes sparkling like tapers, which men would have liked to light their pipes at. her pile of fair hair, the color of fresh oats, seemed to have scattered gold dust over her temples, freckle-like as it were, giving her brow a sunny crown. ah! a pretty doll, as the lorilleuxs say, a dirty nose that needed wiping, with fat shoulders, which were as fully rounded and as powerful as those of a full-grown woman. nana no longer needed to stuff wads of paper into her bodice, her breasts were grown. she wished they were larger though, and dreamed of having breasts like a wet-nurse. what made her particularly tempting was a nasty habit she had of protruding the tip of her tongue between her white teeth. no doubt on seeing herself in the looking-glasses she had thought she was pretty like this; and so, all day long, she poked her tongue out of her mouth, in view of improving her appearance. "hide your lying tongue!" cried her mother. coupeau would often get involved, pounding his fist, swearing and shouting: "make haste and draw that red rag inside again!" nana showed herself very coquettish. she did not always wash her feet, but she bought such tight boots that she suffered martyrdom in st. crispin's prison; and if folks questioned her when she turned purple with pain, she answered that she had the stomach ache, so as to avoid confessing her coquetry. when bread was lacking at home it was difficult for her to trick herself out. but she accomplished miracles, brought ribbons back from the workshop and concocted toilettes--dirty dresses set off with bows and puffs. the summer was the season of her greatest triumphs. with a cambric dress which had cost her six francs she filled the whole neighborhood of the goutte-d'or with her fair beauty. yes, she was known from the outer boulevards to the fortifications, and from the chaussee de clignancourt to the grand rue of la chapelle. folks called her "chickie," for she was really as tender and as fresh-looking as a chicken. there was one dress which suited her perfectly, a white one with pink dots. it was very simple and without a frill. the skirt was rather short and revealed her ankles. the sleeves were deeply slashed and loose, showing her arms to the elbow. she pinned the neck back into a wide v as soon as she reached a dark corner of the staircase to avoid getting her ears boxed by her father for exposing the snowy whiteness of her throat and the golden shadow between her breasts. she also tied a pink ribbon round her blond hair. sundays she spent the entire day out with the crowds and loved it when the men eyed her hungrily as they passed. she waited all week long for these glances. she would get up early to dress herself and spend hours before the fragment of mirror that was hung over the bureau. her mother would scold her because the entire building could see her through the window in her chemise as she mended her dress. ah! she looked cute like that said father coupeau, sneering and jeering at her, a real magdalene in despair! she might have turned "savage woman" at a fair, and have shown herself for a penny. hide your meat, he used to say, and let me eat my bread! in fact, she was adorable, white and dainty under her overhanging golden fleece, losing temper to the point that her skin turned pink, not daring to answer her father, but cutting her thread with her teeth with a hasty, furious jerk, which shook her plump but youthful form. then immediately after breakfast she tripped down the stairs into the courtyard. the entire tenement seemed to be resting sleepily in the peacefulness of a sunday afternoon. the workshops on the ground floor were closed. gaping windows revealed tables in some apartments that were already set for dinner, awaiting families out working up an appetite by strolling along the fortifications. then, in the midst of the empty, echoing courtyard, nana, pauline and other big girls engaged in games of battledore and shuttlecock. they had grown up together and were now becoming queens of their building. whenever a man crossed the court, flutelike laugher would arise, and then starched skirts would rustle like the passing of a gust of wind. the games were only an excuse for them to make their escape. suddenly stillness fell upon the tenement. the girls had glided out into the street and made for the outer boulevards. then, linked arm-in-arm across the full breadth of the pavement, they went off, the whole six of them, clad in light colors, with ribbons tied around their bare heads. with bright eyes darting stealthy glances through their partially closed eyelids, they took note of everything, and constantly threw back their necks to laugh, displaying the fleshy part of their chins. they would swing their hips, or group together tightly, or flaunt along with awkward grace, all for the purpose of calling attention to the fact that their forms were filling out. nana was in the centre with her pink dress all aglow in the sunlight. she gave her arm to pauline, whose costume, yellow flowers on a white ground, glared in similar fashion, dotted as it were with little flames. as they were the tallest of the band, the most woman-like and most unblushing, they led the troop and drew themselves up with breasts well forward whenever they detected glances or heard complimentary remarks. the others extended right and left, puffing themselves out in order to attract attention. nana and pauline resorted to the complicated devices of experienced coquettes. if they ran till they were out of breath, it was in view of showing their white stockings and making the ribbons of their chignons wave in the breeze. when they stopped, pretending complete breathlessness, you would certainly spot someone they knew quite near, one of the young fellows of the neighborhood. this would make them dawdle along languidly, whispering and laughing among themselves, but keeping a sharp watch through their downcast eyelids. they went on these strolls of a sunday mainly for the sake of these chance meetings. tall lads, wearing their sunday best, would stop them, joking and trying to catch them round their waists. pauline was forever running into one of madame gaudron's sons, a seventeen-year-old carpenter, who would treat her to fried potatoes. nana could spot victor fauconnier, the laundress's son and they would exchange kisses in dark corners. it never went farther than that, but they told each other some tall tales. then when the sun set, the great delight of these young hussies was to stop and look at the mountebanks. conjurors and strong men turned up and spread threadbare carpets on the soil of the avenue. loungers collected and a circle formed whilst the mountebank in the centre tried his muscles under his faded tights. nana and pauline would stand for hours in the thickest part of the crowd. their pretty, fresh frocks would get crushed between great-coats and dirty work smocks. in this atmosphere of wine and sweat they would laugh gaily, finding amusement in everything, blooming naturally like roses growing out of a dunghill. the only thing that vexed them was to meet their fathers, especially when the hatter had been drinking. so they watched and warned one another. "look, nana," pauline would suddenly cry out, "here comes father coupeau!" "well, he's drunk too. oh, dear," said nana, greatly bothered. "i'm going to beat it, you know. i don't want him to give me a wallop. hullo! how he stumbles! good lord, if he could only break his neck!" at other times, when coupeau came straight up to her without giving her time to run off, she crouched down, made herself small and muttered: "just you hide me, you others. he's looking for me, and he promised he'd knock my head off if he caught me hanging about." then when the drunkard had passed them she drew herself up again, and all the others followed her with bursts of laughter. he'll find her--he will--he won't! it was a true game of hide and seek. one day, however, boche had come after pauline and caught her by both ears, and coupeau had driven nana home with kicks. nana was now a flower-maker and earned forty sous a day at titreville's place in the rue du caire, where she had served as apprentice. the coupeaus had kept her there so that she might remain under the eye of madame lerat, who had been forewoman in the workroom for ten years. of a morning, when her mother looked at the cuckoo clock, off she went by herself, looking very pretty with her shoulders tightly confined in her old black dress, which was both too narrow and too short; and madame lerat had to note the hour of her arrival and tell it to gervaise. she was allowed twenty minutes to go from the rue de la goutte-d'or to the rue du caire, and it was enough, for these young hussies have the legs of racehorses. sometimes she arrived exactly on time but so breathless and flushed that she must have covered most of the distance at a run after dawdling along the way. more often she was a few minutes late. then she would fawn on her aunt all day, hoping to soften her and keep her from telling. madame lerat understood what it was to be young and would lie to the coupeaus, but she also lectured nana, stressing the dangers a young girl runs on the streets of paris. _mon dieu!_ she herself was followed often enough! "oh! i watch, you needn't fear," said the widow to the coupeaus. "i will answer to you for her as i would for myself. and rather than let a blackguard squeeze her, why i'd step between them." the workroom at titreville's was a large apartment on the first floor, with a broad work-table standing on trestles in the centre. round the four walls, the plaster of which was visible in parts where the dirty yellowish-grey paper was torn away, there were several stands covered with old cardboard boxes, parcels and discarded patterns under a thick coating of dust. the gas had left what appeared to be like a daub of soot on the ceiling. the two windows opened so wide that without leaving the work-table the girls could see the people walking past on the pavement over the way. madame lerat arrived the first, in view of setting an example. then for a quarter of an hour the door swayed to and fro, and all the workgirls scrambled in, perspiring with tumbled hair. one july morning nana arrived the last, as very often happened. "ah, me!" she said, "it won't be a pity when i have a carriage of my own." and without even taking off her hat, one which she was weary of patching up, she approached the window and leant out, looking to the right and the left to see what was going on in the street. "what are you looking at?" asked madame lerat, suspiciously. "did your father come with you?" "no, you may be sure of that," answered nana coolly. "i'm looking at nothing--i'm seeing how hot it is. it's enough to make anyone, having to run like that." it was a stifling hot morning. the workgirls had drawn down the venetian blinds, between which they could spy out into the street; and they had at last begun working on either side of the table, at the upper end of which sat madame lerat. they were eight in number, each with her pot of glue, pincers, tools and curling stand in front of her. on the work-table lay a mass of wire, reels, cotton wool, green and brown paper, leaves and petals cut out of silk, satin or velvet. in the centre, in the neck of a large decanter, one flower-girl had thrust a little penny nosegay which had been fading on her breast since the day before. "oh, i have some news," said a pretty brunette named leonie as she leaned over her cushion to crimp some rose petals. "poor caroline is very unhappy about that fellow who used to wait for her every evening." "ah!" said nana, who was cutting thin strips of green paper. "a man who cheats on her every day!" madame lerat had to display severity over the muffled laughter. then leonie whispered suddenly: "quiet. the boss!" it was indeed madame titreville who entered. the tall thin woman usually stayed down in the shop. the girls were quite in awe of her because she never joked with them. all the heads were now bent over the work in diligent silence. madame titreville slowly circled the work-table. she told one girl her work was sloppy and made her do the flower over. then she stalked out as stiffly as she had come in. the complaining and low laughter began again. "really, young ladies!" said madame lerat, trying to look more severe than ever. "you will force me to take measures." the workgirls paid no attention to her. they were not afraid of her. she was too easy-going because she enjoyed being surrounded by these young girls whose zest for life sparkled in their eyes. she enjoyed taking them aside to hear their confidences about their lovers. she even told their fortunes with cards whenever a corner of the work-table was free. she was only offended by coarse expressions. as long as you avoided those you could say what you pleased. to tell the truth, nana perfected her education in nice style in the workroom! no doubt she was already inclined to go wrong. but this was the finishing stroke--associating with a lot of girls who were already worn out with misery and vice. they all hobnobbed and rotted together, just the story of the baskets of apples when there are rotten ones among them. they maintained a certain propriety in public, but the smut flowed freely when they got to whispering together in a corner. for inexperienced girls like nana, there was an undesirable atmosphere around the workshop, an air of cheap dance halls and unorthodox evenings brought in by some of the girls. the laziness of mornings after a gay night, the shadows under the eyes, the lounging, the hoarse voices, all spread an odor of dark perversion over the work-table which contrasted sharply with the brilliant fragility of the artificial flowers. nana eagerly drank it all in and was dizzy with joy when she found herself beside a girl who had been around. she always wanted to sit next to big lisa, who was said to be pregnant, and she kept glancing curiously at her neighbor as though expecting her to swell up suddenly. "it's hot enough to make one stifle," nana said, approaching a window as if to draw the blind farther down; but she leant forward and again looked out both to the right and left. at the same moment leonie, who was watching a man stationed at the foot of the pavement over the way, exclaimed, "what's that old fellow about? he's been spying here for the last quarter of an hour." "some tom cat," said madame lerat. "nana, just come and sit down! i told you not to stand at the window." nana took up the stems of some violets she was rolling, and the whole workroom turned its attention to the man in question. he was a well-dressed individual wearing a frock coat and he looked about fifty years old. he had a pale face, very serous and dignified in expression, framed round with a well trimmed grey beard. he remained for an hour in front of a herbalist's shop with his eyes fixed on the venetian blinds of the workroom. the flower-girls indulged in little bursts of laughter which died away amid the noise of the street, and while leaning forward, to all appearance busy with their work, they glanced askance so as not to lose sight of the gentleman. "ah!" remarked leonie, "he wears glasses. he's a swell. he's waiting for augustine, no doubt." but augustine, a tall, ugly, fair-haired girl, sourly answered that she did not like old men; whereupon madame lerat, jerking her head, answered with a smile full of underhand meaning: "that is a great mistake on your part, my dear; the old ones are more affectionate." at this moment leonie's neighbor, a plump little body, whispered something in her ear and leonie suddenly threw herself back on her chair, seized with a fit of noisy laughter, wriggling, looking at the gentleman and then laughing all the louder. "that's it. oh! that's it," she stammered. "how dirty that sophie is!" "what did she say? what did she say?" asked the whole workroom, aglow with curiosity. leonie wiped the tears from her eyes without answering. when she became somewhat calmer, she began curling her flowers again and declared, "it can't be repeated." the others insisted, but she shook her head, seized again with a gust of gaiety. thereupon augustine, her left-hand neighbor, besought her to whisper it to her; and finally leonie consented to do so with her lips close to augustine's ear. augustine threw herself back and wriggled with convulsive laughter in her turn. then she repeated the phrase to a girl next to her, and from ear to ear it traveled round the room amid exclamations and stifled laughter. when they were all of them acquainted with sophie's disgusting remark they looked at one another and burst out laughing together although a little flushed and confused. madame lerat alone was not in the secret and she felt extremely vexed. "that's very impolite behavior on your part, young ladies," said she. "it is not right to whisper when other people are present. something indecent no doubt! ah! that's becoming!" she did not dare go so far as to ask them to pass sophie's remark on to her although she burned to hear it. so she kept her eyes on her work, amusing herself by listening to the conversation. now no one could make even an innocent remark without the others twisting it around and connecting it with the gentleman on the sidewalk. madame lerat herself once sent them into convulsions of laughter when she said, "mademoiselle lisa, my fire's gone out. pass me yours." "oh! madame lerat's fire's out!" laughed the whole shop. they refused to listen to any explanation, but maintained they were going to call in the gentleman outside to rekindle madame lerat's fire. however, the gentleman over the way had gone off. the room grew calmer and the work was carried on in the sultry heat. when twelve o'clock struck--meal-time--they all shook themselves. nana, who had hastened to the window again, volunteered to do the errands if they liked. and leonie ordered two sous worth of shrimps, augustine a screw of fried potatoes, lisa a bunch of radishes, sophie a sausage. then as nana was doing down the stairs, madame lerat, who found her partiality for the window that morning rather curious, overtook her with her long legs. "wait a bit," said she. "i'll go with you. i want to buy something too." but in the passage below she perceived the gentleman, stuck there like a candle and exchanging glances with nana. the girl flushed very red, whereupon her aunt at once caught her by the arm and made her trot over the pavement, whilst the individual followed behind. ah! so the tom cat had come for nana. well, that _was_ nice! at fifteen years and a half to have men trailing after her! then madame lerat hastily began to question her. _mon dieu!_ nana didn't know; he had only been following her for five days, but she could not poke her nose out of doors without stumbling on men. she believed he was in business; yes, a manufacturer of bone buttons. madame lerat was greatly impressed. she turned round and glanced at the gentleman out of the corner of her eye. "one can see he's got a deep purse," she muttered. "listen to me, kitten; you must tell me everything. you have nothing more to fear now." whilst speaking they hastened from shop to shop--to the pork butcher's, the fruiterer's, the cook-shop; and the errands in greasy paper were piled up in their hands. still they remained amiable, flouncing along and casting bright glances behind them with gusts of gay laughter. madame lerat herself was acting the young girl, on account of the button manufacturer who was still following them. "he is very distinguished looking," she declared as they returned into the passage. "if he only has honorable views--" then, as they were going up the stairs she suddenly seemed to remember something. "by the way, tell me what the girls were whispering to each other--you know, what sophie said?" nana did not make any ceremony. only she caught madame lerat by the hand, and caused her to descend a couple of steps, for, really, it wouldn't do to say it aloud, not even on the stairs. when she whispered it to her, it was so obscene that madame lerat could only shake her head, opening her eyes wide, and pursing her lips. well, at least her curiosity wasn't troubling her any longer. from that day forth madame lerat regaled herself with her niece's first love adventure. she no longer left her, but accompanied her morning and evening, bringing her responsibility well to the fore. this somewhat annoyed nana, but all the same she expanded with pride at seeing herself guarded like a treasure; and the talk she and her aunt indulged in in the street with the button manufacturer behind them flattered her, and rather quickened her desire for new flirtations. oh! her aunt understood the feelings of the heart; she even compassionated the button manufacturer, this elderly gentleman, who looked so respectable, for, after all, sentimental feelings are more deeply rooted among people of a certain age. still she watched. and, yes, he would have to pass over her body before stealing her niece. one evening she approached the gentleman, and told him, as straight as a bullet, that his conduct was most improper. he bowed to her politely without answering, like an old satyr who was accustomed to hear parents tell him to go about his business. she really could not be cross with him, he was too well mannered. then came lectures on love, allusions to dirty blackguards of men, and all sorts of stories about hussies who had repented of flirtations, which left nana in a state of pouting, with eyes gleaming brightly in her pale face. one day, however, in the rue du faubourg-poissonniere the button manufacturer ventured to poke his nose between the aunt and the niece to whisper some things which ought not to have been said. thereupon madame lerat was so frightened that she declared she no longer felt able to handle the matter and she told the whole business to her brother. then came another row. there were some pretty rumpuses in the coupeaus' room. to begin with, the zinc-worker gave nana a hiding. what was that he learnt? the hussy was flirting with old men. all right. only let her be caught philandering out of doors again, she'd be done for; he, her father, would cut off her head in a jiffy. had the like ever been seen before! a dirty nose who thought of beggaring her family! thereupon he shook her, declaring in god's name that she'd have to walk straight, for he'd watch her himself in future. he now looked her over every night when she came in, even going so far as to sniff at her and make her turn round before him. one evening she got another hiding because he discovered a mark on her neck that he maintained was the mark of a kiss. nana insisted it was a bruise that leonie had given her when they were having a bit of a rough-house. yet at other times her father would tease her, saying she was certainly a choice morsel for men. nana began to display the sullen submissiveness of a trapped animal. she was raging inside. "why don't you leave her alone?" repeated gervaise, who was more reasonable. "you will end by making her wish to do it by talking to her about it so much." ah! yes, indeed, she did wish to do it. she itched all over, longing to break loose and gad all the time, as father coupeau said. he insisted so much on the subject that even an honest girl would have fired up. even when he was abusing her, he taught her a few things she did not know as yet, which, to say the least was astonishing. then, little by little she acquired some singular habits. one morning he noticed her rummaging in a paper bag and rubbing something on her face. it was rice powder, which she plastered on her delicate satin-like skin with perverse taste. he caught up the paper bag and rubbed it over her face violently enough to graze her skin and called her a miller's daughter. on another occasion she brought some ribbon home, to do up her old black hat which she was so ashamed of. he asked her in a furious voice where she had got those ribbons from. had she earned them by lying on her back or had she bagged them somewhere? a hussy or a thief, and perhaps both by now? more than once he found her with some pretty little doodad. she had found a little interlaced heart in the street on rue d'aboukir. her father crushed the heart under his foot, driving her to the verge of throwing herself at him to ruin something of his. for two years she had been longing for one of those hearts, and now he had smashed it! this was too much, she was reaching the end of the line with him. coupeau was often in the wrong in the manner in which he tried to rule nana. his injustice exasperated her. she at last left off attending the workshop and when the zinc-worker gave her a hiding, she declared she would not return to titreville's again, for she was always placed next to augustine, who must have swallowed her feet to have such a foul breath. then coupeau took her himself to the rue du caire and requested the mistress of the establishment to place her always next to augustine, by way of punishment. every morning for a fortnight he took the trouble to come down from the barriere poissonniere to escort nana to the door of the flower shop. and he remained for five minutes on the footway, to make sure that she had gone in. but one morning while he was drinking a glass with a friend in a wineshop in the rue saint-denis, he perceived the hussy darting down the street. for a fortnight she had been deceiving him; instead of going into the workroom, she climbed a story higher, and sat down on the stairs, waiting till he had gone off. when coupeau began casting the blame on madame lerat, the latter flatly replied that she would not accept it. she had told her niece all she ought to tell her, to keep her on her guard against men, and it was not her fault if the girl still had a liking for the nasty beasts. now, she washed her hands of the whole business; she swore she would not mix up in it, for she knew what she knew about scandalmongers in her own family, yes, certain persons who had the nerve to accuse her of going astray with nana and finding an indecent pleasure in watching her take her first misstep. then coupeau found out from the proprietress that nana was being corrupted by that little floozie leonie, who had given up flower-making to go on the street. nana was being tempted by the jingle of cash and the lure of adventure on the streets. in the tenement in the rue de la goutte-d'or, nana's old fellow was talked about as a gentleman everyone was acquainted with. oh! he remained very polite, even a little timid, but awfully obstinate and patient, following her ten paces behind like an obedient poodle. sometimes, indeed, he ventured into the courtyard. one evening, madame gaudron met him on the second floor landing, and he glided down alongside the balusters with his nose lowered and looking as if on fire, but frightened. the lorilleuxs threatened to move out if that wayward niece of theirs brought men trailing in after her. it was disgusting. the staircase was full of them. the boches said that they felt sympathy for the old gentleman because he had fallen for a tramp. he was really a respectable businessman, they had seen his button factory on the boulevard de la villette. he would be an excellent catch for a decent girl. for the first month nana was greatly amused with her old flirt. you should have seen him always dogging her--a perfect great nuisance, who followed far behind, in the crowd, without seeming to do so. and his legs! regular lucifers. no more moss on his pate, only four straight hairs falling on his neck, so that she was always tempted to ask him where his hairdresser lived. ah! what an old gaffer, he was comical and no mistake, nothing to get excited over. then, on finding him always behind her, she no longer thought him so funny. she became afraid of him and would have called out if he had approached her. often, when she stopped in front of a jeweler's shop, she heard him stammering something behind her. and what he said was true; she would have liked to have had a cross with a velvet neck-band, or a pair of coral earrings, so small you would have thought they were drops of blood. more and more, as she plodded through the mire of the streets, getting splashed by passing vehicles and being dazzled by the magnificence of the window displays, she felt longings that tortured her like hunger pangs, yearnings for better clothes, for eating in restaurants, for going to the theatre, for a room of her own with nice furniture. right at those moments, it never failed that her old gentleman would come up to whisper something in her ear. oh, if only she wasn't afraid of him, how readily she would have taken up with him. when the winter arrived, life became impossible at home. nana had her hiding every night. when her father was tired of beating her, her mother smacked her to teach her how to behave. and there were free-for-alls; as soon as one of them began to beat her, the other took her part, so that all three of them ended by rolling on the floor in the midst of the broken crockery. and with all this, there were short rations and they shivered with cold. whenever the girl bought anything pretty, a bow or a pair of buttons, her parents confiscated the purchase and drank what they could get for it. she had nothing of her own, excepting her allowance of blows, before coiling herself up between the rags of a sheet, where she shivered under her little black skirt, which she stretched out by way of a blanket. no, that cursed life could not continue; she was not going to leave her skin in it. her father had long since ceased to count for her; when a father gets drunk like hers did, he isn't a father, but a dirty beast one longs to be rid of. and now, too, her mother was doing down the hill in her esteem. she drank as well. she liked to go and fetch her husband at pere colombe's, so as to be treated; and she willingly sat down, with none of the air of disgust that she had assumed on the first occasion, draining glasses indeed at one gulp, dragging her elbows over the table for hours and leaving the place with her eyes starting out of her head. when nana passed in front of l'assommoir and saw her mother inside, with her nose in her glass, fuddled in the midst of the disputing men, she was seized with anger; for youth which has other dainty thoughts uppermost does not understand drink. on these evenings it was a pretty sight. father drunk, mother drunk, a hell of a home that stunk with liquor, and where there was no bread. to tell the truth, a saint would not have stayed in the place. so much the worse if she flew the coop one of these days; her parents would have to say their _mea culpa_, and own that they had driven her out themselves. one saturday when nana came home she found her father and her mother in a lamentable condition. coupeau, who had fallen across the bed was snoring. gervaise, crouching on a chair was swaying her head, with her eyes vaguely and threateningly staring into vacancy. she had forgotten to warm the dinner, the remains of a stew. a tallow dip which she neglected to snuff revealed the shameful misery of their hovel. "it's you, shrimp?" stammered gervaise. "ah, well, your father will take care of you." nana did not answer, but remained pale, looking at the cold stove, the table on which no plates were laid, the lugubrious hovel which this pair of drunkards invested with the pale horror of their callousness. she did not take off her hat but walked round the room; then with her teeth tightly set, she opened the door and went out. "you are doing down again?" asked her mother, who was unable even to turn her head. "yes; i've forgotten something. i shall come up again. good evening." and she did not return. on the morrow when the coupeaus were sobered they fought together, reproaching each other with being the cause of nana's flight. ah! she was far away if she were running still! as children are told of sparrows, her parents might set a pinch of salt on her tail, and then perhaps they would catch her. it was a great blow, and crushed gervaise, for despite the impairment of her faculties, she realized perfectly well that her daughter's misconduct lowered her still more; she was alone now, with no child to think about, able to let herself sink as low as she could fall. she drank steadily for three days. coupeau prowled along the exterior boulevards without seeing nana and then came home to smoke his pipe peacefully. he was always back in time for his soup. in this tenement, where girls flew off every month like canaries whose cages are left open, no one was astonished to hear of the coupeaus' mishap. but the lorilleuxs were triumphant. ah! they had predicted that the girl would reward her parents in this fashion. it was deserved; all artificial flower-girls went that way. the boches and the poissons also sneered with an extraordinary display and outlay of grief. lantier alone covertly defended nana. _mon dieu!_ said he, with his puritanical air, no doubt a girl who so left her home did offend her parents; but, with a gleam in the corner of his eyes, he added that, dash it! the girl was, after all, too pretty to lead such a life of misery at her age. "do you know," cried madame lorilleux, one day in the boches' room, where the party were taking coffee; "well, as sure as daylight, clump-clump sold her daughter. yes she sold her, and i have proof of it! that old fellow, who was always on the stairs morning and night, went up to pay something on account. it stares one in the face. they were seen together at the ambigu theatre--the young wench and her old tom cat. upon my word of honor, they're living together, it's quite plain." they discussed the scandal thoroughly while finishing their coffee. yes, it was quite possible. soon most of the neighborhood accepted the conclusion that gervaise had actually sold her daughter. gervaise now shuffled along in her slippers, without caring a rap for anyone. you might have called her a thief in the street, she wouldn't have turned round. for a month past she hadn't looked at madame fauconnier's; the latter had had to turn her out of the place to avoid disputes. in a few weeks' time she had successively entered the service of eight washerwomen; she only lasted two or three days in each place before she got the sack, so badly did she iron the things entrusted to her, careless and dirty, her mind failing to such a point that she quite forgot her own craft. at last realizing her own incapacity she abandoned ironing; and went out washing by the day at the wash-house in the rue neuve, where she still jogged on, floundering about in the water, fighting with filth, reduced to the roughest but simplest work, a bit lower on the down-hill slopes. the wash-house scarcely beautified her. a real mud-splashed dog when she came out of it, soaked and showing her blue skin. at the same time she grew stouter and stouter, despite her frequent dances before the empty sideboard, and her leg became so crooked that she could no longer walk beside anyone without the risk of knocking him over, so great indeed was her limp. naturally enough when a woman falls to this point all her pride leaves her. gervaise had divested herself of all her old self-respect, coquetry and need of sentiment, propriety and politeness. you might have kicked her, no matter where, she did not feel kicks for she had become too fat and flabby. lantier had altogether neglected her; he no longer escorted her or even bothered to give her a pinch now and again. she did not seem to notice this finish of a long liaison slowly spun out, and ending in mutual insolence. it was a chore the less for her. even lantier's intimacy with virginie left her quite calm, so great was her indifference now for all that she had been so upset about in the past. she would even have held a candle for them now. everyone was aware that virginie and lantier were carrying on. it was much too convenient, especially with poisson on duty every other night. lantier had thought of himself when he advised virginie to deal in dainties. he was too much of a provincial not to adore sugared things; and in fact he would have lived off sugar candy, lozenges, pastilles, sugar plums and chocolate. sugared almonds especially left a little froth on his lips so keenly did they tickle his palate. for a year he had been living only on sweetmeats. he opened the drawers and stuffed himself whenever virginie asked him to mind the shop. often, when he was talking in the presence of five or six other people, he would take the lid off a jar on the counter, dip his hand into it and begin to nibble at something sweet; the glass jar remained open and its contents diminished. people ceased paying attention to it, it was a mania of his so he had declared. besides, he had devised a perpetual cold, an irritation of the throat, which he always talked of calming. he still did not work, for he had more and more important schemes than ever in view. he was contriving a superb invention--the umbrella hat, a hat which transformed itself into an umbrella on your head as soon as a shower commenced to fall; and he promised poisson half shares in the profit of it, and even borrowed twenty franc pieces of him to defray the cost of experiments. meanwhile the shop melted away on his tongue. all the stock-in-trade followed suit down to the chocolate cigars and pipes in pink caramel. whenever he was stuffed with sweetmeats and seized with a fit of tenderness, he paid himself with a last lick on the groceress in a corner, who found him all sugar with lips which tasted like burnt almonds. such a delightful man to kiss! he was positively becoming all honey. the boches said he merely had to dip a finger into his coffee to sweeten it. softened by this perpetual dessert, lantier showed himself paternal towards gervaise. he gave her advice and scolded her because she no longer liked to work. indeed! a woman of her age ought to know how to turn herself round. and he accused her of having always been a glutton. nevertheless, as one ought to hold out a helping hand, even to folks who don't deserve it, he tried to find her a little work. thus he had prevailed upon virginie to let gervaise come once a week to scrub the shop and the rooms. that was the sort of thing she understood and on each occasion she earned her thirty sous. gervaise arrived on the saturday morning with a pail and a scrubbing brush, without seeming to suffer in the least at having to perform a dirty, humble duty, a charwoman's work in the dwelling-place where she had reigned as the beautiful fair-haired mistress. it was a last humiliation, the end of her pride. one saturday she had a hard job of it. it had rained for three days and the customers seemed to have brought all the mud of the neighborhood into the shop on the soles of their boots. virginie was at the counter doing the grand, with her hair well combed, and wearing a little white collar and a pair of lace cuffs. beside her, on the narrow seat covered with red oil-cloth, lantier did the dandy, looking for the world as if he were at home, as if he were the real master of the place, and from time to time he carelessly dipped his hand into a jar of peppermint drops, just to nibble something sweet according to his habit. "look here, madame coupeau!" cried virginie, who was watching the scrubbing with compressed lips, "you have left some dirt over there in the corner. scrub that rather better please." gervaise obeyed. she returned to the corner and began to scrub again. she bent double on her knees in the midst of the dirty water, with her shoulders protruding, her arms stiff and purple with cold. her old skirt, fairly soaked, stuck to her figure. and there on the floor she looked a dirty, ill-combed drab, the rents in her jacket showing her puffy form, her fat, flabby flesh which heaved, swayed and floundered about as she went about her work; and all the while she perspired to such a point that from her moist face big drops of sweat fell on to the floor. "the more elbow grease one uses, the more it shines," said lantier, sententiously, with his mouth full of peppermint drops. virginie, who sat back with the demeanor of a princess, her eyes partly open, was still watching the scrubbing, and indulging in remarks. "a little more on the right there. take care of the wainscot. you know i was not very well pleased last saturday. there were some stains left." and both together, the hatter and the groceress assumed a more important air, as if they had been on a throne whilst gervaise dragged herself through the black mud at their feet. virginie must have enjoyed herself, for a yellowish flame darted from her cat's eyes, and she looked at lantier with an insidious smile. at last she was revenged for that hiding she had received at the wash-house, and which she had never forgotten. whenever gervaise ceased scrubbing, a sound of sawing could be heard from the back room. through the open doorway, poisson's profile stood out against the pale light of the courtyard. he was off duty that day and was profiting by his leisure time to indulge in his mania for making little boxes. he was seated at a table and was cutting out arabesques in a cigar box with extraordinary care. "say, badingue!" cried lantier, who had given him this surname again, out of friendship. "i shall want that box of yours as a present for a young lady." virginie gave him a pinch and he reached under the counter to run his fingers like a creeping mouse up her leg. "quite so," said the policeman. "i was working for you, auguste, in view of presenting you with a token of friendship." "ah, if that's the case, i'll keep your little memento!" rejoined lantier with a laugh. "i'll hang it round my neck with a ribbon." then suddenly, as if this thought brought another one to his memory, "by the way," he cried, "i met nana last night." this news caused gervaise such emotion that she sunk down in the dirty water which covered the floor of the shop. "ah!" she muttered speechlessly. "yes; as i was going down the rue des martyrs, i caught sight of a girl who was on the arm of an old fellow in front of me, and i said to myself: i know that shape. i stepped faster and sure enough found myself face to face with nana. there's no need to pity her, she looked very happy, with her pretty woolen dress on her back, a gold cross and an awfully pert expression." "ah!" repeated gervaise in a husky voice. lantier, who had finished the pastilles, took some barley-sugar out of another jar. "she's sneaky," he resumed. "she made a sign to me to follow her, with wonderful composure. then she left her old fellow somewhere in a cafe--oh a wonderful chap, the old bloke, quite used up!--and she came and joined me under the doorway. a pretty little serpent, pretty, and doing the grand, and fawning on you like a little dog. yes, she kissed me, and wanted to have news of everyone--i was very pleased to meet her." "ah!" said gervaise for the third time. she drew herself together, and still waited. hadn't her daughter had a word for her then? in the silence poisson's saw could be heard again. lantier, who felt gay, was sucking his barley-sugar, and smacking his lips. "well, if _i_ saw her, i should go over to the other side of the street," interposed virginie, who had just pinched the hatter again most ferociously. "it isn't because you are there, madame coupeau, but your daughter is rotten to the core. why, every day poisson arrests girls who are better than she is." gervaise said nothing, nor did she move; her eyes staring into space. she ended by jerking her head to and fro, as if in answer to her thoughts, whilst the hatter, with a gluttonous mien, muttered: "ah, a man wouldn't mind getting a bit of indigestion from that sort of rottenness. it's as tender as chicken." but the grocer gave him such a terrible look that he had to pause and quiet her with some delicate attention. he watched the policeman, and perceiving that he had his nose lowered over his little box again, he profited of the opportunity to shove some barley-sugar into virginie's mouth. thereupon she laughed at him good-naturedly and turned all her anger against gervaise. "just make haste, eh? the work doesn't do itself while you remain stuck there like a street post. come, look alive, i don't want to flounder about in the water till night time." and she added hatefully in a lower tone: "it isn't my fault if her daughter's gone and left her." no doubt gervaise did not hear. she had begun to scrub the floor again, with her back bent and dragging herself along with a frog-like motion. she still had to sweep the dirty water out into the gutter, and then do the final rinsing. after a pause, lantier, who felt bored, raised his voice again: "do you know, badingue," he cried, "i met your boss yesterday in the rue de rivoli. he looked awfully down in the mouth. he hasn't six months' life left in his body. ah! after all, with the life he leads--" he was talking about the emperor. the policeman did not raise his eyes, but curtly answered: "if you were the government you wouldn't be so fat." "oh, my dear fellow, if i were the government," rejoined the hatter, suddenly affecting an air of gravity, "things would go on rather better, i give you my word for it. thus, their foreign policy--why, for some time past it has been enough to make a fellow sweat. if i--i who speak to you--only knew a journalist to inspire him with my ideas." he was growing animated, and as he had finished crunching his barley-sugar, he opened a drawer from which he took a number of jujubes, which he swallowed while gesticulating. "it's quite simple. before anything else, i should give poland her independence again, and i should establish a great scandinavian state to keep the giant of the north at bay. then i should make a republic out of all the little german states. as for england, she's scarcely to be feared; if she budged ever so little i should send a hundred thousand men to india. add to that i should send the sultan back to mecca and the pope to jerusalem, belaboring their backs with the butt end of a rifle. eh? europe would soon be clean. come, badingue, just look here." he paused to take five or six jujubes in his hand. "why, it wouldn't take longer than to swallow these." and he threw one jujube after another into his open mouth. "the emperor has another plan," said the policeman, after reflecting for a couple of minutes. "oh, forget it," rejoined the hatter. "we know what his plan is. all europe is laughing at us. every day the tuileries footmen find your boss under the table between a couple of high society floozies." poisson rose to his feet. he came forward and placed his hand on his heart, saying: "you hurt me, auguste. discuss, but don't involve personalities." thereupon virginie intervened, bidding them stop their row. she didn't care a fig for europe. how could two men, who shared everything else, always be disputing about politics? for a minute they mumbled some indistinct words. then the policeman, in view of showing that he harbored no spite, produced the cover of his little box, which he had just finished; it bore the inscription in marquetry: "to auguste, a token of friendship." lantier, feeling exceedingly flattered, lounged back and spread himself out so that he almost sat upon virginie. and the husband viewed the scene with his face the color of an old wall and his bleared eyes fairly expressionless; but all the same, at moments the red hairs of his moustaches stood up on end of their own accord in a very singular fashion, which would have alarmed any man who was less sure of his business than the hatter. this beast of a lantier had the quiet cheek which pleases ladies. as poisson turned his back he was seized with the idea of printing a kiss on madame poisson's left eye. as a rule he was stealthily prudent, but when he had been disputing about politics he risked everything, so as to show the wife his superiority. these gloating caresses, cheekily stolen behind the policeman's back, revenged him on the empire which had turned france into a house of quarrels. only on this occasion he had forgotten gervaise's presence. she had just finished rinsing and wiping the shop, and she stood near the counter waiting for her thirty sous. however, the kiss on virginie's eye left her perfectly calm, as being quite natural, and as part of a business she had no right to mix herself up in. virginie seemed rather vexed. she threw the thirty sous on to the counter in front of gervaise. the latter did not budge but stood there waiting, still palpitating with the effort she had made in scrubbing, and looking as soaked and as ugly as a dog fished out of the sewer. "then she didn't tell you anything?" she asked the hatter at last. "who?" he cried. "ah, yes; you mean nana. no, nothing else. what a tempting mouth she has, the little hussy! real strawberry jam!" gervaise went off with her thirty sous in her hand. the holes in her shoes spat water forth like pumps; they were real musical shoes, and played a tune as they left moist traces of their broad soles along the pavement. in the neighborhood the feminine tipplers of her own class now related that she drank to console herself for her daughter's misconduct. she herself, when she gulped down her dram of spirits on the counter, assumed a dramatic air, and tossed the liquor into her mouth, wishing it would "do" for her. and on the days when she came home boozed she stammered that it was all through grief. but honest folks shrugged their shoulders. they knew what that meant: ascribing the effects of the peppery fire of l'assommoir to grief, indeed! at all events, she ought to have called it bottled grief. no doubt at the beginning she couldn't digest nana's flight. all the honest feelings remaining in her revolted at the thought, and besides, as a rule a mother doesn't like to have to think that her daughter, at that very moment, perhaps, is being familiarly addressed by the first chance comer. but gervaise was already too stultified with a sick head and a crushed heart, to think of the shame for long. with her it came and went. she remained sometimes for a week together without thinking of her daughter, and then suddenly a tender or an angry feeling seized hold of her, sometimes when she had her stomach empty, at others when it was full, a furious longing to catch nana in some corner, where she would perhaps have kissed her or perhaps have beaten her, according to the fancy of the moment. whenever these thoughts came over her, gervaise looked on all sides in the streets with the eyes of a detective. ah! if she had only seen her little sinner, how quickly she would have brought her home again! the neighborhood was being turned topsy-turvy that year. the boulevard magenta and the boulevard ornano were being pierced; they were doing away with the old barriere poissonniere and cutting right through the outer boulevard. the district could not be recognized. the whole of one side of the rue des poissonniers had been pulled down. from the rue de la goutte-d'or a large clearing could now be seen, a dash of sunlight and open air; and in place of the gloomy buildings which had hidden the view in this direction there rose up on the boulevard ornano a perfect monument, a six-storied house, carved all over like a church, with clear windows, which, with their embroidered curtains, seemed symbolical of wealth. this white house, standing just in front of the street, illuminated it with a jet of light, as it were, and every day it caused discussions between lantier and poisson. gervaise had several times had tidings of nana. there are always ready tongues anxious to pay you a sorry compliment. yes, she had been told that the hussy had left her old gentleman, just like the inexperienced girl she was. she had gotten along famously with him, petted, adored, and free, too, if she had only known how to manage the situation. but youth is foolish, and she had no doubt gone off with some young rake, no one knew exactly where. what seemed certain was that one afternoon she had left her old fellow on the place de la bastille, just for half a minute, and he was still waiting for her to return. other persons swore they had seen her since, dancing on her heels at the "grand hall of folly," in the rue de la chapelle. then it was that gervaise took it into her head to frequent all the dancing places of the neighborhood. she did not pass in front of a public ball-room without going in. coupeau accompanied her. at first they merely made the round of the room, looking at the drabs who were jumping about. but one evening, as they had some coin, they sat down and ordered a large bowl of hot wine in view of regaling themselves and waiting to see if nana would turn up. at the end of a month or so they had practically forgotten her, but they frequented the halls for their own pleasure, liking to look at the dancers. they would remain for hours without exchanging a word, resting their elbows on the table, stultified amidst the quaking of the floor, and yet no doubt amusing themselves as they stared with pale eyes at the barriere women in the stifling atmosphere and ruddy glow of the hall. it happened one november evening that they went into the "grand hall of folly" to warm themselves. out of doors a sharp wind cut you across the face. but the hall was crammed. there was a thundering big swarm inside; people at all the tables, people in the middle, people up above, quite an amount of flesh. yes, those who cared for tripes could enjoy themselves. when they had made the round twice without finding a vacant table, they decided to remain standing and wait till somebody went off. coupeau was teetering on his legs, in a dirty blouse, with an old cloth cap which had lost its peak flattened down on his head. and as he blocked the way, he saw a scraggy young fellow who was wiping his coat-sleeve after elbowing him. "say!" cried coupeau in a fury, as he took his pipe out of his black mouth. "can't you apologize? and you play the disgusted one? just because a fellow wears a blouse!" the young man turned round and looked at the zinc-worker from head to foot. "i'll just teach you, you scraggy young scamp," continued coupeau, "that the blouse is the finest garment out; yes! the garment of work. i'll wipe you if you like with my fists. did one ever hear of such a thing--a ne'er-do-well insulting a workman!" gervaise tried to calm him, but in vain. he drew himself up in his rags, in full view, and struck his blouse, roaring: "there's a man's chest under that!" thereupon the young man dived into the midst of the crowd, muttering: "what a dirty blackguard!" coupeau wanted to follow and catch him. he wasn't going to let himself be insulted by a fellow with a coat on. probably it wasn't even paid for! some second-hand toggery to impress a girl with, without having to fork out a centime. if he caught the chap again, he'd bring him down on his knees and make him bow to the blouse. but the crush was too great; there was no means of walking. he and gervaise turned slowly round the dancers; there were three rows of sightseers packed close together, whose faces lighted up whenever any of the dancers showed off. as coupeau and gervaise were both short, they raised themselves up on tiptoe, trying to see something besides the chignons and hats that were bobbing about. the cracked brass instruments of the orchestra were furiously thundering a quadrille, a perfect tempest which made the hall shake; while the dancers, striking the floor with their feet, raised a cloud of dust which dimmed the brightness of the gas. the heat was unbearable. "look there," said gervaise suddenly. "look at what?" "why, at that velvet hat over there." they raised themselves up on tiptoe. on the left hand there was an old black velvet hat trimmed with ragged feathers bobbing about--regular hearse's plumes. it was dancing a devil of a dance, this hat--bouncing and whirling round, diving down and then springing up again. coupeau and gervaise lost sight of it as the people round about moved their heads, but then suddenly they saw it again, swaying farther off with such droll effrontery that folks laughed merely at the sight of this dancing hat, without knowing what was underneath it. "well?" asked coupeau. "don't you recognize that head of hair?" muttered gervaise in a stifled voice. "may my head be cut off if it isn't her." with one shove the zinc-worker made his way through the crowd. _mon dieu!_ yes, it was nana! and in a nice pickle too! she had nothing on her back but an old silk dress, all stained and sticky from having wiped the tables of boozing dens, and with its flounces so torn that they fell in tatters round about. not even a bit of a shawl over her shoulders. and to think that the hussy had had such an attentive, loving gentleman, and had yet fallen to this condition, merely for the sake of following some rascal who had beaten her, no doubt! nevertheless she had remained fresh and insolent, with her hair as frizzy as a poodle's, and her mouth bright pink under that rascally hat of hers. "just wait a bit, i'll make her dance!" resumed coupeau. naturally enough, nana was not on her guard. you should have seen how she wriggled about! she twisted to the right and to the left, bending double as if she were going to break herself in two, and kicking her feet as high as her partner's face. a circle had formed about her and this excited her even more. she raised her skirts to her knees and really let herself go in a wild dance, whirling and turning, dropping to the floor in splits, and then jigging and bouncing. coupeau was trying to force his way through the dancers and was disrupting the quadrille. "i tell you, it's my daughter!" he cried; "let me pass." nana was now dancing backwards, sweeping the floor with her flounces, rounding her figure and wriggling it, so as to look all the more tempting. she suddenly received a masterly blow just on the right cheek. she raised herself up and turned quite pale on recognizing her father and mother. bad luck and no mistake. "turn him out!" howled the dancers. but coupeau, who had just recognized his daughter's cavalier as the scraggy young man in the coat, did not care a fig for what the people said. "yes, it's us," he roared. "eh? you didn't expect it. so we catch you here, and with a whipper-snapper, too, who insulted me a little while ago!" gervaise, whose teeth were tight set, pushed him aside, exclaiming, "shut up. there's no need of so much explanation." and, stepping forward, she dealt nana a couple of hearty cuffs. the first knocked the feathered hat on one side, and the second left a red mark on the girl's white cheek. nana was too stupefied either to cry or resist. the orchestra continued playing, the crowd grew angry and repeated savagely, "turn them out! turn them out!" "come, make haste!" resumed gervaise. "just walk in front, and don't try to run off. you shall sleep in prison if you do." the scraggy young man had prudently disappeared. nana walked ahead, very stiff and still stupefied by her bad luck. whenever she showed the lest unwillingness, a cuff from behind brought her back to the direction of the door. and thus they went out, all three of them, amid the jeers and banter of the spectators, whilst the orchestra finished playing the finale with such thunder that the trombones seemed to be spitting bullets. the old life began again. after sleeping for twelve hours in her closet, nana behaved very well for a week or so. she had patched herself a modest little dress, and wore a cap with the strings tied under her chignon. seized indeed with remarkable fervor, she declared she would work at home, where one could earn what one liked without hearing any nasty work-room talk; and she procured some work and installed herself at a table, getting up at five o'clock in the morning on the first few days to roll her sprigs of violets. but when she had delivered a few gross, she stretched her arms and yawned over her work, with her hands cramped, for she had lost her knack of stem-rolling, and suffocated, shut up like this at home after allowing herself so much open air freedom during the last six months. then the glue dried, the petals and the green paper got stained with grease, and the flower-dealer came three times in person to make a row and claim his spoiled materials. nana idled along, constantly getting a hiding from her father, and wrangling with her mother morning and night--quarrels in which the two women flung horrible words at each other's head. it couldn't last; the twelfth day she took herself off, with no more luggage than her modest dress on her back and her cap perched over one ear. the lorilleuxs, who had pursed their lips on hearing of her return and repentance, nearly died of laughter now. second performance, eclipse number two, all aboard for the train for saint-lazare, the prison-hospital for streetwalkers! no, it was really too comical. nana took herself off in such an amusing style. well, if the coupeaus wanted to keep her in the future, they must shut her up in a cage. in the presence of other people the coupeaus pretended they were very glad to be rid of the girl, though in reality they were enraged. however, rage can't last forever, and soon they heard without even blinking that nana was seen in the neighborhood. gervaise, who accused her of doing it to enrage them, set herself above the scandal; she might meet her daughter on the street, she said; she wouldn't even dirty her hand to cuff her; yes, it was all over; she might have seen her lying in the gutter, dying on the pavement, and she would have passed by without even admitting that such a hussy was her own child. nana meanwhile was enlivening the dancing halls of the neighborhood. she was known from the "ball of queen blanche" to the "great hall of folly." when she entered the "elysee-montmartre," folks climbed onto the tables to see her do the "sniffling crawfish" during the pastourelle. as she had twice been turned out of the "chateau rouge" hall, she walked outside the door waiting for someone she knew to escort her inside. the "black ball" on the outer boulevard and the "grand turk" in the rue des poissonniers, were respectable places where she only went when she had some fine dress on. of all the jumping places of the neighborhood, however, those she most preferred were the "hermitage ball" in a damp courtyard and "robert's ball" in the impasse du cadran, two dirty little halls, lighted up with a half dozen oil lamps, and kept very informally, everyone pleased and everyone free, so much so that the men and their girls kissed each other at their ease, in the dances, without being disturbed. nana had ups and downs, perfect transformations, now tricked out like a stylish woman and now all dirt. ah! she had a fine life. on several occasions the coupeaus fancied they saw her in some shady dive. they turned their backs and decamped in another direction so as not to be obliged to recognize her. they didn't care to be laughed at by a whole dancing hall again for the sake of bringing such a dolt home. one night as they were going to bed, however, someone knocked at the door. it was nana who matter-of-factly came to ask for a bed; and in what a state. _mon dieu!_ her head was bare, her dress in tatters, and her boots full of holes--such a toilet as might have led the police to run her in, and take her off to the depot. naturally enough she received a hiding, and then she gluttonously fell on a crust of stale bread and went to sleep, worn out, with the last mouthful between her teeth. then this sort of life continued. as soon as she was somewhat recovered she would go off and not a sight or sound of her. weeks or months would pass and she would suddenly appear with no explanation. the coupeaus got used to these comings and goings. well, as long as she didn't leave the door open. what could you expect? there was only one thing that really bothered gervaise. this was to see her daughter come home in a dress with a train and a hat covered with feathers. no, she couldn't stomach this display. nana might indulge in riotous living if she chose, but when she came home to her mother's she ought to dress like a workgirl. the dresses with trains caused quite a sensation in the house; the lorilleuxs sneered; lantier, whose mouth sneered, turned the girl round to sniff at her delicious aroma; the boches had forbidden pauline to associate with this baggage in her frippery. and gervaise was also angered by nana's exhausted slumber, when after one of her adventures, she slept till noon, with her chignon undone and still full of hair pins, looking so white and breathing so feebly that she seemed to be dead. her mother shook her five or six times in the course of the morning, threatening to throw a jugful of water over her. the sight of this handsome lazy girl, half naked and besotted with wine, exasperated her, as she saw her lying there. sometimes nana opened an eye, closed it again, and then stretched herself out all the more. one day after reproaching her with the life she led and asking her if she had taken on an entire battalion of soldiers, gervaise put her threat into execution to the extent of shaking her dripping hand over nana's body. quite infuriated, the girl pulled herself up in the sheet, and cried out: "that's enough, mamma. it would be better not to talk of men. you did as you liked, and now i do the same!" "what! what!" stammered the mother. "yes, i never spoke to you about it, for it didn't concern me; but you didn't used to be very fussy. i often saw you when we lived at the shop sneaking off as soon as papa started snoring. so just shut up; you shouldn't have set me the example." gervaise remained pale, with trembling hands, turning round without knowing what she was about, whilst nana, flattened on her breast, embraced her pillow with both arms and subsided into the torpor of her leaden slumber. coupeau growled, no longer sane enough to think of launching out a whack. he was altogether losing his mind. and really there was no need to call him an unprincipled father, for liquor had deprived him of all consciousness of good and evil. now it was a settled thing. he wasn't sober once in six months; then he was laid up and had to go into the sainte-anne hospital; a pleasure trip for him. the lorilleuxs said that the duke of bowel-twister had gone to visit his estates. at the end of a few weeks he left the asylum, repaired and set together again, and then he began to pull himself to bits once more, till he was down on his back and needed another mending. in three years he went seven times to sainte-anne in this fashion. the neighborhood said that his cell was kept ready for him. but the worst of the matter was that this obstinate tippler demolished himself more and more each time so that from relapse to relapse one could foresee the final tumble, the last cracking of this shaky cask, all the hoops of which were breaking away, one after the other. at the same time, he forgot to improve in appearance; a perfect ghost to look at! the poison was having terrible effects. by dint of imbibing alcohol, his body shrunk up like the embryos displayed in glass jars in chemical laboratories. when he approached a window you could see through his ribs, so skinny had he become. those who knew his age, only forty years just gone, shuddered when he passed by, bent and unsteady, looking as old as the streets themselves. and the trembling of his hands increased, the right one danced to such an extent, that sometimes he had to take his glass between both fists to carry it to his lips. oh! that cursed trembling! it was the only thing that worried his addled brains. you could hear him growling ferocious insults against those hands of his. this last summer, during which nana usually came home to spend her nights, after she had finished knocking about, was especially bad for coupeau. his voice changed entirely as if liquor had set a new music in his throat. he became deaf in one ear. then in a few days his sight grew dim, and he had to clutch hold of the stair railings to prevent himself from falling. as for his health, he had abominable headaches and dizziness. all on a sudden he was seized with acute pains in his arms and legs; he turned pale; was obliged to sit down, and remained on a chair witless for hours; indeed, after one such attack, his arm remained paralyzed for the whole day. he took to his bed several times; he rolled himself up and hid himself under the sheet, breathing hard and continuously like a suffering animal. then the strange scenes of sainte-anne began again. suspicious and nervous, worried with a burning fever, he rolled about in a mad rage, tearing his blouse and biting the furniture with his convulsed jaws; or else he sank into a great state of emotion, complaining like a child, sobbing and lamenting because nobody loved him. one night when gervaise and nana returned home together they were surprised not to find him in his bed. he had laid the bolster in his place. and when they discovered him, hiding between the bed and the wall, his teeth were chattering, and he related that some men had come to murder him. the two women were obliged to put him to bed again and quiet him like a child. coupeau knew only one remedy, to toss down a pint of spirits; a whack in his stomach, which set him on his feet again. this was how he doctored his gripes of a morning. his memory had left him long ago, his brain was empty; and he no sooner found himself on his feet than he poked fun at illness. he had never been ill. yes, he had got to the point when a fellow kicks the bucket declaring that he's quite well. and his wits were going a-wool-gathering in other respects too. when nana came home after gadding about for six weeks or so he seemed to fancy she had returned from doing some errand in the neighborhood. often when she was hanging on an acquaintance's arm she met him and laughed at him without his recognizing her. in short, he no longer counted for anything; she might have sat down on him if she had been at a loss for a chair. when the first frosts came nana took herself off once more under the pretence of going to the fruiterer's to see if there were any baked pears. she scented winter and didn't care to let her teeth chatter in front of the fireless stove. the coupeaus had called her no good because they had waited for the pears. no doubt she would come back again. the other winter she had stayed away three weeks to fetch her father two sous' worth of tobacco. but the months went by and the girl did not show herself. this time she must have indulged in a hard gallop. when june arrived she did not even turn up with the sunshine. evidently it was all over, she had found a new meal ticket somewhere or other. one day when the coupeaus were totally broke they sold nana's iron bedstead for six francs, which they drank together at saint-ouen. the bedstead had been in their way. one morning in july virginie called to gervaise, who was passing by, and asked her to lend a hand in washing up, for lantier had entertained a couple of friends on the day before. and while gervaise was cleaning up the plates and dishes, greasy with the traces of the spread, the hatter, who was still digesting in the shop, suddenly called out: "say, i saw nana the other day." virginie, who was seated at the counter looking very careworn in front of the jars and drawers which were already three parts emptied, jerked her head furiously. she restrained herself so as not to say too much, but really it was angering her. lantier was seeing nana often. oh! she was by no means sure of him; he was a man to do much worse than that, when a fancy for a woman came into his head. madame lerat, very intimate just then with virginie, who confided in her, had that moment entered the shop, and hearing lantier's remark, she pouted ridiculously, and asked: "what do you mean, you saw her?" "oh, in the street here," answered the hatter, who felt highly flattered, and began to laugh and twirl his moustaches. "she was in a carriage and i was floundering on the pavement. really it was so, i swear it! there's no use denying it, the young fellows of position who are on friendly terms with her are terribly lucky!" his eyes had brightened and he turned towards gervaise who was standing in the rear of the shop wiping a dish. "yes, she was in a carriage, and wore such a stylish dress! i didn't recognise her, she looked so much like a lady of the upper set, with her white teeth and her face as fresh as a flower. it was she who waved her glove to me. she has caught a count, i believe. oh! she's launched for good. she can afford to do without any of us; she's head over heels in happiness, the little beggar! what a love of a little kitten! no, you've no idea what a little kitten she is!" gervaise was still wiping the same plate, although it had long since been clean and shiny. virginie was reflecting, anxious about a couple of bills which fell due on the morrow and which she didn't know how to pay; whilst lantier, stout and fat, perspiring the sugar he fed off, ventured his enthusiasm for well-dressed little hussies. the shop, which was already three parts eaten up, smelt of ruin. yes, there were only a few more burnt almonds to nibble, a little more barley-sugar to suck, to clean the poissons' business out. suddenly, on the pavement over the way, he perceived the policeman, who was on duty, pass by all buttoned up with his sword dangling by his side. and this made him all the gayer. he compelled virginie to look at her husband. "dear me," he muttered, "badingue looks fine this morning! just look, see how stiff he walks. he must have stuck a glass eye in his back to surprise people." when gervaise went back upstairs, she found coupeau seated on the bed, in the torpid state induced by one of his attacks. he was looking at the window-panes with his dim expressionless eyes. she sat herself down on a chair, tired out, her hands hanging beside her dirty skirt; and for a quarter of an hour she remained in front of him without saying a word. "i've had some news," she muttered at last. "your daughter's been seen. yes, your daughter's precious stylish and hasn't any more need of you. she's awfully happy, she is! ah! _mon dieu!_ i'd give a great deal to be in her place." coupeau was still staring at the window-pane. but suddenly he raised his ravaged face, and stammered with an idiotic laugh: "well, my little lamb, i'm not stopping you. you're not yet so bad looking when you wash yourself. as folks say, however old a pot may be, it ends by finding its lid. and, after all, i wouldn't care if it only buttered our bread." chapter xii it must have been the saturday after quarter day, something like the th or th of january--gervaise didn't quite know. she was losing her wits, for it was centuries since she had had anything warm in her stomach. ah! what an infernal week! a complete clear out. two loaves of four pounds each on tuesday, which had lasted till thursday; then a dry crust found the night before, and finally not a crumb for thirty-six hours, a real dance before the cupboard! what did she know, by the way, what she felt on her back, was the frightful cold, a black cold, the sky as grimy as a frying-pan, thick with snow which obstinately refused to fall. when winter and hunger are both together in your guts, you may tighten your belt as much as you like, it hardly feeds you. perhaps coupeau would bring back some money in the evening. he said that he was working. anything is possible, isn't it? and gervaise, although she had been caught many and many a time, had ended by relying on this coin. after all sorts of incidents, she herself couldn't find as much as a duster to wash in the whole neighborhood; and even an old lady, whose rooms she did, had just given her the sack, charging her with swilling her liqueurs. no one would engage her, she was washed up everywhere; and this secretly suited her, for she had fallen to that state of indifference when one prefers to croak rather than move one's fingers. at all events, if coupeau brought his pay home they would have something warm to eat. and meanwhile, as it wasn't yet noon, she remained stretched on the mattress, for one doesn't feel so cold or so hungry when one is lying down. the bed was nothing but a pile of straw in a corner. bed and bedding had gone, piece by piece, to the second-hand dealers of the neighborhood. first she had ripped open the mattress to sell handfuls of wool at ten sous a pound. when the mattress was empty she got thirty sous for the sack so as to be able to have coffee. everything else had followed. well, wasn't the straw good enough for them? gervaise bent herself like a gun-trigger on the heap of straw, with her clothes on and her feet drawn up under her rag of a skirt, so as to keep them warm. and huddled up, with her eyes wide open, she turned some scarcely amusing ideas over in her mind that morning. ah! no, they couldn't continue living without food. she no longer felt her hunger, only she had a leaden weight on her chest and her brain seemed empty. certainly there was nothing gay to look at in the four corners of the hovel. a perfect kennel now, where greyhounds, who wear wrappers in the streets, would not even have lived in effigy. her pale eyes stared at the bare walls. everything had long since gone to "uncle's." all that remained were the chest of drawers, the table and a chair. even the marble top of the chest of drawers and the drawers themselves, had evaporated in the same direction as the bedstead. a fire could not have cleaned them out more completely; the little knick-knacks had melted, beginning with the ticker, a twelve franc watch, down to the family photos, the frames of which had been bought by a woman keeping a second-hand store; a very obliging woman, by the way, to whom gervaise carried a saucepan, an iron, a comb and who gave her five, three or two sous in exchange, according to the article; enough, at all events to go upstairs again with a bit of bread. but now there only remained a broken pair of candle snuffers, which the woman refused to give her even a sou for. oh! if she could only have sold the rubbish and refuse, the dust and the dirt, how speedily she would have opened shop, for the room was filthy to behold! she only saw cobwebs in the corners and although cobwebs are good for cuts, there are, so far, no merchants who buy them. then turning her head, abandoning the idea of doing a bit of trade, gervaise gathered herself together more closely on her straw, preferring to stare through the window at the snow-laden sky, at the dreary daylight, which froze the marrow in her bones. what a lot of worry! though, after all, what was the use of putting herself in such a state and puzzling her brains? if she had only been able to have a snooze. but her hole of a home wouldn't go out of her mind. monsieur marescot, the landlord had come in person the day before to tell them that he would turn them out into the street if the two quarters' rent now overdue were not paid during the ensuing week. well, so he might, they certainly couldn't be worse off on the pavement! fancy this ape, in his overcoat and his woolen gloves, coming upstairs to talk to them about rent, as if they had had a treasure hidden somewhere! just the same with that brute of a coupeau, who couldn't come home now without beating her; she wished him in the same place as the landlord. she sent them all there, wishing to rid herself of everyone, and of life too. she was becoming a real storehouse for blows. coupeau had a cudgel, which he called his ass's fan, and he fanned his old woman. you should just have seen him giving her abominable thrashings, which made her perspire all over. she was no better herself, for she bit and scratched him. then they stamped about in the empty room and gave each other such drubbings as were likely to ease them of all taste for bread for good. but gervaise ended by not caring a fig for these thwacks, not more than she did for anything else. coupeau might celebrate saint monday for weeks altogether, go off on the spree for months at a time, come home mad with liquor, and seek to sharpen her as he said, she had grown accustomed to it, she thought him tiresome, but nothing more. it was on these occasions that she wished him somewhere else. yes, somewhere, her beast of a man and the lorilleuxs, the boches, and the poissons too; in fact, the whole neighborhood, which she had such contempt for. she sent all paris there with a gesture of supreme carelessness, and was pleased to be able to revenge herself in this style. one could get used to almost anything, but still, it is hard to break the habit of eating. that was the one thing that really annoyed gervaise, the hunger that kept gnawing at her insides. oh, those pleasant little snacks she used to have. now she had fallen low enough to gobble anything she could find. on special occasions, she would get waste scraps of meat from the butcher for four sous a pound. blacked and dried out meat that couldn't find a purchaser. she would mix this with potatoes for a stew. on other occasions, when she had some wine, she treated herself to a sop, a true parrot's pottage. two sous' worth of italian cheese, bushels of white potatoes, quarts of dry beans, cooked in their own juice, these also were dainties she was not often able to indulge in now. she came down to leavings from low eating dens, where for a sou she had a pile of fish-bones, mixed with the parings of moldy roast meat. she fell even lower--she begged a charitable eating-house keeper to give her his customers' dry crusts, and she made herself a bread soup, letting the crusts simmer as long as possible on a neighbor's fire. on the days when she was really hungry, she searched about with the dogs, to see what might be lying outside the tradespeople's doors before the dustmen went by; and thus at times she came across rich men's food, rotten melons, stinking mackerel and chops, which she carefully inspected for fear of maggots. yes, she had come to this. the idea may be a repugnant one to delicate-minded folks, but if they hadn't chewed anything for three days running, we should hardly see them quarreling with their stomachs; they would go down on all fours and eat filth like other people. ah! the death of the poor, the empty entrails, howling hunger, the animal appetite that leads one with chattering teeth to fill one's stomach with beastly refuse in this great paris, so bright and golden! and to think that gervaise used to fill her belly with fat goose! now the thought of it brought tears to her eyes. one day, when coupeau bagged two bread tickets from her to go and sell them and get some liquor, she nearly killed him with the blow of a shovel, so hungered and so enraged was she by this theft of a bit of bread. however, after a long contemplation of the pale sky, she had fallen into a painful doze. she dreamt that the snow-laden sky was falling on her, so cruelly did the cold pinch. suddenly she sprang to her feet, awakened with a start by a shudder of anguish. _mon dieu!_ was she going to die? shivering and haggard she perceived that it was still daylight. wouldn't the night ever come? how long the time seems when the stomach is empty! hers was waking up in its turn and beginning to torture her. sinking down on the chair, with her head bent and her hands between her legs to warm them, she began to think what they would have for dinner as soon as coupeau brought the money home: a loaf, a quart of wine and two platefuls of tripe in the lyonnaise fashion. three o'clock struck by father bazouge's clock. yes, it was only three o'clock. then she began to cry. she would never have strength enough to wait until seven. her body swayed backwards and forwards, she oscillated like a child nursing some sharp pain, bending herself double and crushing her stomach so as not to feel it. ah! an accouchement is less painful than hunger! and unable to ease herself, seized with rage, she rose and stamped about, hoping to send her hunger to sleep by walking it to and fro like an infant. for half an hour or so, she knocked against the four corners of the empty room. then, suddenly, she paused with a fixed stare. so much the worse! they might say what they liked; she would lick their feet if needs be, but she would go and ask the lorilleuxs to lend her ten sous. at winter time, up these stairs of the house, the paupers' stairs, there was a constant borrowing of ten sous and twenty sous, petty services which these hungry beggars rendered each other. only they would rather have died than have applied to the lorilleuxs, for they knew they were too tight-fisted. thus gervaise displayed remarkable courage in going to knock at their door. she felt so frightened in the passage that she experienced the sudden relief of people who ring a dentist's bell. "come in!" cried the chainmaker in a sour voice. how warm and nice it was inside. the forge was blazing, its white flame lighting up the narrow workroom, whilst madame lorilleux set a coil of gold wire to heat. lorilleux, in front of his worktable, was perspiring with the warmth as he soldered the links of a chain together. and it smelt nice. some cabbage soup was simmering on the stove, exhaling a steam which turned gervaise's heart topsy-turvy, and almost made her faint. "ah! it's you," growled madame lorilleux, without even asking her to sit down. "what do you want?" gervaise did not answer for a moment. she had recently been on fairly good terms with the lorilleuxs, but she saw boche sitting by the stove. he seemed very much at home, telling funny stories. "what do you want?" repeated lorilleux. "you haven't seen coupeau?" gervaise finally stammered at last. "i thought he was here." the chainmakers and the concierge sneered. no, for certain, they hadn't seen coupeau. they didn't stand treat often enough to interest coupeau. gervaise made an effort and resumed, stuttering: "it's because he promised to come home. yes, he's to bring me some money. and as i have absolute need of something--" silence followed. madame lorilleux was roughly fanning the fire of the stove; lorilleux had lowered his nose over the bit of chain between his fingers, while boche continued laughing, puffing out his face till it looked like the full moon. "if i only had ten sous," muttered gervaise, in a low voice. the silence persisted. "couldn't you lend me ten sous? oh! i would return them to you this evening!" madame lorilleux turned round and stared at her. here was a wheedler trying to get round them. to-day she asked them for ten sous, to-morrow it would be for twenty, and there would be no reason to stop. no, indeed; it would be a warm day in winter if they lent her anything. "but, my dear," cried madame lorilleux. "you know very well that we haven't any money! look! there's the lining of my pocket. you can search us. if we could, it would be with a willing heart, of course." "the heart's always there," growled lorilleux. "only when one can't, one can't." gervaise looked very humble and nodded her head approvingly. however, she did not take herself off. she squinted at the gold, at the gold tied together hanging on the walls, at the gold wire the wife was drawing out with all the strength of her little arms, at the gold links lying in a heap under the husband's knotty fingers. and she thought that the least bit of this ugly black metal would suffice to buy her a good dinner. the workroom was as dirty as ever, full of old iron, coal dust and sticky oil stains, half wiped away; but now, as gervaise saw it, it seemed resplendent with treasure, like a money changer's shop. and so she ventured to repeat softly: "i would return them to you, return them without fail. ten sous wouldn't inconvenience you." her heart was swelling with the effort she made not to own that she had had nothing to eat since the day before. then she felt her legs give way. she was frightened that she might burst into tears, and she still stammered: "it would be kind of you! you don't know. yes, i'm reduced to that, good lord--reduced to that!" thereupon the lorilleuxs pursed their lips and exchanged covert glances. so clump-clump was begging now! well, the fall was complete. but they did not care for that kind of thing by any means. if they had known, they would have barricaded the door, for people should always be on their guard against beggars--folks who make their way into apartments under a pretext and carry precious objects away with them; and especially so in this place, as there was something worth while stealing. one might lay one's fingers no matter where, and carry off thirty or forty francs by merely closing the hands. they had felt suspicious several times already on noticing how strange gervaise looked when she stuck herself in front of the gold. this time, however, they meant to watch her. and as she approached nearer, with her feet on the board, the chainmaker roughly called out, without giving any further answer to her question: "look out, pest--take care; you'll be carrying some scraps of gold away on the soles of your shoes. one would think you had greased them on purpose to make the gold stick to them." gervaise slowly drew back. for a moment she leant against a rack, and seeing that madame lorilleux was looking at her hands, she opened them and showed them, saying softly, without the least anger, like a fallen women who accepts anything: "i have taken nothing; you can look." and then she went off, because the strong smell of the cabbage soup and the warmth of the workroom made her feel too ill. ah! the lorilleuxs did not detain her. good riddance; just see if they opened the door to her again. they had seen enough of her face. they didn't want other people's misery in their rooms, especially when that misery was so well deserved. they reveled in their selfish delight at being seated so cozily in a warm room, with a dainty soup cooking. boche also stretched himself, puffing with his cheeks still more and more, so much, indeed, that his laugh really became indecent. they were all nicely revenged on clump-clump, for her former manners, her blue shop, her spreads, and all the rest. it had all worked out just as it should, proving where a love of showing-off would get you. "so that is the style now? begging for ten sous," cried madame lorilleux as soon as gervaise had gone. "wait a bit; i'll lend her ten sous, and no mistake, to go and get drunk with." gervaise shuffled along the passage in her slippers, bending her back and feeling heavy. on reaching her door she did not open it--her room frightened her. it would be better to walk about, she would learn patience. as she passed by she stretched out her neck, peering into pere bru's kennel under the stairs. there, for instance, was another one who must have a fine appetite, for he had breakfasted and dined by heart during the last three days. however, he wasn't at home, there was only his hole, and gervaise felt somewhat jealous, thinking that perhaps he had been invited somewhere. then, as she reached the bijards' she heard lalie moaning, and, as the key was in the lock as usual, she opened the door and went in. "what is the matter?" she asked. the room was very clean. one could see that lalie had carefully swept it, and arranged everything during the morning. misery might blow into the room as much as it liked, carry off the chattels and spread all the dirt and refuse about. lalie, however, came behind and tidied everything, imparting, at least, some appearance of comfort within. she might not be rich, but you realized that there was a housewife in the place. that afternoon her two little ones, henriette and jules, had found some old pictures which they were cutting out in a corner. but gervaise was greatly surprised to see lalie herself in bed, looking very pale, with the sheet drawn up to her chin. in bed, indeed, then she must be seriously ill! "what is the matter with you?" inquired gervaise, feeling anxious. lalie no longer groaned. she slowly raised her white eyelids, and tried to compel her lips to smile, although they were convulsed by a shudder. "there's nothing the matter with me," she whispered very softly. "really nothing at all." then, closing her eyes again, she added with an effort: "i made myself too tired during the last few days, and so i'm doing the idle; i'm nursing myself, as you see." but her childish face, streaked with livid stains, assumed such an expression of anguish that gervaise, forgetting her own agony, joined her hands and fell on her knees near the bed. for the last month she had seen the girl clinging to the walls for support when she went about, bent double indeed, by a cough which seemed to presage a coffin. now the poor child could not even cough. she had a hiccough and drops of blood oozed from the corners of her mouth. "it's not my fault if i hardly feel strong," she murmured, as if relieved. "i've tired myself to-day, trying to put things to rights. it's pretty tidy, isn't it? and i wanted to clean the windows as well, but my legs failed me. how stupid! however, when one has finished one can go to bed." she paused, then said, "pray, see if my little ones are not cutting themselves with the scissors." and then she relapsed into silence, trembling and listening to a heavy footfall which was approaching up the stairs. suddenly father bijard brutally opened the door. as usual he was far gone, and his eyes shone with the furious madness imparted by the vitriol he had swallowed. when he perceived lalie in bed, he tapped on his thighs with a sneer, and took the whip from where it hung. "ah! by blazes, that's too much," he growled, "we'll soon have a laugh. so the cows lie down on their straw at noon now! are you poking fun at me, you lazy beggar? come, quick now, up you get!" and he cracked the whip over the bed. but the child beggingly replied: "pray, papa, don't--don't strike me. i swear to you you will regret it. don't strike!" "will you jump up?" he roared still louder, "or else i'll tickle your ribs! jump up, you little hound!" then she softly said, "i can't--do you understand? i'm going to die." gervaise had sprung upon bijard and torn the whip away from him. he stood bewildered in front of the bed. what was the dirty brat talking about? do girls die so young without even having been ill? some excuse to get sugar out of him no doubt. ah! he'd make inquiries, and if she lied, let her look out! "you will see, it's the truth," she continued. "as long as i could i avoided worrying you; but be kind now, and bid me good-bye, papa." bijard wriggled his nose as if he fancied she was deceiving him. and yet it was true she had a singular look, the serious mien of a grown up person. the breath of death which passed through the room in some measure sobered him. he gazed around like a man awakened from a long sleep, saw the room so tidy, the two children clean, playing and laughing. and then he sank on to a chair stammering, "our little mother, our little mother." those were the only words he could find to say, and yet they were very tender ones to lalie, who had never been much spoiled. she consoled her father. what especially worried her was to go off like this without having completely brought up the little ones. he would take care of them, would he not? with her dying breath she told him how they ought to be cared for and kept clean. but stultified, with the fumes of drink seizing hold of him again, he wagged his head, watching her with an uncertain stare as she was dying. all kind of things were touched in him, but he could find no more to say and he was too utterly burnt with liquor to shed a tear. "listen," resumed lalie, after a pause. "we owe four francs and seven sous to the baker; you must pay that. madame gaudron borrowed an iron of ours, which you must get from her. i wasn't able to make any soup this evening, but there's some bread left and you can warm up the potatoes." till her last rattle, the poor kitten still remained the little mother. surely she could never be replaced! she was dying because she had had, at her age, a true mother's reason, because her breast was too small and weak for so much maternity. and if her ferocious beast of a father lost his treasure, it was his own fault. after kicking the mother to death, hadn't he murdered the daughter as well? the two good angels would lie in the pauper's grave and all that could be in store for him was to kick the bucket like a dog in the gutter. gervaise restrained herself not to burst out sobbing. she extended her hands, desirous of easing the child, and as the shred of a sheet was falling, she wished to tack it up and arrange the bed. then the dying girl's poor little body was seen. ah! _mon dieu!_ what misery! what woe! stones would have wept. lalie was bare, with only the remnants of a camisole on her shoulders by way of chemise; yes, bare, with the grievous, bleeding nudity of a martyr. she had no flesh left; her bones seemed to protrude through the skin. from her ribs to her thighs there extended a number of violet stripes--the marks of the whip forcibly imprinted on her. a livid bruise, moreover, encircled her left arm, as if the tender limb, scarcely larger than a lucifer, had been crushed in a vise. there was also an imperfectly closed wound on her right leg, left there by some ugly blow and which opened again and again of a morning, when she went about doing her errands. from head to foot, indeed, she was but one bruise! oh! this murdering of childhood; those heavy hands crushing this lovely girl; how abominable that such weakness should have such a weighty cross to bear! again did gervaise crouch down, no longer thinking of tucking in the sheet, but overwhelmed by the pitiful sight of this martyrdom; and her trembling lips seemed to be seeking for words of prayer. "madame coupeau," murmured the child, "i beg you--" with her little arms she tried to draw up the sheet again, ashamed as it were for her father. bijard, as stultified as ever, with his eyes on the corpse which was his own work, still wagged his head, but more slowly, like a worried animal might do. when she had covered lalie up again, gervaise felt she could not remain there any longer. the dying girl was growing weaker and ceased speaking; all that was left to her was her gaze--the dark look she had had as a resigned and thoughtful child and which she now fixed on her two little ones who were still cutting out their pictures. the room was growing gloomy and bijard was working off his liquor while the poor girl was in her death agonies. no, no, life was too abominable! how frightful it was! how frightful! and gervaise took herself off, and went down the stairs, not knowing what she was doing, her head wandering and so full of disgust that she would willingly have thrown herself under the wheels of an omnibus to have finished with her own existence. as she hastened on, growling against cursed fate, she suddenly found herself in front of the place where coupeau pretended that he worked. her legs had taken her there, and now her stomach began singing its song again, the complaint of hunger in ninety verses--a complaint she knew by heart. however, if she caught coupeau as he left, she would be able to pounce upon the coin at once and buy some grub. a short hour's waiting at the utmost; she could surely stay that out, though she had sucked her thumbs since the day before. she was at the corner of rue de la charbonniere and rue de chartres. a chill wind was blowing and the sky was an ugly leaden grey. the impending snow hung over the city but not a flake had fallen as yet. she tried stamping her feet to keep warm, but soon stopped as there was no use working up an appetite. there was nothing amusing about. the few passers-by strode rapidly along, wrapped up in comforters; naturally enough one does not care to tarry when the cold is nipping at your heels. however, gervaise perceived four or five women who were mounting guard like herself outside the door of the zinc-works; unfortunate creatures of course--wives watching for the pay to prevent it going to the dram-shop. there was a tall creature as bulky as a gendarme leaning against the wall, ready to spring on her husband as soon as he showed himself. a dark little woman with a delicate humble air was walking about on the other side of the way. another one, a fat creature, had brought her two brats with her and was dragging them along, one on either hand, and both of them shivering and sobbing. and all these women, gervaise like the others, passed and repassed, exchanging glances, but without speaking to one another. a pleasant meeting and no mistake. they didn't need to make friends to learn what number they lived at. they could all hang out the same sideboard, "misery & co." it seemed to make one feel even colder to see them walk about in silence, passing each other in this terrible january weather. however, nobody as yet left the zinc-works. but presently one workman appeared, then two, and then three, but these were no doubt decent fellows who took their pay home regularly, for they jerked their heads significantly as they saw the shadows wandering up and down. the tall creature stuck closer than ever to the side of the door, and suddenly fell upon a pale little man who was prudently poking his head out. oh! it was soon settled! she searched him and collared his coin. caught, no more money, not even enough to pay for a dram! then the little man, looking very vexed and cast down, followed his gendarme, weeping like a child. the workmen were still coming out; and as the fat mother with the two brats approached the door, a tall fellow, with a cunning look, who noticed her, went hastily inside again to warn her husband; and when the latter arrived he had stuffed a couple of cart wheels away, two beautiful new five franc pieces, one in each of his shoes. he took one of the brats on his arm, and went off telling a variety of lies to his old woman who was complaining. there were other workmen also, mournful-looking fellows, who carried in their clinched fists the pay for the three or five days' work they had done during a fortnight, who reproached themselves with their own laziness, and took drunkards' oaths. but the saddest thing of all was the grief of the dark little woman, with the humble, delicate look; her husband, a handsome fellow, took himself off under her very nose, and so brutally indeed that he almost knocked her down, and she went home alone, stumbling past the shops and weeping all the tears in her body. at last the defile finished. gervaise, who stood erect in the middle of the street, was still watching the door. the look-out seemed a bad one. a couple of workmen who were late appeared on the threshold, but there were still no signs of coupeau. and when she asked the workmen if coupeau wasn't coming, they answered her, being up to snuff, that he had gone off by the back-door with lantimeche. gervaise understood what this meant. another of coupeau's lies; she could whistle for him if she liked. then shuffling along in her worn-out shoes, she went slowly down the rue de la charbonniere. her dinner was going off in front of her, and she shuddered as she saw it running away in the yellow twilight. this time it was all over. not a copper, not a hope, nothing but night and hunger. ah! a fine night to kick the bucket, this dirty night which was falling over her shoulders! she was walking heavily up the rue des poissonniers when she suddenly heard coupeau's voice. yes, he was there in the little civet, letting my-boots treat him. that comical chap, my-boots, had been cunning enough at the end of last summer to espouse in authentic fashion a lady who, although rather advanced in years, had still preserved considerable traces of beauty. she was a lady-of-the-evening of the rue des martyrs, none of your common street hussies. and you should have seen this fortunate mortal, living like a man of means, with his hands in his pockets, well clad and well fed. he could hardly be recognised, so fat had he grown. his comrades said that his wife had as much work as she liked among the gentlemen of her acquaintance. a wife like that and a country-house is all one can wish for to embellish one's life. and so coupeau squinted admiringly at my-boots. why, the lucky dog even had a gold ring on his little finger! gervaise touched coupeau on the shoulder just as he was coming out of the little civet. "say, i'm waiting; i'm hungry! i've got an empty stomach which is all i ever get from you." but he silenced her in a capital style, "you're hungry, eh? well, eat your fist, and keep the other for to-morrow." he considered it highly improper to do the dramatic in other people's presence. what, he hadn't worked, and yet the bakers kneaded bread all the same. did she take him for a fool, to come and try to frighten him with her stories? "do you want me to turn thief?" she muttered, in a dull voice. my-boots stroked his chin in conciliatory fashion. "no, that's forbidden," said he. "but when a woman knows how to handle herself--" and coupeau interrupted him to call out "bravo!" yes, a woman always ought to know how to handle herself, but his wife had always been a helpless thing. it would be her fault if they died on the straw. then he relapsed into his admiration for my-boots. how awfully fine he looked! a regular landlord; with clean linen and swell shoes! they were no common stuff! his wife, at all events, knew how to keep the pot boiling! the two men walked towards the outer boulevard, and gervaise followed them. after a pause, she resumed, talking behind coupeau's back: "i'm hungry; you know, i relied on you. you must find me something to nibble." he did not answer, and she repeated, in a tone of despairing agony: "is that all i get from you?" "_mon dieu!_ i've no coin," he roared, turning round in a fury. "just leave me alone, eh? or else i'll hit you." he was already raising his fist. she drew back, and seemed to make up her mind. "all right, i'll leave you. i guess i can find a man." the zinc-worker laughed at this. he pretended to make a joke of the matter, and strengthened her purpose without seeming to do so. that was a fine idea of hers, and no mistake! in the evening, by gaslight, she might still hook a man. he recommended her to try the capuchin restaurant where one could dine very pleasantly in a small private room. and, as she went off along the boulevard, looking pale and furious he called out to her: "listen, bring me back some dessert. i like cakes! and if your gentleman is well dressed, ask him for an old overcoat. i could use one." with these words ringing in her ears, gervaise walked softly away. but when she found herself alone in the midst of the crowd, she slackened her pace. she was quite resolute. between thieving and the other, well she preferred the other; for at all events she wouldn't harm any one. no doubt it wasn't proper. but what was proper and what was improper was sorely muddled together in her brain. when you are dying of hunger, you don't philosophize, you eat whatever bread turns up. she had gone along as far as the chaussee-clignancourt. it seemed as if the night would never come. however, she followed the boulevards like a lady who is taking a stroll before dinner. the neighborhood in which she felt so ashamed, so greatly was it being embellished, was now full of fresh air. lost in the crowd on the broad footway, walking past the little plane trees, gervaise felt alone and abandoned. the vistas of the avenues seemed to empty her stomach all the more. and to think that among this flood of people there were many in easy circumstances, and yet not a christian who could guess her position, and slip a ten sous piece into her hand! yes, it was too great and too beautiful; her head swam and her legs tottered under this broad expanse of grey sky stretched over so vast a space. the twilight had the dirty-yellowish tinge of parisian evenings, a tint that gives you a longing to die at once, so ugly does street life seem. the horizon was growing indistinct, assuming a mud-colored tinge as it were. gervaise, who was already weary, met all the workpeople returning home. at this hour of the day the ladies in bonnets and the well-dressed gentlemen living in the new houses mingled with the people, with the files of men and women still pale from inhaling the tainted atmosphere of workshops and workrooms. from the boulevard magenta and the rue du faubourg-poissonniere, came bands of people, rendered breathless by their uphill walk. as the omnivans and the cabs rolled by less noiselessly among the vans and trucks returning home empty at a gallop, an ever-increasing swarm of blouses and blue vests covered the pavement. commissionaires returned with their crotchets on their backs. two workmen took long strides side by side, talking to each other in loud voices, with any amount of gesticulation, but without looking at one another; others who were alone in overcoats and caps walked along the curbstones with lowered noses; others again came in parties of five or six, following each other, with pale eyes and their hands in their pockets and not exchanging a word. some still had their pipes, which had gone out between their teeth. four masons poked their white faces out of the windows of a cab which they had hired between them, and on the roof of which their mortar-troughs rocked to and fro. house-painters were swinging their pots; a zinc-worker was returning laden with a long ladder, with which he almost poked people's eyes out; whilst a belated plumber, with his box on his back, played the tune of "the good king dagobert" on his little trumpet. ah! the sad music, a fitting accompaniment to the tread of the flock, the tread of the weary beasts of burden. suddenly on raising her eyes she noticed the old hotel boncoeur in front of her. after being an all-night cafe, which the police had closed down, the little house was now abandoned; the shutters were covered with posters, the lantern was broken, and the whole building was rotting and crumbling away from top to bottom, with its smudgy claret-colored paint, quite moldy. the stationer's and the tobacconist's were still there. in the rear, over some low buildings, you could see the leprous facades of several five-storied houses rearing their tumble-down outlines against the sky. the "grand balcony" dancing hall no longer existed; some sugar-cutting works, which hissed continually, had been installed in the hall with the ten flaming windows. and yet it was here, in this dirty den--the hotel boncoeur--that the whole cursed life had commenced. gervaise remained looking at the window of the first floor, from which hung a broken shutter, and recalled to mind her youth with lantier, their first rows and the ignoble way in which he had abandoned her. never mind, she was young then, and it all seemed gay to her, seen from a distance. only twenty years. _mon dieu!_ and yet she had fallen to street-walking. then the sight of the lodging house oppressed her and she walked up the boulevard in the direction of montmartre. the night was gathering, but children were still playing on the heaps of sand between the benches. the march past continued, the workgirls went by, trotting along and hurrying to make up for the time they had lost in looking in at the shop windows; one tall girl, who had stopped, left her hand in that of a big fellow, who accompanied her to within three doors of her home; others as they parted from each other, made appointments for the night at the "great hall of folly" or the "black ball." in the midst of the groups, piece-workmen went by, carrying their clothes folded under their arms. a chimney sweep, harnessed with leather braces, was drawing a cart along, and nearly got himself crushed by an omnibus. among the crowd which was now growing scantier, there were several women running with bare heads; after lighting the fire, they had come downstairs again and were hastily making their purchases for dinner; they jostled the people they met, darted into the bakers' and the pork butchers', and went off again with all despatch, their provisions in their hands. there were little girls of eight years old, who had been sent out on errands, and who went along past the shops, pressing long loaves of four pounds' weight, as tall as they were themselves, against their chests, as if these loaves had been beautiful yellow dolls; at times these little ones forgot themselves for five minutes or so, in front of some pictures in a shop window, and rested their cheeks against the bread. then the flow subsided, the groups became fewer and farther between, the working classes had gone home; and as the gas blazed now that the day's toil was over, idleness and amusement seemed to wake up. ah! yes; gervaise had finished her day! she was wearier even than all this mob of toilers who had jostled her as they went by. she might lie down there and croak, for work would have nothing more to do with her, and she had toiled enough during her life to say: "whose turn now? i've had enough." at present everyone was eating. it was really the end, the sun had blown out its candle, the night would be a long one. _mon dieu!_ to stretch one's self at one's ease and never get up again; to think one had put one's tools by for good and that one could ruminate like a cow forever! that's what is good, after tiring one's self out for twenty years! and gervaise, as hunger twisted her stomach, thought in spite of herself of the fete days, the spreads and the revelry of her life. of one occasion especially, an awfully cold day, a mid-lent thursday. she had enjoyed herself wonderfully well. she was very pretty, fair-haired and fresh looking at that time. her wash-house in the rue neuve had chosen her as queen in spite of her leg. and then they had had an outing on the boulevards in carts decked with greenery, in the midst of stylish people who ogled her. real gentlemen put up their glasses as if she had been a true queen. in the evening there was a wonderful spread, and then they had danced till daylight. queen; yes queen! with a crown and a sash for twenty-four hours--twice round the clock! and now oppressed by hunger, she looked on the ground, as if she were seeking for the gutter in which she had let her fallen majesty tumble. she raised her eyes again. she was in front of the slaughter-houses which were being pulled down; through the gaps in the facade one could see the dark, stinking courtyards, still damp with blood. and when she had gone down the boulevard again, she also saw the lariboisiere hospital, with its long grey wall, above which she could distinguish the mournful, fan-like wings, pierced with windows at even distances. a door in the wall filled the neighborhood with dread; it was the door of the dead in solid oak, and without a crack, as stern and as silent as a tombstone. then to escape her thoughts, she hurried further down till she reached the railway bridge. the high parapets of riveted sheet-iron hid the line from view; she could only distinguish a corner of the station standing out against the luminous horizon of paris, with a vast roof black with coal-dust. through the clear space she could hear the engines whistling and the cars being shunted, in token of colossal hidden activity. then a train passed by, leaving paris, with puffing breath and a growing rumble. and all she perceived of this train was a white plume, a sudden gust of steam which rose above the parapet and then evaporated. but the bridge had shaken, and she herself seemed impressed by this departure at full speed. she turned round as if to follow the invisible engine, the noise of which was dying away. she caught a glimpse of open country through a gap between tall buildings. oh, if only she could have taken a train and gone away, far away from this poverty and suffering. she might have started an entirely new life! then she turned to look at the posters on the bridge sidings. one was on pretty blue paper and offered a fifty-franc reward for a lost dog. someone must have really loved that dog! gervaise slowly resumed her walk. in the smoky fog which was falling, the gas lamps were being lighted up; and the long avenues, which had grown bleak and indistinct, suddenly showed themselves plainly again, sparkling to their full length and piercing through the night, even to the vague darkness of the horizon. a great gust swept by; the widened spaces were lighted up with girdles of little flames, shining under the far-stretching moonless sky. it was the hour when, from one end of the boulevard to the other, the dram-shops and the dancing-halls flamed gayly as the first glasses were merrily drunk and the first dance began. it was the great fortnightly pay-day, and the pavement was crowded with jostling revelers on the spree. there was a breath of merrymaking in the air--deuced fine revelry, but not objectionable so far. fellows were filling themselves in the eating-houses; through the lighted windows you could see people feeding, with their mouths full and laughing without taking the trouble to swallow first. drunkards were already installed in the wineshops, squabbling and gesticulating. and there was a cursed noise on all sides, voices shouting amid the constant clatter of feet on the pavement. "say, are you coming to sip?" "make haste, old man; i'll pay for a glass of bottled wine." "here's pauline! shan't we just laugh!" the doors swung to and fro, letting a smell of wine and a sound of cornet playing escape into the open air. there was a gathering in front of pere colombe's l'assommoir, which was lighted up like a cathedral for high mass. _mon dieu!_ you would have said a real ceremony was going on, for several capital fellows, with rounded paunches and swollen cheeks, looking for all the world like professional choristers, were singing inside. they were celebrating saint-pay, of course--a very amiable saint, who no doubt keeps the cash box in paradise. only, on seeing how gaily the evening began, the retired petty tradesmen who had taken their wives out for a stroll wagged their heads, and repeated that there would be any number of drunken men in paris that night. and the night stretched very dark, dead-like and icy, above this revelry, perforated only with lines of gas lamps extending to the four corners of heaven. gervaise stood in front of l'assommoir, thinking that if she had had a couple of sous she could have gone inside and drunk a dram. no doubt a dram would have quieted her hunger. ah! what a number of drams she had drunk in her time! liquor seemed good stuff to her after all. and from outside she watched the drunk-making machine, realizing that her misfortune was due to it, and yet dreaming of finishing herself off with brandy on the day she had some coin. but a shudder passed through her hair as she saw it was now almost dark. well, the night time was approaching. she must have some pluck and sell herself coaxingly if she didn't wish to kick the bucket in the midst of the general revelry. looking at other people gorging themselves didn't precisely fill her own stomach. she slackened her pace again and looked around her. there was a darker shade under the trees. few people passed along, only folks in a hurry, who swiftly crossed the boulevards. and on the broad, dark, deserted footway, where the sound of the revelry died away, women were standing and waiting. they remained for long intervals motionless, patient and as stiff-looking as the scrubby little plane trees; then they slowly began to move, dragging their slippers over the frozen soil, taking ten steps or so and then waiting again, rooted as it were to the ground. there was one of them with a huge body and insect-like arms and legs, wearing a black silk rag, with a yellow scarf over her head; there was another one, tall and bony, who was bareheaded and wore a servant's apron; and others, too--old ones plastered up and young ones so dirty that a ragpicker would not have picked them up. however, gervaise tried to learn what to do by imitating them; girlish-like emotion tightened her throat; she was hardly aware whether she felt ashamed or not; she seemed to be living in a horrible dream. for a quarter of an hour she remained standing erect. men hurried by without even turning their heads. then she moved about in her turn, and venturing to accost a man who was whistling with his hands in his pockets, she murmured, in a strangled voice: "sir, listen a moment--" the man gave her a side glance and then went off, whistling all the louder. gervaise grew bolder, and, with her stomach empty, she became absorbed in this chase, fiercely rushing after her dinner, which was still running away. she walked about for a long while, without thinking of the flight of time or of the direction she took. around her the dark, mute women went to and fro under the trees like wild beasts in a cage. they stepped out of the shade like apparitions, and passed under the light of a gas lamp with their pale masks fully apparent; then they grew vague again as they went off into the darkness, with a white strip of petticoat swinging to and fro. men let themselves be stopped at times, talked jokingly, and then started off again laughing. others would quietly follow a woman to her room, discreetly, ten paces behind. there was a deal of muttering, quarreling in an undertone and furious bargaining, which suddenly subsided into profound silence. and as far as gervaise went she saw these women standing like sentinels in the night. they seemed to be placed along the whole length of the boulevard. as soon as she met one she saw another twenty paces further on, and the file stretched out unceasingly. entire paris was guarded. she grew enraged on finding herself disdained, and changing her place, she now perambulated between the chaussee de clignancourt and the grand rue of la chapelle. all were beggars. "sir, just listen." but the men passed by. she started from the slaughter-houses, which stank of blood. she glanced on her way at the old hotel boncoeur, now closed. she passed in front of the lariboisiere hospital, and mechanically counted the number of windows that were illuminated with a pale quiet glimmer, like that of night-lights at the bedside of some agonizing sufferers. she crossed the railway bridge as the trains rushed by with a noisy rumble, rending the air in twain with their shrill whistling! ah! how sad everything seemed at night-time! then she turned on her heels again and filled her eyes with the sight of the same houses, doing this ten and twenty times without pausing, without resting for a minute on a bench. no; no one wanted her. her shame seemed to be increased by this contempt. she went down towards the hospital again, and then returned towards the slaughter-houses. it was her last promenade--from the blood-stained courtyards, where animals were slaughtered, down to the pale hospital wards, where death stiffened the patients stretched between the sheets. it was between these two establishments that she had passed her life. "sir, just listen." but suddenly she perceived her shadow on the ground. when she approached a gas-lamp it gradually became less vague, till it stood out at last in full force--an enormous shadow it was, positively grotesque, so portly had she become. her stomach, breast and hips, all equally flabby jostled together as it were. she walked with such a limp that the shadow bobbed almost topsy-turvy at every step she took; it looked like a real punch! then as she left the street lamp behind her, the punch grew taller, becoming in fact gigantic, filling the whole boulevard, bobbing to and fro in such style that it seemed fated to smash its nose against the trees or the houses. _mon dieu!_ how frightful she was! she had never realised her disfigurement so thoroughly. and she could not help looking at her shadow; indeed, she waited for the gas-lamps, still watching the punch as it bobbed about. ah! she had a pretty companion beside her! what a figure! it ought to attract the men at once! and at the thought of her unsightliness, she lowered her voice, and only just dared to stammer behind the passers-by: "sir, just listen." it was now getting quite late. matters were growing bad in the neighborhood. the eating-houses had closed and voices, gruff with drink, could be heard disputing in the wineshops. revelry was turning to quarreling and fisticuffs. a big ragged chap roared out, "i'll knock yer to bits; just count yer bones." a large woman had quarreled with a fellow outside a dancing place, and was calling him "dirty blackguard" and "lousy bum," whilst he on his side just muttered under his breath. drink seemed to have imparted a fierce desire to indulge in blows, and the passers-by, who were now less numerous, had pale contracted faces. there was a battle at last; one drunken fellow came down on his back with all four limbs raised in the air, whilst his comrade, thinking he had done for him, ran off with his heavy shoes clattering over the pavement. groups of men sang dirty songs and then there would be long silences broken only by hiccoughs or the thud of a drunk falling down. gervaise still hobbled about, going up and down, with the idea of walking forever. at times, she felt drowsy and almost went to sleep, rocked, as it were, by her lame leg; then she looked round her with a start, and noticed she had walked a hundred yards unconsciously. her feet were swelling in her ragged shoes. the last clear thought that occupied her mind was that her hussy of a daughter was perhaps eating oysters at that very moment. then everything became cloudy; and, albeit, she remained with open eyes, it required too great an effort for her to think. the only sensation that remained to her, in her utter annihilation, was that it was frightfully cold, so sharply, mortally cold, she had never known the like before. why, even dead people could not feel so cold in their graves. with an effort she raised her head, and something seemed to lash her face. it was the snow, which had at last decided to fall from the smoky sky--fine thick snow, which the breeze swept round and round. for three days it had been expected and what a splendid moment it chose to appear. woken up by the first gusts, gervaise began to walk faster. eager to get home, men were running along, with their shoulders already white. and as she suddenly saw one who, on the contrary, was coming slowly towards her under the trees, she approached him and again said: "sir, just listen--" the man has stopped. but he did not seem to have heard her. he held out his hand, and muttered in a low voice: "charity, if you please!" they looked at one another. ah! _mon dieu!_ they were reduced to this--pere bru begging, madame coupeau walking the streets! they remained stupefied in front of each other. they could join hands as equals now. the old workman had prowled about the whole evening, not daring to stop anyone, and the first person he accosted was as hungry as himself. lord, was it not pitiful! to have toiled for fifty years and be obliged to beg! to have been one of the most prosperous laundresses in the rue de la goutte-d'or and to end beside the gutter! they still looked at one another. then, without saying a word, they went off in different directions under the lashing snow. it was a perfect tempest. on these heights, in the midst of this open space, the fine snow revolved round and round as if the wind came from the four corners of heaven. you could not see ten paces off, everything was confused in the midst of this flying dust. the surroundings had disappeared, the boulevard seemed to be dead, as if the storm had stretched the silence of its white sheet over the hiccoughs of the last drunkards. gervaise still went on, blinded, lost. she felt her way by touching the trees. as she advanced the gas-lamps shone out amidst the whiteness like torches. then, suddenly, whenever she crossed an open space, these lights failed her; she was enveloped in the whirling snow, unable to distinguish anything to guide her. below stretched the ground, vaguely white; grey walls surrounded her, and when she paused, hesitating and turning her head, she divined that behind this icy veil extended the immense avenue with interminable vistas of gas-lamps--the black and deserted infinite of paris asleep. she was standing where the outer boulevard meets the boulevards magenta and ornano, thinking of lying down on the ground, when suddenly she heard a footfall. she began to run, but the snow blinded her, and the footsteps went off without her being able to tell whether it was to the right or to the left. at last, however, she perceived a man's broad shoulders, a dark form which was disappearing amid the snow. oh! she wouldn't let this man get away. and she ran on all the faster, reached him, and caught him by the blouse: "sir, sir, just listen." the man turned round. it was goujet. so now she had accosted golden-beard. but what had she done on earth to be tortured like this by providence? it was the crowning blow--to stumble against goujet, and be seen by her blacksmith friend, pale and begging, like a common street walker. and it happened just under a gas-lamp; she could see her deformed shadow swaying on the snow like a real caricature. you would have said she was drunk. _mon dieu!_ not to have a crust of bread, or a drop of wine in her body, and to be taken for a drunken women! it was her own fault, why did she booze? goujet no doubt thought she had been drinking, and that she was up to some nasty pranks. he looked at her while the snow scattered daisies over his beautiful yellow beard. then as she lowered her head and stepped back he detained her. "come," said he. and he walked on first. she followed him. they both crossed the silent district, gliding noiselessly along the walls. poor madame goujet had died of rheumatism in the month of october. goujet still resided in the little house in the rue neuve, living gloomily alone. on this occasion he was belated because he had sat up nursing a wounded comrade. when he had opened the door and lighted a lamp, he turned towards gervaise, who had remained humbly on the threshold. then, in a low voice, as if he were afraid his mother could still hear him, he exclaimed, "come in." the first room, madame goujet's, was piously preserved in the state she had left it. on a chair near the window lay the tambour by the side of the large arm-chair, which seemed to be waiting for the old lace-worker. the bed was made, and she could have stretched herself beneath the sheets if she had left the cemetery to come and spend the evening with her child. there was something solemn, a perfume of honesty and goodness about the room. "come in," repeated the blacksmith in a louder tone. she went in, half frightened, like a disreputable woman gliding into a respectable place. he was quite pale, and trembled at the thought of ushering a woman like this into his dead mother's home. they crossed the room on tip-toe, as if they were ashamed to be heard. then when he had pushed gervaise into his own room he closed the door. here he was at home. it was the narrow closet she was acquainted with; a schoolgirl's room, with the little iron bedstead hung with white curtains. on the walls the engravings cut out of illustrated newspapers had gathered and spread, and they now reached to the ceiling. the room looked so pure that gervaise did not dare to advance, but retreated as far as she could from the lamp. then without a word, in a transport as it were, he tried to seize hold of her and press her in his arms. but she felt faint and murmured: "oh! _mon dieu!_ oh, _mon dieu!_" the fire in the stove, having been covered with coke-dust, was still alight, and the remains of a stew which goujet had put to warm, thinking he should return to dinner, was smoking in front of the cinders. gervaise, who felt her numbness leave her in the warmth of this room, would have gone down on all fours to eat out of the saucepan. her hunger was stronger than her will; her stomach seemed rent in two; and she stooped down with a sigh. goujet had realized the truth. he placed the stew on the table, cut some bread, and poured her out a glass of wine. "thank you! thank you!" said she. "oh, how kind you are! thank you!" she stammered; she could hardly articulate. when she caught hold of her fork she began to tremble so acutely that she let it fall again. the hunger that possessed her made her wag her head as if senile. she carried the food to her mouth with her fingers. as she stuffed the first potato into her mouth, she burst out sobbing. big tears coursed down her cheeks and fell onto her bread. she still ate, gluttonously devouring this bread thus moistened by her tears, and breathing very hard all the while. goujet compelled her to drink to prevent her from stifling, and her glass chinked, as it were, against her teeth. "will you have some more bread?" he asked in an undertone. she cried, she said "no," she said "yes," she didn't know. ah! how nice and yet how painful it is to eat when one is starving. and standing in front of her, goujet looked at her all the while; under the bright light cast by the lamp-shade he could see her well. how aged and altered she seemed! the heat was melting the snow on her hair and clothes, and she was dripping. her poor wagging head was quite grey; there were any number of grey locks which the wind had disarranged. her neck sank into her shoulders and she had become so fat and ugly you might have cried on noticing the change. he recollected their love, when she was quite rosy, working with her irons, and showing the child-like crease which set such a charming necklace round her throat. in those times he had watched her for hours, glad just to look at her. later on she had come to the forge, and there they had enjoyed themselves whilst he beat the iron, and she stood by watching his hammer dance. how often at night, with his head buried in his pillow, had he dreamed of holding her in his arms. gervaise rose; she had finished. she remained for a moment with her head lowered, and ill at ease. then, thinking she detected a gleam in his eyes, she raised her hand to her jacket and began to unfasten the first button. but goujet had fallen on his knees, and taking hold of her hands, he exclaimed softly: "i love you, madame gervaise; oh! i love you still, and in spite of everything, i swear it to you!" "don't say that, monsieur goujet!" she cried, maddened to see him like this at her feet. "no, don't say that; you grieve me too much." and as he repeated that he could never love twice in his life, she became yet more despairing. "no, no, i am too ashamed. for the love of god get up. it is my place to be on the ground." he rose, he trembled all over and stammered: "will you allow me to kiss you?" overcome with surprise and emotion she could not speak, but she assented with a nod of the head. after all she was his; he could do what he chose with her. but he merely kissed her. "that suffices between us, madame gervaise," he muttered. "it sums up all our friendship, does it not?" he had kissed her on the forehead, on a lock of her grey hair. he had not kissed anyone since his mother's death. his sweetheart gervaise alone remained to him in life. and then, when he had kissed her with so much respect, he fell back across his bed with sobs rising in his throat. and gervaise could not remain there any longer. it was too sad and too abominable to meet again under such circumstances when one loved. "i love you, monsieur goujet," she exclaimed. "i love you dearly, also. oh! it isn't possible you still love me. good-bye, good-bye; it would smother us both; it would be more than we could stand." and she darted through madame goujet's room and found herself outside on the pavement again. when she recovered her senses she had rung at the door in the rue de la goutte-d'or and boche was pulling the string. the house was quite dark, and in the black night the yawning, dilapidated porch looked like an open mouth. to think that she had been ambitious of having a corner in this barracks! had her ears been stopped up then, that she had not heard the cursed music of despair which sounded behind the walls? since she had set foot in the place she had begun to go down hill. yes, it must bring bad luck to shut oneself up in these big workmen's houses; the cholera of misery was contagious there. that night everyone seemed to have kicked the bucket. she only heard the boches snoring on the right-hand side, while lantier and virginie on the left were purring like a couple of cats who were not asleep, but have their eyes closed and feel warm. in the courtyard she fancied she was in a perfect cemetery; the snow paved the ground with white; the high frontages, livid grey in tint, rose up unlighted like ruined walls, and not a sigh could be heard. it seemed as if a whole village, stiffened with cold and hunger, were buried here. she had to step over a black gutter--water from the dye-works--which smoked and streaked the whiteness of the snow with its muddy course. it was the color of her thoughts. the beautiful light blue and light pink waters had long since flowed away. then, whilst ascending the six flights of stairs in the dark, she could not prevent herself from laughing; an ugly laugh which hurt her. she recalled her ideal of former days: to work quietly, always have bread to eat and a tidy house to sleep in, to bring up her children, not to be beaten and to die in her bed. no, really, it was comical how all that was becoming realized! she no longer worked, she no longer ate, she slept on filth, her husband frequented all sorts of wineshops, and her husband drubbed her at all hours of the day; all that was left for her to do was to die on the pavement, and it would not take long if on getting into her room, she could only pluck up courage to fling herself out of the window. was it not enough to make one think that she had hoped to earn thirty thousand francs a year, and no end of respect? ah! really, in this life it is no use being modest; one only gets sat upon. not even pap and a nest, that is the common lot. what increased her ugly laugh was the recollection of her grand hope of retiring into the country after twenty years passed in ironing. well! she was on her way to the country. she was going to have her green corner in the pere-lachaise cemetery. when she entered the passage she was like a mad-woman. her poor head was whirling round. at heart her great grief was at having bid the blacksmith an eternal farewell. all was ended between them; they would never see each other more. then, besides that, all her other thoughts of misfortune pressed upon her, and almost caused her head to split. as she passed she poked her nose in at the bijards' and beheld lalie dead, with a look of contentment on her face at having at last been laid out and slumbering forever. ah, well! children were luckier than grown-up people. and, as a glimmer of light passed under old bazouge's door, she walked boldly in, seized with a mania for going off on the same journey as the little one. that old joker, bazouge, had come home that night in an extraordinary state of gaiety. he had had such a booze that he was snoring on the ground in spite of the temperature, and that no doubt did not prevent him from dreaming something pleasant, for he seemed to be laughing from his stomach as he slept. the candle, which he had not put out, lighted up his old garments, his black cloak, which he had drawn over his knees as though it had been a blanket. on beholding him gervaise uttered such a deep wailing that he awoke. "_mon dieu!_ shut the door! it's so cold! ah! it's you! what's the matter? what do you want?" then, gervaise, stretching out her arms, no longer knowing what she stuttered, began passionately to implore him: "oh! take me away! i've had enough; i want to go off. you mustn't bear me any grudge. i didn't know. one never knows until one's ready. oh, yes; one's glad to go one day! take me away! take me away and i shall thank you!" she fell on her knees, all shaken with a desire which caused her to turn ghastly pale. never before had she thus dragged herself at a man's feet. old bazouge's ugly mug, with his mouth all on one side and his hide begrimed with the dust of funerals, seemed to her as beautiful and resplendent as a sun. the old fellow, who was scarcely awake thought, however, that it was some sort of bad joke. "look here," murmured he, "no jokes!" "take me away," repeated gervaise more ardently still. "you remember, i knocked one evening against the partition; then i said that it wasn't true, because i was still a fool. but see! give me your hands. i'm no longer frightened. take me away to by-by; you'll see how still i'll be. oh! sleep, that's all i care for. oh! i'll love you so much!" bazouge, ever gallant, thought that he ought not to be hasty with a lady who appeared to have taken such a fancy to him. she was falling to pieces, but all the same, what remained was very fine, especially when she was excited. "what you say is very true," said he in a convinced manner. "i packed up three more to-day who would only have been too glad to have given me something for myself, could they but have got their hands to their pockets. but, little woman, it's not so easily settled as all that--" "take me away, take me away," continued gervaise, "i want to die." "ah! but there's a little operation to be gone through beforehand--you know, glug!" and he made a noise in his throat, as though swallowing his tongue. then, thinking it a good joke, he chuckled. gervaise slowly rose to her feet. so he too could do nothing for her. she went to her room and threw herself on her straw, feeling stupid, and regretting she had eaten. ah! no indeed, misery did not kill quickly enough. chapter xiii that night coupeau went on a spree. next day, gervaise received ten francs from her son etienne, who was a mechanic on some railway. the youngster sent her a few francs from time to time, knowing that they were not very well off at home. she made some soup, and ate it all alone, for that scoundrel coupeau did not return on the morrow. on monday he was still absent, and on tuesday also. the whole week went by. ah, it would be good luck if some woman took him in. on sunday gervaise received a printed document. it was to inform her that her husband was dying at the sainte-anne asylum. gervaise did not disturb herself. he knew the way; he could very well get home from the asylum by himself. they had cured him there so often that they could once more do him the sorry service of putting him on his pins again. had she not heard that very morning that for the week before coupeau had been seen as round as a ball, rolling about belleville from one dram shop to another in the company of my-boots. exactly so; and it was my-boots, too, who stood treat. he must have hooked his missus's stocking with all the savings gained at very hard work. it wasn't clean money they had used, but money that could infect them with any manner of vile diseases. well, anyway, they hadn't thought to invite her for a drink. if you wanted to drink by yourself, you could croak by yourself. however, on monday, as gervaise had a nice little meal planned for the evening, the remains of some beans and a pint of wine, she pretended to herself that a walk would give her an appetite. the letter from the asylum which she had left lying on the bureau bothered her. the snow had melted, the day was mild and grey and on the whole fine, with just a slight keenness in the air which was invigorating. she started at noon, for her walk was a long one. she had to cross paris and her bad leg always slowed her. with that the streets were crowded; but the people amused her; she reached her destination very pleasantly. when she had given her name, she was told a most astounding story to the effect that coupeau had been fished out of the seine close to the pont-neuf. he had jumped over the parapet, under the impression that a bearded man was barring his way. a fine jump, was it not? and as for finding out how coupeau got to be on the pont-neuf, that was a matter he could not even explain himself. one of the keepers escorted gervaise. she was ascending a staircase, when she heard howlings which made her shiver to her very bones. "he's playing a nice music, isn't he?" observed the keeper. "who is?" asked she. "why, your old man! he's been yelling like that ever since the day before yesterday; and he dances, you'll just see." _mon dieu!_ what a sight! she stood as one transfixed. the cell was padded from the floor to the ceiling. on the floor there were two straw mats, one piled on top of the other; and in a corner were spread a mattress and a bolster, nothing more. inside there coupeau was dancing and yelling, his blouse in tatters and his limbs beating the air. he wore the mask of one about to die. what a breakdown! he bumped up against the window, then retired backwards, beating time with his arms and shaking his hands as though he were trying to wrench them off and fling them in somebody's face. one meets with buffoons in low dancing places who imitate the delirium tremens, only they imitate it badly. one must see this drunkard's dance if one wishes to know what it is like when gone through in earnest. the song also has its merits, a continuous yell worthy of carnival-time, a mouth wide open uttering the same hoarse trombone notes for hours together. coupeau had the howl of a beast with a crushed paw. strike up, music! gentlemen, choose your partners! "_mon dieu!_ what is the matter with him? what is the matter with him?" repeated gervaise, seized with fear. a house surgeon, a big fair fellow with a rosy countenance, and wearing a white apron, was quietly sitting taking notes. the case was a curious one; the doctor did not leave the patient. "stay a while if you like," said he to the laundress; "but keep quiet. try and speak to him, he will not recognise you." coupeau indeed did not even appear to see his wife. she had only had a bad view of him on entering, he was wriggling about so much. when she looked him full in the face, she stood aghast. _mon dieu!_ was it possible he had a countenance like that, his eyes full of blood and his lips covered with scabs? she would certainly never have known him. to begin with, he was making too many grimaces, without saying why, his mouth suddenly out of all shape, his nose curled up, his cheeks drawn in, a perfect animal's muzzle. his skin was so hot the air steamed around him; and his hide was as though varnished, covered with a heavy sweat which trickled off him. in his mad dance, one could see all the same that he was not at his ease, his head was heavy and his limbs ached. gervaise drew near to the house surgeon, who was strumming a tune with the tips of his fingers on the back of his chair. "tell me, sir, it's serious then this time?" the house surgeon nodded his head without answering. "isn't he jabbering to himself? eh! don't you hear? what's it about? "about things he sees," murmured the young man. "keep quiet, let me listen." coupeau was speaking in a jerky voice. a glimmer of amusement lit up his eyes. he looked on the floor, to the right, to the left, and turned about as though he had been strolling in the bois de vincennes, conversing with himself. "ah! that's nice, that's grand! there're cottages, a regular fair. and some jolly fine music! what a balthazar's feast! they're smashing the crockery in there. awfully swell! now it's being lit up; red balls in the air, and it jumps, and it flies! oh! oh! what a lot of lanterns in the trees! it's confoundedly pleasant! there's water flowing everywhere, fountains, cascades, water which sings, oh! with the voice of a chorister. the cascades are grand!" and he drew himself up, as though the better to hear the delicious song of the water; he sucked in forcibly, fancying he was drinking the fresh spray blown from the fountains. but, little by little, his face resumed an agonized expression. then he crouched down and flew quicker than ever around the walls of the cell, uttering vague threats. "more traps, all that! i thought as much. silence, you set of swindlers! yes, you're making a fool of me. it's for that that you're drinking and bawling inside there with your viragoes. i'll demolish you, you and your cottage! damnation! will you leave me in peace?" he clinched his fists; then he uttered a hoarse cry, stooping as he ran. and he stuttered, his teeth chattering with fright. "it's so that i may kill myself. no, i won't throw myself in! all that water means that i've no heart. no, i won't throw myself in!" the cascades, which fled at his approach, advanced when he retired. and all of a sudden, he looked stupidly around him, mumbling, in a voice which was scarcely audible: "it isn't possible, they set conjurers against me!" "i'm off, sir. i've got to go. good-night!" said gervaise to the house surgeon. "it upsets me too much; i'll come again." she was quite white. coupeau was continuing his breakdown from the window to the mattress and from the mattress to the window, perspiring, toiling, always beating the same rhythm. then she hurried away. but though she scrambled down the stairs, she still heard her husband's confounded jig until she reached the bottom. ah! _mon dieu!_ how pleasant it was out of doors, one could breathe there! that evening everyone in the tenement was discussing coupeau's strange malady. the boches invited gervaise to have a drink with them, even though they now considered clump-clump beneath them, in order to hear all the details. madame lorilleux and madame poisson were there also. boche told of a carpenter he had known who had been a drinker of absinthe. the man shed his clothes, went out in the street and danced the polka until he died. that rather struck the ladies as comic, even though it was very sad. gervaise got up in the middle of the room and did an imitation of coupeau. yes, that's just how it was. can anyone feature a man doing that for hours on end? if they didn't believe they could go see for themselves. on getting up the next morning, gervaise promised herself she would not return to the sainte-anne again. what use would it be? she did not want to go off her head also. however, every ten minutes, she fell to musing and became absent-minded. it would be curious though, if he were still throwing his legs about. when twelve o'clock struck, she could no longer resist; she started off and did not notice how long the walk was, her brain was so full of her desire to go and the dread of what awaited her. oh! there was no need for her to ask for news. she heard coupeau's song the moment she reached the foot of the staircase. just the same tune, just the same dance. she might have thought herself going up again after having only been down for a minute. the attendant of the day before, who was carrying some jugs of tisane along the corridor, winked his eye as he met her, by way of being amiable. "still the same, then?" said she. "oh! still the same!" he replied without stopping. she entered the room, but she remained near the door, because there were some people with coupeau. the fair, rosy house surgeon was standing up, having given his chair to a bald old gentleman who was decorated and had a pointed face like a weasel. he was no doubt the head doctor, for his glance was as sharp and piercing as a gimlet. all the dealers in sudden death have a glance like that. no, really, it was not a pretty sight; and gervaise, all in a tremble, asked herself why she had returned. to think that the evening before they accused her at the boches' of exaggerating the picture! now she saw better how coupeau set about it, his eyes wide open looking into space, and she would never forget it. she overheard a few words between the house surgeon and the head doctor. the former was giving some details of the night: her husband had talked and thrown himself about, that was what it amounted to. then the bald-headed old gentleman, who was not very polite by the way, at length appeared to become aware of her presence; and when the house surgeon had informed him that she was the patient's wife, he began to question her in the harsh manner of a commissary of the police. "did this man's father drink?" "yes, sir; just a little like everyone. he killed himself by falling from a roof one day when he was tipsy." "did his mother drink?" "well! sir, like everyone else, you know; a drop here, a drop there. oh! the family is very respectable! there was a brother who died very young in convulsions." the doctor looked at her with his piercing eye. he resumed in his rough voice: "and you, you drink too, don't you?" gervaise stammered, protested, and placed her hand upon her heart, as though to take her solemn oath. "you drink! take care; see where drink leads to. one day or other you will die thus." then she remained close to the wall. the doctor had turned his back to her. he squatted down, without troubling himself as to whether his overcoat trailed in the dust of the matting; for a long while he studied coupeau's trembling, waiting for its reappearance, following it with his glance. that day the legs were going in their turn, the trembling had descended from the hands to the feet; a regular puppet with his strings being pulled, throwing his limbs about, whilst the trunk of his body remained as stiff as a piece of wood. the disease progressed little by little. it was like a musical box beneath the skin; it started off every three or four seconds and rolled along for an instant; then it stopped and then it started off again, just the same as the little shiver which shakes stray dogs in winter, when cold and standing in some doorway for protection. already the middle of the body and the shoulders quivered like water on the point of boiling. it was a funny demolition all the same, going off wriggling like a girl being tickled. coupeau, meanwhile, was complaining in a hollow voice. he seemed to suffer a great deal more than the day before. his broken murmurs disclosed all sorts of ailments. thousands of pins were pricking him. he felt something heavy all about his body; some cold, wet animal was crawling over his thighs and digging its fangs into his flesh. then there were other animals sticking to his shoulders, tearing his back with their claws. "i'm thirsty, oh! i'm thirsty!" groaned he continually. the house surgeon handed him a little lemonade from a small shelf; coupeau seized the mug in both hands and greedily took a mouthful, spilling half the liquid over himself; but he spat it out at once with furious disgust, exclaiming: "damnation! it's brandy!" then, on a sign from the doctor, the house surgeon tried to make him drink some water without leaving go of the bottle. this time he swallowed the mouthful, yelling as though he had swallowed fire. "it's brandy; damnation! it's brandy!" since the night before, everything he had had to drink was brandy. it redoubled his thirst and he could no longer drink, because everything burnt him. they had brought him some broth, but they were evidently trying to poison him, for the broth smelt of vitriol. the bread was sour and moldy. there was nothing but poison around him. the cell stank of sulphur. he even accused persons of rubbing matches under his nose to infect him. all on a sudden he exclaimed: "oh! the rats, there're the rats now!" there were black balls that were changing into rats. these filthy animals got fatter and fatter, then they jumped onto the mattress and disappeared. there was also a monkey which came out of the wall, and went back into the wall, and which approached so near him each time, that he drew back through fear of having his nose bitten off. suddenly there was another change, the walls were probably cutting capers, for he yelled out, choking with terror and rage: "that's it, gee up! shake me, i don't care! gee up! tumble down! yes, ring the bells, you black crows! play the organ to prevent my calling the police. they've put a bomb behind the wall, the lousy scoundrels! i can hear it, it snorts, they're going to blow us up! fire! damnation, fire! there's a cry of fire! there it blazes. oh, it's getting lighter, lighter! all the sky's burning, red fires, green fires, yellow fires. hi! help! fire!" his cries became lost in a rattle. he now only mumbled disconnected words, foaming at the mouth, his chin wet with saliva. the doctor rubbed his nose with his finger, a movement no doubt habitual with him in the presence of serious cases. he turned to the house surgeon, and asked him in a low voice: "and the temperature, still the hundred degrees, is it not?" "yes, sir." the doctor pursed his lips. he continued there another two minutes, his eyes fixed on coupeau. then he shrugged his shoulders, adding: "the same treatment, broth, milk, lemonade, and the potion of extract of quinine. do not leave him, and call me if necessary." he went out and gervaise followed him, to ask him if there was any hope. but he walked so stiffly along the corridor, that she did not dare approach him. she stood rooted there a minute, hesitating whether to return and look at her husband. the time she had already passed had been far from pleasant. as she again heard him calling out that the lemonade smelt of brandy, she hurried away, having had enough of the performance. in the streets, the galloping of the horses and the noise of the vehicles made her fancy that all the inmates of saint-anne were at her heels. and that the doctor had threatened her! really, she already thought she had the complaint. in the rue de la goutte-d'or the boches and the others were naturally awaiting her. the moment she appeared they called her into the concierge's room. well! was old coupeau still in the land of the living? _mon dieu!_ yes, he still lived. boche seemed amazed and confounded; he had bet a bottle that old coupeau would not last till the evening. what! he still lived! and they all exhibited their astonishment, and slapped their thighs. there was a fellow who lasted! madame lorilleux reckoned up the hours; thirty-six hours and twenty-four hours, sixty hours. _sacre dieu!_ already sixty hours that he had been doing the jig and screaming! such a feat of strength had never been seen before. but boche, who was upset that he had lost the bet, questioned gervaise with an air of doubt, asking her if she was quite sure he had not filed off behind her back. oh! no, he had no desire to, he jumped about too much. then boche, still doubting, begged her to show them again a little how he was acting, just so they could see. yes, yes, a little more! the request was general! the company told her she would be very kind if she would oblige, for just then two neighbors happened to be there who had not been present the day before, and who had come down purposely to see the performance. the concierge called to everybody to make room, they cleared the centre of the apartment, pushing one another with their elbows, and quivering with curiosity. gervaise, however, hung down her head. really, she was afraid it might upset her. desirous though of showing that she did not refuse for the sake of being pressed, she tried two or three little leaps; but she became quite queer, and stopped; on her word of honor, she was not equal to it! there was a murmur of disappointment; it was a pity, she imitated it perfectly. however, she could not do it, it was no use insisting! and when virginie left to return to her shop, they forgot all about old coupeau and began to gossip about the poissons and their home, a real mess now. the day before, the bailiffs had been; the policeman was about to lose his place; as for lantier, he was now making up to the daughter of the restaurant keeper next door, a fine woman, who talked of setting up as a tripe-seller. ah! it was amusing, everyone already beheld a tripe-seller occupying the shop; after the sweets should come something substantial. and that blind poisson! how could a man whose profession required him to be so smart fail to see what was going on in his own home? they stopped talking suddenly when they noticed that gervaise was off in a corner by herself imitating coupeau. her hands and feet were jerking. yes, they couldn't ask for a better performance! then gervaise started as if waking from a dream and hurried away calling out good-night to everyone. on the morrow, the boches saw her start off at twelve, the same as on the two previous days. they wished her a pleasant afternoon. that day the corridor at sainte-anne positively shook with coupeau's yells and kicks. she had not left the stairs when she heard him yelling: "what a lot of bugs!--come this way again that i may squash you!--ah! they want to kill me! ah! the bugs!--i'm a bigger swell than the lot of you! clear out, damnation! clear out." for a moment she stood panting before the door. was he then fighting against an army? when she entered, the performance had increased and was embellished even more than on previous occasions. coupeau was a raving madman, the same as one sees at the charenton mad-house! he was throwing himself about in the center of the cell, slamming his fists everywhere, on himself, on the walls, on the floor, and stumbling about punching empty space. he wanted to open the window, and he hid himself, defended himself, called, answered, produced all this uproar without the least assistance, in the exasperated way of a man beset by a mob of people. then gervaise understood that he fancied he was on a roof, laying down sheets of zinc. he imitated the bellows with his mouth, he moved the iron about in the fire and knelt down so as to pass his thumb along the edges of the mat, thinking that he was soldering it. yes, his handicraft returned to him at the moment of croaking; and if he yelled so loud, if he fought on his roof, it was because ugly scoundrels were preventing him doing his work properly. on all the neighboring roofs were villains mocking and tormenting him. besides that, the jokers were letting troops of rats loose about his legs. ah! the filthy beasts, he saw them always! though he kept crushing them, bringing his foot down with all his strength, fresh hordes of them continued passing, until they quite covered the roof. and there were spiders there too! he roughly pressed his trousers against his thigh to squash some big spiders which had crept up his leg. _mon dieu!_ he would never finish his day's work, they wanted to destroy him, his employer would send him to prison. then, whilst making haste, he suddenly imagined he had a steam-engine in his stomach; with his mouth wide open, he puffed out the smoke, a dense smoke which filled the cell and found an outlet by the window; and, bending forward, still puffing, he looked outside of the cloud of smoke as it unrolled and ascended to the sky, where it hid the sun. "look!" cried he, "there's the band of the chaussee clignancourt, disguised as bears with drums, putting on a show." he remained crouching before the window, as though he had been watching a procession in a street, from some rooftop. "there's the cavalcade, lions and panthers making grimaces--there's brats dressed up as dogs and cats--there's tall clemence, with her wig full of feathers. ah! _mon dieu!_ she's turning head over heels; she's showed everything--you'd better run, duckie. hey, the cops, leave her alone!--just you leave her alone--don't shoot! don't shoot--" his voice rose, hoarse and terrified and he stooped down quickly, saying that the police and the military were below, men who were aiming at him with rifles. in the wall he saw the barrel of a pistol emerging, pointed at his breast. they had dragged the girl away. "don't shoot! _mon dieu!_ don't shoot!" then, the buildings were tumbling down, he imitated the cracking of a whole neighborhood collapsing; and all disappeared, all flew off. but he had no time to take breath, other pictures passed with extraordinary rapidity. a furious desire to speak filled his mouth full of words which he uttered without any connection, and with a gurgling sound in his throat. he continued to raise his voice, louder and louder. "hallow, it's you? good-day! no jokes! don't make me nuzzle your hair." and he passed his hand before his face, he blew to send the hairs away. the house surgeon questioned him. "who is it you see?" "my wife, of course!" he was looking at the wall, with his back to gervaise. the latter had a rare fright, and she examined the wall, to see if she also could catch sight of herself there. he continued talking. "now, you know, none of your wheedling--i won't be tied down! you are pretty, you have got a fine dress. where did you get the money for it, you cow? you've been at a party, camel! wait a bit and i'll do for you! ah! you're hiding your boy friend behind your skirts. who is it? stoop down that i may see. damnation, it's him again!" with a terrible leap, he went head first against the wall; but the padding softened the blow. one only heard his body rebounding onto the matting, where the shock had sent him. "who is it you see?" repeated the house surgeon. "the hatter! the hatter!" yelled coupeau. and the house surgeon questioning gervaise, the latter stuttered without being able to answer, for this scene stirred up within her all the worries of her life. the zinc-worker thrust out his fists. "we'll settle this between us, my lad. it's full time i did for you! ah, you coolly come, with that virago on your arm, to make a fool of me before everyone. well! i'm going to throttle you--yes, yes, i! and without putting any gloves on either! i'll stop your swaggering. take that! and that! and that!" he hit about in the air viciously. then a wild rage took possession of him. having bumped against the wall in walking backwards, he thought he was being attacked from behind. he turned round, and fiercely hammered away at the padding. he sprang about, jumped from one corner to another, knocked his stomach, his back, his shoulder, rolled over, and picked himself up again. his bones seemed softened, his flesh had a sound like damp oakum. he accompanied this pretty game with atrocious threats, and wild and guttural cries. however the battle must have been going badly for him, for his breathing became quicker, his eyes were starting out of his head, and he seemed little by little to be seized with the cowardice of a child. "murder! murder! be off with you both. oh! you brutes, they're laughing. there she is on her back, the virago! she must give in, it's settled. ah! the brigand, he's murdering her! he's cutting off her leg with his knife. the other leg's on the ground, the stomach's in two, it's full of blood. oh! _mon dieu!_ oh! _mon dieu!_" and, covered with perspiration, his hair standing on end, looking a frightful object, he retired backwards, violently waving his arms, as though to send the abominable sight from him. he uttered two heart-rending wails, and fell flat on his back on the mattress, against which his heels had caught. "he's dead, sir, he's dead!" said gervaise, clasping her hands. the house surgeon had drawn near, and was pulling coupeau into the middle of the mattress. no, he was not dead. they had taken his shoes off. his bare feet hung off the end of the mattress and they were dancing all by themselves, one beside the other, in time, a little hurried and regular dance. just then the head doctor entered. he had brought two of his colleagues--one thin, the other fat, and both decorated like himself. all three stooped down without saying a word, and examined the man all over; then they rapidly conversed together in a low voice. they had uncovered coupeau from his thighs to his shoulders, and by standing on tiptoe gervaise could see the naked trunk spread out. well! it was complete. the trembling had descended from the arms and ascended from the legs, and now the trunk itself was getting lively! "he's sleeping," murmured the head doctor. and he called the two others' attention to the man's countenance. coupeau, his eyes closed, had little nervous twinges which drew up all his face. he was more hideous still, thus flattened out, with his jaw projecting, and his visage deformed like a corpse's that had suffered from nightmare; but the doctors, having caught sight of his feet, went and poked their noses over them, with an air of profound interest. the feet were still dancing. though coupeau slept the feet danced. oh! their owner might snore, that did not concern them, they continued their little occupation without either hurrying or slackening. regular mechanical feet, feet which took their pleasure wherever they found it. gervaise having seen the doctors place their hands on her old man, wished to feel him also. she approached gently and laid a hand on his shoulder, and she kept it there a minute. _mon dieu!_ whatever was taking place inside? it danced down into the very depths of the flesh, the bones themselves must have been jumping. quiverings, undulations, coming from afar, flowed like a river beneath the skin. when she pressed a little she felt she distinguished the suffering cries of the marrow. what a fearful thing, something was boring away like a mole! it must be the rotgut from l'assommoir that was hacking away inside him. well! his entire body had been soaked in it. the doctors had gone away. at the end of an hour gervaise, who had remained with the house surgeon, repeated in a low voice: "he's dead, sir; he's dead!" but the house surgeon, who was watching the feet, shook his head. the bare feet, projecting beyond the mattress, still danced on. they were not particularly clean and the nails were long. several more hours passed. all on a sudden they stiffened and became motionless. then the house surgeon turned towards gervaise, saying: "it's over now." death alone had been able to stop those feet. when gervaise got back to the rue de la goutte-d'or she found at the boches' a number of women who were cackling in excited tones. she thought they were awaiting her to have the latest news, the same as the other days. "he's gone," said she, quietly, as she pushed open the door, looking tired out and dull. but no one listened to her. the whole building was topsy-turvy. oh! a most extraordinary story. poisson had caught his wife with lantier. exact details were not known, because everyone had a different version. however, he had appeared just when they were not expecting him. some further information was given, which the ladies repeated to one another as they pursed their lips. a sight like that had naturally brought poisson out of his shell. he was a regular tiger. this man, who talked but little and who always seemed to walk with a stick up his back, had begun to roar and jump about. then nothing more had been heard. lantier had evidently explained things to the husband. anyhow, it could not last much longer, and boche announced that the girl of the restaurant was for certain going to take the shop for selling tripe. that rogue of a hatter adored tripe. on seeing madame lorilleux and madame lerat arrive, gervaise repeated, faintly: "he's gone. _mon dieu!_ four days' dancing and yelling--" then the two sisters could not do otherwise than pull out their handkerchiefs. their brother had had many faults, but after all he was their brother. boche shrugged his shoulders and said, loud enough to be heard by everyone: "bah! it's a drunkard the less." from that day, as gervaise often got a bit befuddled, one of the amusements of the house was to see her imitate coupeau. it was no longer necessary to press her; she gave the performance gratis, her hands and feet trembling as she uttered little involuntary shrieks. she must have caught this habit at sainte-anne from watching her husband too long. gervaise lasted in this state several months. she fell lower and lower still, submitting to the grossest outrages and dying of starvation a little every day. as soon as she had four sous she drank and pounded on the walls. she was employed on all the dirty errands of the neighborhood. once they even bet her she wouldn't eat filth, but she did it in order to earn ten sous. monsieur marescot had decided to turn her out of her room on the sixth floor. but, as pere bru had just been found dead in his cubbyhole under the staircase, the landlord had allowed her to turn into it. now she roosted there in the place of pere bru. it was inside there, on some straw, that her teeth chattered, whilst her stomach was empty and her bones were frozen. the earth would not have her apparently. she was becoming idiotic. she did not even think of making an end of herself by jumping out of the sixth floor window on to the pavement of the courtyard below. death had to take her little by little, bit by bit, dragging her thus to the end through the accursed existence she had made for herself. it was never even exactly known what she did die of. there was some talk of a cold, but the truth was she died of privation and of the filth and hardship of her ruined life. overeating and dissoluteness killed her, according to the lorilleuxs. one morning, as there was a bad smell in the passage, it was remembered that she had not been seen for two days, and she was discovered already green in her hole. it happened to be old bazouge who came with the pauper's coffin under his arm to pack her up. he was again precious drunk that day, but a jolly fellow all the same, and as lively as a cricket. when he recognized the customer he had to deal with he uttered several philosophical reflections, whilst performing his little business. "everyone has to go. there's no occasion for jostling, there's room for everyone. and it's stupid being in a hurry that just slows you up. all i want to do is to please everybody. some will, others won't. what's the result? here's one who wouldn't, then she would. so she was made to wait. anyhow, it's all right now, and faith! she's earned it! merrily, just take it easy." and when he took hold of gervaise in his big, dirty hands, he was seized with emotion, and he gently raised this woman who had had so great a longing for his attentions. then, as he laid her out with paternal care at the bottom of the coffin, he stuttered between two hiccoughs: "you know--now listen--it's me, bibi-the-gay, called the ladies' consoler. there, you're happy now. go by-by, my beauty!" the end the dwelling-place of light by winston churchill volume chapter ix at certain moments during the days that followed the degree of tension her relationship with ditmar had achieved tested the limits of janet's ingenuity and powers of resistance. yet the sense of mastery at being able to hold such a man in leash was by no means unpleasurable to a young woman of her vitality and spirit. there was always the excitement that the leash might break--and then what? here was a situation, she knew instinctively, that could not last, one fraught with all sorts of possibilities, intoxicating or abhorrent to contemplate; and for that very reason fascinating. when she was away from ditmar and tried to think about it she fell into an abject perplexity, so full was it of anomalies and contradictions, of conflicting impulses; so far beyond her knowledge and experience. for janet had been born in an age which is rapidly discarding blanket morality and taboos, which has as yet to achieve the morality of scientific knowledge, of the individual instance. tradition, convention, the awful examples portrayed for gain in the movies, even her mother's pessimistic attitude in regard to the freedom with which the sexes mingle to-day were powerless to influence her. the thought, however, that she might fundamentally resemble her sister lise, despite a fancied superiority, did occasionally shake her and bring about a revulsion against ditmar. janet's problem was in truth, though she failed so to specialize it, the supreme problem of our time: what is the path to self-realization? how achieve emancipation from the commonplace? was she in love with ditmar? the question was distasteful, she avoided it, for enough of the tatters of orthodox christianity clung to her to cause her to feel shame when she contemplated the feelings he aroused in her. it was when she asked herself what his intentions were that her resentment burned, pride and a sense of her own value convinced her that he had deeply insulted her in not offering marriage. plainly, he did not intend to offer marriage; on the other hand, if he had done so, a profound, self-respecting and moral instinct in her would, in her present mood, have led her to refuse. she felt a fine scorn for the woman who, under the circumstances, would insist upon a bond and all a man's worldly goods in return for that which it was her privilege to give freely; while the notion of servility, of economic dependence--though she did not so phrase it--repelled her far more than the possibility of social ruin. this she did not contemplate at all; her impulse to leave hampton and ditmar had nothing to do with that.... away from ditmar, this war of inclinations possessed her waking mind, invaded her dreams. when she likened herself to the other exploited beings he drove to run his mills and fill his orders,--of whom mr. siddons had spoken--her resolution to leave hampton gained such definite ascendancy that her departure seemed only a matter of hours. in this perspective ditmar appeared so ruthless, his purpose to use her and fling her away so palpable, that she despised herself for having hesitated. a longing for retaliation consumed her; she wished to hurt him before she left. at such times, however, unforeseen events invariably intruded to complicate her feelings and alter her plans. one evening at supper, for instance, when she seemed at last to have achieved the comparative peace of mind that follows a decision after struggle, she gradually became aware of an outburst from hannah concerning the stove, the condition of which for many months had been a menace to the welfare of the family. edward, it appeared, had remarked mildly on the absence of beans. "beans!" hannah cried. "you're lucky to have any supper at all. i just wish i could get you to take a look at that oven--there's a hole you can put your hand through, if you've a mind to. i've done my best, i've made out to patch it from time to time, and to-day i had mr. tiernan in. he says it's a miracle i've been able to bake anything. a new one'll cost thirty dollars, and i don't know where the money's coming from to buy it. and the fire-box is most worn through." "well, mother, we'll see what we can do," said edward. "you're always seeing what you can do, but i notice you never do anything," retorted hannah; and edward had the wisdom not to reply. beside his place lay a lengthy, close-written letter, and from time to time, as he ate his canned pears, his hand turned over one of its many sheets. "it's from eben wheeler, says he's been considerably troubled with asthma," he observed presently. "his mother was a bumpus, a daughter of caleb-descended from robert, who went from dolton to tewksbury in , and fought in the war of . i've told you about him. this caleb was born in ' , and he's living now with his daughter's family in detroit.... son-in-law's named nott, doing well with a construction company. now i never could find out before what became of robert's descendants. he married sarah styles" (reading painfully) "`and they had issue, john, robert, anne, susan, eliphalet. john went to middlebury, vermont, and married '" hannah, gathering up the plates, clattered them together noisily. "a lot of good it does us to have all that information about eben wheeler's asthma!" she complained. "it'll buy us a new stove, i guess. him and his old bumpus papers! if the house burned down over our heads that's all he'd think of." as she passed to and fro from the dining-room to the kitchen hannah's lamentations continued, grew more and more querulous. accustomed as janet was to these frequent arraignments of her father's inefficiency, it was gradually borne in upon her now--despite a preoccupation with her own fate--that the affair thus plaintively voiced by her mother was in effect a family crisis of the first magnitude. she was stirred anew to anger and revolt against a life so precarious and sordid as to be threatened in its continuity by the absurd failure of a stove, when, glancing at her sister, she felt a sharp pang of self-conviction, of self-disgust. was she, also, like that, indifferent and self-absorbed? lise, in her evening finery, looking occasionally at the clock, was awaiting the hour set for a rendezvous, whiling away the time with the boston evening sheet whose glaring red headlines stretched across the page. when the newspaper fell to her lap a dreamy expression clouded lise's eyes. she was thinking of some man! quickly janet looked away, at her father, only to be repelled anew by the expression, almost of fatuity, she discovered on his face as he bent over the letter once more. suddenly she experienced an overwhelming realization of the desperation of hannah's plight,--the destiny of spending one's days, without sympathy, toiling in the confinement of these rooms to supply their bodily needs. never had a destiny seemed so appalling. and yet janet resented that pity. the effect of it was to fetter and inhibit; from the moment of its intrusion she was no longer a free agent, to leave hampton and ditmar when she chose. without her, this family was helpless. she rose, and picked up some of the dishes. hannah snatched them from her hands. "leave 'em alone, janet!" she said with unaccustomed sharpness. "i guess i ain't too feeble to handle 'em yet." and a flash of new understanding came to janet. the dishes were vicarious, a substitute for that greater destiny out of which hannah had been cheated by fate. a substitute, yes, and perhaps become something of a mania, like her father's bumpus papers.... janet left the room swiftly, entered the bedroom, put on her coat and hat, and went out. across the street the light in mr. tiernan's shop was still burning, and through the window she perceived mr. tiernan himself tilted back in his chair, his feet on the table, the tip of his nose pointed straight at the ceiling. when the bell betrayed the opening of the door he let down his chair on the floor with a bang. "why, it's miss janet!" he exclaimed. "how are you this evening, now? i was just hoping some one would pay me a call." twinkling at her, he managed, somewhat magically, to dispel her temper of pessimism, and she was moved to reply:--"you know you were having a beautiful time, all by yourself." "a beautiful time, is it? maybe it's because i was dreaming of some young lady a-coming to pay me a visit." "well, dreams never come up to expectations, do they?" "then it's dreaming i am, still," retorted mr. tiernan, quickly. janet laughed. his tone, though bantering, was respectful. one of the secrets of mr. tiernan's very human success was due to his ability to estimate his fellow creatures. his manner of treating janet, for instance, was quite different from that he employed in dealing with lise. in the course of one interview he had conveyed to lise, without arousing her antagonism, the conviction that it was wiser to trust him than to attempt to pull wool over his eyes. janet had the intelligence to trust him; and to-night, as she faced him, the fact was brought home to her with peculiar force that this wiry-haired little man was the person above all others of her immediate acquaintance to seek in time of trouble. it was his great quality. moreover, mr. tiernan, even in his morning greetings as she passed, always contrived to convey to her, in some unaccountable fashion, the admiration and regard in which he held her, and the effect of her contact with him was invariably to give her a certain objective image of herself, an increased self-confidence and self-respect. for instance, by the light dancing in mr. tiernan's eyes as he regarded her, she saw herself now as the mainstay of the helpless family in the clay-yellow flat across the street. and there was nothing, she was convinced, mr. tiernan did not know about that family. so she said:--"i've come to see about the stove." "sure," he replied, as much as to say that the visit was not unexpected. "well, i've been thinking about it, miss janet. i've got a stove here i know'll suit your mother. it's a reading, it's almost new. ye'd better be having a look at it yourself." he led her into a chaos of stoves, grates, and pipes at the back of the store. "it's in need of a little polish," he added, as he turned on a light, "but it's sound, and a good baker, and economical with coal." he opened the oven and took off the lids. "i'm afraid i don't know much about stoves," she told him. "but i'll trust your judgment. how much is it?" she inquired hesitatingly. he ran his hand through his corkscrewed hair, his familiar gesture. "well, i'm willing to let ye have it for twenty-five dollars. if that's too much--mebbe we can find another." "can you put it in to-morrow morning?" she asked. "i can that," he said. she drew out her purse. "ye needn't be paying for it all at once," he protested, laying a hand on her arm. "you won't be running away." "oh, i'd rather--i have the money," she declared hurriedly; and she turned her back that he might not perceive, when she had extracted the bills, how little was left in her purse. "i'll wager ye won't be wanting another soon," he said, as he escorted her to the door. and he held it open, politely, looking after her, until she had crossed the street, calling out a cheerful "goodnight" that had in it something of a benediction. she avoided the dining-room and went straight to bed, in a strange medley of feelings. the self-sacrifice had brought a certain self-satisfaction not wholly unpleasant. she had been equal to the situation, and a part of her being approved of this,--a part which had been suppressed in another mood wherein she had become convinced that self-realization lay elsewhere. life was indeed a bewildering thing.... the next morning, at breakfast, though her mother's complaints continued, janet was silent as to her purchase, and she lingered on her return home in the evening because she now felt a reluctance to appear in the role of protector and preserver of the family. she would have preferred, if possible, to give the stove anonymously. not that the expression of hannah's gratitude was maudlin; she glared at janet when she entered the dining-room and exclaimed: "you hadn't ought to have gone and done it!" and janet retorted, with almost equal vehemence:--"somebody had to do it--didn't they? who else was there?" "it's a shame for you to spend your money on such things. you'd ought to save it you'll need it," hannah continued illogically. "it's lucky i had the money," said janet. both janet and hannah knew that these recriminations, from the other, were the explosive expressions of deep feeling. janet knew that her mother was profoundly moved by her sacrifice. she herself was moved by hannah's plight, but tenderness and pity were complicated by a renewed sense of rebellion against an existence that exacted such a situation. "i hope the stove's all right, mother," she said. "mr. tiernan seemed to think it was a good one." "it's a different thing," declared hannah. "i was just wondering this evening, before you came in, how i ever made out to cook anything on the other. come and see how nice it looks." janet followed her into the kitchen. as they stood close together gazing at the new purchase janet was uncomfortably aware of drops that ran a little way in the furrows of hannah's cheeks, stopped, and ran on again. she seized her apron and clapped it to her face. "you hadn't ought to be made to do it!" she sobbed. and janet was suddenly impelled to commit an act rare in their intercourse. she kissed her, swiftly, on the cheek, and fled from the room.... supper was an ordeal. janet did not relish her enthronement as a heroine, she deplored and even resented her mother's attitude toward her father, which puzzled her; for the studied cruelty of it seemed to belie her affection for him. every act and gesture and speech of hannah's took on the complexion of an invidious reference to her reliability as compared with edward's worthlessness as a provider; and she contrived in some sort to make the meal a sacrament in commemoration of her elder daughter's act. "i guess you notice the difference in that pork," she would exclaim, and when he praised it and attributed its excellence to janet's gift hannah observed: "as long as you ain't got a son, you're lucky to have a daughter like her!" janet squirmed. her father's acceptance of his comparative worthlessness was so abject that her pity was transferred to him, though she scorned him, as on former occasions, for the self-depreciation that made him powerless before her mother's reproaches. after the meal was over he sat listlessly on the sofa, like a visitor whose presence is endured, pathetically refraining from that occupation in which his soul found refreshment and peace, the compilation of the bumpus genealogy. that evening the papers remained under the lid of the desk in the corner, untouched. what troubled janet above all, however, was the attitude of lise, who also came in for her share of implied reproach. of late lise had become an increased source of anxiety to hannah, who was unwisely resolved to make this occasion an object lesson. and though parental tenderness had often moved her to excuse and defend lise for an increasing remissness in failing to contribute to the household expenses, she was now quite relentless in her efforts to wring from lise an acknowledgment of the nobility of her sister's act, of qualities in janet that she, lise, might do well to cultivate. lise was equally determined to withhold any such acknowledgment; in her face grew that familiar mutinous look that hannah invariably failed to recognize as a danger signal; and with it another --the sophisticated expression of one who knows life and ridicules the lack of such knowledge in others. its implication was made certain when the two girls were alone in their bedroom after supper. lise, feverishly occupied with her toilet, on her departure broke the silence there by inquiring:--"say, if i had your easy money, i might buy a stove, too. how much does ditmar give you, sweetheart?" janet, infuriated, flew at her sister. lise struggled to escape. "leave me go" she whimpered in genuine alarm, and when at length she was released she went to the mirror and began straightening her hat, which had flopped to one side of her head. "i didn't mean nothin', i was only kiddie' you--what's the use of gettin' nutty over a jest?" "i'm not like-you," said janet. "i was only kiddin', i tell you," insisted lise, with a hat pin in her mouth. "forget it." when lise had gone out janet sat down in the rocking-chair and began to rock agitatedly. what had really made her angry, she began to perceive, was the realization of a certain amount of truth in her sister's intimation concerning ditmar. why should she have, in lise, continually before her eyes a degraded caricature of her own aspirations and ideals? or was lise a mirror--somewhat tarnished, indeed--in which she read the truth about herself? for some time janet had more than suspected that her sister possessed a new lover--a lover whom she refrained from discussing; an ominous sign, since it had been her habit to dangle her conquests before janet's eyes, to discuss their merits and demerits with an engaging though cynical freedom. although the existence of this gentleman was based on evidence purely circumstantial, janet was inclined to believe him of a type wholly different from his predecessors; and the fact that his attentions were curiously intermittent and irregular inclined her to the theory that he was not a resident of hampton. what was he like? it revolted her to reflect that he might in some ways possibly resemble ditmar. thus he became the object of a morbid speculation, especially at such times as this, when lise attired herself in her new winter finery and went forth to meet him. janet, also, had recently been self-convicted of sharing with lise the same questionable tendency toward self-adornment to please the eye of man. the very next saturday night after she had indulged in that mad extravagance of the blue suit, lise had brought home from the window of the paris in faber street a hat that had excited the cupidity and admiration of miss schuler and herself, and in front of which they had stood languishing on three successive evenings. in its acquisition lise had expended almost the whole of a week's salary. its colour was purple, on three sides were massed drooping lilac feathers, but over the left ear the wide brim was caught up and held by a crescent of brilliant paste stones. shortly after this purchase--the next week, in fact,--the paris had alluringly and craftily displayed, for the tempting sum of $ . , the very cloak ordained by providence to "go" with the hat. miss schuler declared it would be a crime to fail to take advantage of such an opportunity but the trouble was that lise had had to wait for two more pay-days and endure the suspense arising from the possibility that some young lady of taste and means might meanwhile become its happy proprietor. had not the saleslady been obdurate, lise would have had it on credit; but she did succeed, by an initial payment the ensuing saturday, in having it withdrawn from public gaze. the second saturday lise triumphantly brought the cloak home; a velvet cloak,--if the eyes could be believed,--velvet bordering on plush, with a dark purple ground delicately and artistically spotted with a lilac to match the hat feathers, and edged with a material which--if not too impudently examined and no questions asked--might be mistaken, by the uninitiated male, for the fur of a white fox. both investments had been made, needless to say, on the strength of janet's increased salary; and lise, when janet had surprised her before the bureau rapturously surveying the combination, justified herself with a defiant apology. "i just had to have something--what with winter coming on," she declared, seizing the hand mirror in order to view the back. "you might as well get your clothes chick, while you're about it--and i didn't have to dig up twenty bones, neither--nor anything like it--" a reflection on janet's most blue suit and her abnormal extravagance. for it was lise's habit to carry the war into the enemy's country. "sadie's dippy about it--says it puts her in mind of one of the swells snapshotted in last sunday's supplement. well, dearie, how does the effect get you?" and she wheeled around for her sister's inspection. "if you take my advice, you'll be careful not to be caught out in the rain." "what's chewin' you now?" demanded lise. she was not lacking in imagination of a certain sort, and janet's remark did not fail in its purpose of summoning up a somewhat abject image of herself in wet velvet and bedraggled feathers--an image suggestive of a certain hunted type of woman lise and her kind held in peculiar horror. and she was the more resentful because she felt, instinctively, that the memory of this suggestion would never be completely eradicated: it would persist, like a canker, to mar the completeness of her enjoyment of these clothes. she swung on janet furiously. "i get you, all right!" she cried. "i guess i know what's eatin' you! you've got money to burn and you're sore because i spend mine to buy what i need. you don't know how to dress yourself any more than one of them polak girls in the mills, and you don't want anybody else to look nice." and janet was impelled to make a retort of almost equal crudity:--"if i were a man and saw you in those clothes i wouldn't wait for an introduction. you asked me what i thought. i don't care about the money!" she exclaimed passionately. "i've often told you you were pretty enough without having to wear that kind of thing--to make men stare at you." "i want to know if i don't always look like a lady! and there's no man living would try to pick me up more than once." the nasal note in lise's voice had grown higher and shriller, she was almost weeping with anger. "you want me to go 'round lookin' like a floorwasher." "i'd rather look like a floorwasher than--than another kind of woman," janet declared. "well, you've got your wish, sweetheart," said lise. "you needn't be scared anybody will pick you up." "i'm not," said janet.... this quarrel had taken place a week or so before janet's purchase of the stove. hannah, too, was outraged by lise's costume, and had also been moved to protest; futile protest. its only effect on lise was to convince her of the existence of a prearranged plan of persecution, to make her more secretive and sullen than ever before. "sometimes i just can't believe she's my daughter," hannah said dejectedly to janet when they were alone together in the kitchen after lise had gone out. "i'm fond of her because she's my own flesh and blood--i'm ashamed of it, but i can't help it. i guess it's what the minister in dolton used to call a visitation. i suppose i deserve it, but sometimes i think maybe if your father had been different he might have been able to put a stop to the way she's going on. she ain't like any of the wenches, nor any of the bumpuses, so far's i'm able to find out. she just don't seem to have any notion about right and wrong. well, the world has got all jumbled up--it beats me." hannah wrung out the mop viciously and hung it over the sink. "i used to hope some respectable man would come along, but i've quit hopin'. i don't know as any respectable man would want lise, or that i could honestly wish him to have her." "mother!" protested janet. sometimes, in those conversations, she was somewhat paradoxically impelled to defend her sister. "well, i don't," insisted hannah, "that's a fact. i'll tell you what she looks like in that hat and cloak--a bad woman. i don't say she is--i don't know what i'd do if i thought she was, but i never expected my daughter to look like one." "oh, lise can take care of herself," janet said, in spite of certain recent misgivings. "this town's sodom and gomorrah rolled into one," declared hannah who, from early habit, was occasionally prone to use scriptural parallels. and after a moment's silence she inquired: "who's this man that's payin' her attention now?" "i don't know," replied janet, "i don't know that there's anybody." "i guess there is," said hannah. "i used to think that that wiley was low enough, but i could see him. it was some satisfaction. i could know the worst, anyhow.... i guess it's about time for another flood." this talk had left janet in one of these introspective states so frequent in her recent experience. her mother had used the words "right" and "wrong." but what was "right," or "wrong?" there was no use asking hannah, who--she perceived--was as confused and bewildered as herself. did she refuse to encourage mr. ditmar because it was wrong? because, if she acceded to his desires, and what were often her own, she would be punished in an after life? she was not at all sure whether she believed in an after life,--a lack of faith that had, of late, sorely troubled her friend eda rawle, who had "got religion" from an itinerant evangelist and was now working off, in a "live" church, some of the emotional idealism which is the result of a balked sex instinct in young unmarried women of a certain mentality and unendowed with good looks. this was not, of course, janet's explanation of the change in her friend, of whom she now saw less and less. they had had arguments, in which neither gained any ground. for the first time in their intercourse, ideas had come between them, eda having developed a surprising self-assertion when her new convictions were attacked, a dogged loyalty to a scheme of salvation that janet found neither inspiring nor convincing. she resented being prayed for, and an eda fervent in good works bored her more than ever. eda was deeply pained by janet's increasing avoidance of her company, yet her heroine-worship persisted. her continued regard for her friend might possibly be compared to the attitude of an orthodox baptist who has developed a hobby, let us say, for napoleon bonaparte. janet was not wholly without remorse. she valued eda's devotion, she sincerely regretted the fact, on eda's account as well as her own, that it was a devotion of no use to her in the present crisis nor indeed in any crisis likely to confront her in life: she had felt instinctively from the first that the friendship was not founded on, mental harmony, and now it was brought home to her that eda's solution could never be hers. eda would have been thrilled on learning of ditmar's attentions, would have advocated the adoption of a campaign leading up to matrimony. in matrimony, for eda, the soul was safe. eda would have been horrified that janet should have dallied with any other relationship; god would punish her. janet, in her conflict between alternate longing and repugnance, was not concerned with the laws and retributions of god. she felt, indeed, the need of counsel, and knew not where to turn for it, --the modern need for other than supernatural sanctions. she did not resist her desire for ditmar because she believed, in the orthodox sense, that it was wrong, but because it involved a loss of self-respect, a surrender of the personality from the very contemplation of which she shrank. she was a true daughter of her time. on friday afternoon, shortly after ditmar had begun to dictate his correspondence, mr. holster, the agent of the clarendon mill, arrived and interrupted him. janet had taken advantage of the opportunity to file away some answered letters when her attention was distracted from her work by the conversation, which had gradually grown louder. the two men were standing by the window, facing one another, in an attitude that struck her as dramatic. both were vital figures, dominant types which had survived and prevailed in that upper world of unrelenting struggle for supremacy into which, through her relation to ditmar, she had been projected, and the significance of which she had now begun to realize. she surveyed holster critically. he was short, heavily built, with an almost grotesque width of shoulder, a muddy complexion, thick lips, and kinky, greasy black hair that glistened in the sun. his nasal voice was complaining, yet distinctly aggressive, and he emphasized his words by gestures. the veins stood out on his forehead. she wondered what his history had been. she compared him to ditmar, on whose dust-grey face she was quick to detect a look she had seen before--a contraction of the eyes, a tightening of the muscles of the jaw. that look, and the peculiarly set attitude of the body accompanying it, aroused in her a responsive sense of championship. "all right, ditmar," she heard the other exclaim. "i tell you again you'll never be able to pull it off." ditmar's laugh was short, defiant. "why not?" he asked. "why not! because the fifty-four hour law goes into effect in january." "what's that got to do with it?" ditmar demanded. "you'll see--you'll remember what i told you fellows at the conference after that bill went through and that damned demagogue of a governor insisted on signing it. i said, if we tried to cut wages down to a fifty-four hour basis we'd have a strike on our hands in every mill in hampton,--didn't i? i said it would cost us millions of dollars, and make all the other strikes we've had here look like fifty cents. didn't i say that? hammond, our president, backed me up, and rogers of the wool people. you remember? you were the man who stood out against it, and they listened to you, they voted to cut down the pay and say nothing about it. wait until those first pay envelopes are opened after that law goes into effect. you'll see what'll happen! you'll never be able to fill that bradlaugh order in god's world." "oh hell," retorted ditmar, contemptuously. "you're always for lying down, holster. why don't you hand over your mill to the unions and go to work on a farm? you might as well, if you're going to let the unions run the state. why not have socialism right now, and cut out the agony? when they got the politicians to make the last cut from fifty-six to fifty-four and we kept on payin' 'em for fifty-six, against my advice, what happened? did they thank us? i guess not. were they contented? not on your life. they went right on agitating, throwing scares into the party conventions and into the house and senate committees,--and now it's fifty-four hours. it'll be fifty in a couple of years, and then we'll have to scrap our machinery and turn over the trade to the south and donate our mills to the state for insane asylums." "no, if we handle this thing right, we'll have the public on our side. they're getting sick of the unions now." ditmar went to the desk for a cigar, bit it off, and lighted it. "the public!" he exclaimed contemptuously. "a whole lot of good they'll do us." holster approached him, menacingly, until the two men stood almost touching, and for a moment it seemed to janet as if the agent of the clarendon were ready to strike ditmar. she held her breath, her blood ran faster,--the conflict between these two made an elemental appeal. "all right--remember what i say--wait and see where you come out with that order." holster's voice trembled with anger. he hesitated, and left the office abruptly. ditmar stood gazing after him for a moment and then, taking his cigar from his mouth, turned and smiled at janet and seated himself in his chair. his eyes, still narrowed, had in them a gleam of triumph that thrilled her. combat seemed to stimulate and energize him. "he thought he could bluff me into splitting that bradlaugh order with the clarendon," ditmar exclaimed. "well, he'll have to guess again. i've got his number." he began to turn over his letters. "let's see, where were we? tell caldwell not to let in any more idiots, and shut the door." janet obeyed, and when she returned ditmar was making notes with a pencil on a pad. the conversation with holter had given her a new idea of ditmar's daring in attempting to fill the bradlaugh order with the chippering mills alone, had aroused in her more strongly than ever that hot loyalty to the mills with which he had inspired her; and that strange surge of sympathy, of fellow-feeling for the operatives she had experienced after the interview with mr. siddons, of rebellion against him, the conviction that she also was one of the slaves he exploited, had wholly disappeared. ditmar was the chippering mills, and she, somehow, enlisted once again on his side. "by the way," he said abruptly, "you won't mention this--i know." "won't mention what?" she asked. "this matter about the pay envelopes--that we don't intend to continue giving the operatives fifty-six hours' pay for fifty-four when this law goes into effect. they're like animals, most of 'em, they don't reason, and it might make trouble if it got out now. you understand. they'd have time to brood over it, to get the agitators started. when the time comes they may kick a little, but they'll quiet down. and it'll teach 'em a lesson." "i never mention anything i hear in this office," she told him. "i know you don't," he assured her, apologetically. "i oughtn't to have said that--it was only to put you on your guard, in case you heard it spoken of. you see how important it is, how much trouble an agitator might make by getting them stirred up? you can see what it means to me, with this order on my hands. i've staked everything on it." "but--when the law goes into effect? when the operatives find out that they are not receiving their full wages--as mr. holster said?" janet inquired. "why, they may grumble a little--but i'll be on the lookout for any move. i'll see to that. i'll teach 'em a lesson as to how far they can push this business of shorter hours and equal pay. it's the unskilled workers who are mostly affected, you understand, and they're not organized. if we can keep out the agitators, we're all right. even then, i'll show 'em they can't come in here and exploit my operatives." in the mood in which she found herself his self-confidence, his aggressiveness continued to inspire and even to agitate her, to compel her to accept his point of view. "why," he continued, "i trust you as i never trusted anybody else. i've told you that before. ever since you've been here you've made life a different thing for me--just by your being here. i don't know what i'd do without you. you've got so much sense about things--about people,--and i sometimes think you've got almost the same feeling about these mills that i have. you didn't tell me you went through the mills with caldwell the other day," he added, accusingly. "i--i forgot," said janet. "why should i tell--you?" she knew that all thought of holster had already slipped from his mind. she did not look up. "if you're not going to finish your letters," she said, a little faintly, "i've got some copying to do." "you're a deep one," he said. and as he turned to the pile of correspondence she heard him sigh. he began to dictate. she took down his sentences automatically, scarcely knowing what she was writing; he was making love to her as intensely as though his words had been the absolute expression of his desire instead of the commonplace mediums of commercial intercourse. presently he stopped and began fumbling in one of the drawers of his desk. "where is the memorandum i made last week for percy and company?" "isn't it there?" she asked. but he continued to fumble, running through the papers and disarranging them until she could stand it no longer. "you never know where to find anything," she declared, rising and darting around the desk and bending over the drawer, her deft fingers rapidly separating the papers. she drew forth the memorandum triumphantly. "there!" she exclaimed. "it was right before your eyes." as she thrust it at him his hand closed over hers. she felt him drawing her, irresistibly. "janet!" he said. "for god's sake--you're killing me--don't you know it? i can't stand it any longer!" "don't!" she whispered, terror-stricken, straining away from him. "mr. ditmar--let me go!" a silent struggle ensued, she resisting him with all the aroused strength and fierceness of her nature. he kissed her hair, her neck,--she had never imagined such a force as this, she felt herself weakening, welcoming the annihilation of his embrace. "mr. ditmar!" she cried. "somebody will come in." her fingers sank into his neck, she tried to hurt him and by a final effort flung herself free and fled to the other side of the room. "you little--wildcat!" she heard him exclaim, saw him put his handkerchief to his neck where her fingers had been, saw a red stain on it. "i'll have you yet!" but even then, as she stood leaning against the wall, motionless save for the surging of her breast, there was about her the same strange, feral inscrutableness. he was baffled, he could not tell what she was thinking. she seemed, unconquered, to triumph over her disarray and the agitation of her body. then, with an involuntary gesture she raised her hands to her hair, smoothing it, and without seeming haste left the room, not so much as glancing at him, closing the door behind her. she reached her table in the outer office and sat down, gazing out of the window. the face of the world--the river, the mills, and the bridge--was changed, tinged with a new and unreal quality. she, too, must be changed. she wasn't, couldn't be the same person who had entered that room of ditmar's earlier in the afternoon! mr. caldwell made a commonplace remark, she heard herself answer him. her mind was numb, only her body seemed swept by fire, by emotions--emotions of fear, of anger, of desire so intense as to make her helpless. and when at length she reached out for a sheet of carbon paper her hand trembled so she could scarcely hold it. only by degrees was she able to get sufficient control of herself to begin her copying, when she found a certain relief in action--her hands flying over the keys, tearing off the finished sheets, and replacing them with others. she did not want to think, to decide, and yet she knew--something was trying to tell her that the moment for decision had come. she must leave, now. if she stayed on, this tremendous adventure she longed for and dreaded was inevitable. fear and fascination battled within her. to run away was to deny life; to remain, to taste and savour it. she had tasted it--was it sweet?--that sense of being swept away, engulfed by an elemental power beyond them both, yet in them both? she felt him drawing her to him, and she struggling yet inwardly longing to yield. and the scarlet stain on his handkerchief--when she thought of that her blood throbbed, her face burned. at last the door of the inner office opened, and ditmar came out and stood by the rail. his voice was queer, scarcely recognizable. "miss bumpus--would you mind coming into my room a moment, before you leave?" he said. she rose instantly and followed him, closing the door behind her, but standing at bay against it, her hand on the knob. "i'm not going to touch you--you needn't be afraid," he said. reassured by the unsteadiness of his voice she raised her eyes to perceive that his face was ashy, his manner nervous, apprehensive, conciliatory,--a ditmar she had difficulty in recognizing. "i didn't mean to frighten, to offend you," he went on. "something got hold of me. i was crazy, i couldn't help it--i won't do it again, if you'll stay. i give you my word." she did not reply. after a pause he began again, repeating himself. "i didn't mean to do it. i was carried away--it all happened before i knew. i--i wouldn't frighten you that way for anything in the world." still she was silent. "for god's sake, speak to me!" he cried. "say you forgive me--give me another chance!" but she continued to gaze at him with widened, enigmatic eyes--whether of reproach or contempt or anger he could not say. the situation transcended his experience. he took an uncertain step toward her, as though half expecting her to flee, and stopped. "listen!" he pleaded. "i can't talk to you here. won't you give me a chance to explain--to put myself right? you know what i think of you, how i respect and--admire you. if you'll only let me see you somewhere --anywhere, outside of the office, for a little while, i can't tell you how much i'd appreciate it. i'm sure you don't understand how i feel--i couldn't bear to lose you. i'll be down by the canal--near the bridge --at eight o'clock to-night. i'll wait for you. you'll come? say you'll come, and give me another chance!" "aren't you going to finish your letters?" she asked. he stared at her in sheer perplexity. "letters!" he exclaimed. "damn the letters! do you think i could write any letters now?" as a faint ray in dark waters, a gleam seemed to dance in the shadows of her eyes, yet was gone so swiftly that he could not be sure of having seen it. had she smiled? "i'll be there," he cried. "i'll wait for you." she turned from him, opened the door, and went out. that evening, as janet was wiping the dishes handed her by her mother, she was repeating to herself "shall i go--or shan't i?"--just as if the matter were in doubt. but in her heart she was convinced of its predetermination by some power other than her own volition. with this feeling, that she really had no choice, that she was being guided and impelled, she went to her bedroom after finishing her task. the hands of the old dining-room clock pointed to quarter of eight, and lise had already made her toilet and departed. janet opened the wardrobe, looked at the new blue suit hanging so neatly on its wire holder, hesitated, and closed the door again. here, at any rate, seemed a choice. she would not wear that, to-night. she tidied her hair, put on her hat and coat, and went out; but once in the street she did not hurry, though she knew the calmness she apparently experienced to be false: the calmness of fatality, because she was obeying a complicated impulse stronger than herself--an impulse that at times seemed mere curiosity. somewhere, removed from her immediate consciousness, a storm was raging; she was aware of a disturbance that reached her faintly, like the distant throbbing of the looms she heard when she turned from faber into west street she had not been able to eat any supper. that throbbing of the looms in the night! as it grew louder and louder the tension within her increased, broke its bounds, set her heart to throbbing too--throbbing wildly. she halted, and went on again, precipitately, but once more slowed her steps as she came to west street and the glare of light at the end of the bridge; at a little distance, under the chequered shadows of the bare branches, she saw something move--a man, ditmar. she stood motionless as he hurried toward her. "you've come! you've forgiven me?" he asked. "why were you--down there?" she asked. "why? because i thought--i thought you wouldn't want anybody to know--" it was quite natural that he should not wish to be seen; although she had no feeling of guilt, she herself did not wish their meeting known. she resented the subterfuge in him, but she made no comment because his perplexity, his embarrassment were gratifying to her resentment, were restoring her self-possession, giving her a sense of power. "we can't stay here," he went on, after a moment. "let's take a little walk--i've got a lot to say to you. i want to put myself right." he tried to take her arm, but she avoided him. they started along the canal in the direction of the stanley street bridge. "don't you care for me a little?" he demanded. "why should i?" she parried. "then--why did you come?" "to hear what you had to say." "you mean--about this afternoon?" "partly," said janet. "well--we'll talk it all over. i wanted to explain about this afternoon, especially. i'm sorry--" "sorry!" she exclaimed. the vehemence of her rebuke--for he recognized it as such--took him completely aback. thus she was wont, at the most unexpected moments, to betray the passion within her, the passion that made him sick with desire. how was he to conquer a woman of this type, who never took refuge in the conventional tactics of her sex, as he had known them? "i didn't mean that," he explained desperately. "my god--to feel you, to have you in my arms--! i was sorry because i frightened you. but when you came near me that way i just couldn't help it. you drove me to it." "drove you to it!" "you don't understand, you don't know how--how wonderful you are. you make me crazy. i love you, i want you as i've never wanted any woman before--in a different way. i can't explain it. i've got so that i can't live without you." he flung his arm toward the lights of the mills. "that--that used to be everything to me, i lived for it. i don't say i've been a saint--but i never really cared anything about any woman until i knew you, until that day i went through the office and saw you what you were. you don't understand, i tell you. i'm sorry for what i did to-day because it offended you--but you drove me to it. most of the time you seem cold, you're like an iceberg, you make me think you hate me, and then all of a sudden you'll be kind, as you were the other night, as you seemed this afternoon--you make me think i've got a chance, and then, when you came near me, when you touched my hand--why, i didn't know what i was doing. i just had to have you. a man like me can't stand it." "then i'd better go away," she said. "i ought to have gone long ago." "why?" he cried. "why? what's your reason? why do you want to ruin my life? you've--you've woven yourself into it--you're a part of it. i never knew what it was to care for a woman before, i tell you. there's that mill," he repeated, naively. "i've made it the best mill in the country, i've got the biggest order that ever came to any mill--if you went away i wouldn't care a continental about it. if you went away i wouldn't have any ambition left. because you're a part of it, don't you see? you--you sort of stand for it now, in my mind. i'm not literary, i can't express what i'd like to say, but sometimes i used to think of that mill as a woman--and now you've come along--" ditmar stopped, for lack of adequate eloquence. she smiled in the darkness at his boyish fervour,--one of the aspects of the successful ditmar, the ditmar of great affairs, that appealed to her most strongly. she was softened, touched; she felt, too, a responsive thrill to such a desire as his. yet she did not reply. she could not. she was learning that emotion is never simple. and some inhibition, the identity of which was temporarily obscured still persisted, pervading her consciousness.... they were crossing the bridge at stanley street, now deserted, and by common consent they paused in the middle of it, leaning on the rail. the hideous chocolate factory on the point was concealed by the night,--only the lights were there, trembling on the surface of the river. against the flushed sky above the city were silhouetted the high chimneys of the power plant. ditmar's shoulder touched hers. he was still pleading, but she seemed rather to be listening to the symphony of the unseen waters falling over the dam. his words were like that, suggestive of a torrent into which she longed to fling herself, yet refrained, without knowing why. her hands tightened on the rail; suddenly she let it go, and led the way toward the unfrequented district of the south side. it was the road to silliston, but she had forgotten that. ditmar, regaining her side, continued his pleading. he spoke of his loneliness, which he had never realized. he needed her. and she experienced an answering pang. it still seemed incredible that he, too, who had so much, should feel that gnawing need for human sympathy and understanding that had so often made her unhappy. and because of the response his need aroused in her she did not reflect whether he could fulfil her own need, whether he could ever understand her; whether, at any time, she could unreservedly pour herself out to him. "i don't see why you want me," she interrupted him at last. "i've never had any advantages, i don't know anything. i've never had a chance to learn. i've told you that before." "what difference does that make? you've got more sense than any woman i ever saw," he declared. "it makes a great deal of difference to me," she insisted--and the sound of these words on her own lips was like a summons arousing her from a dream. the sordidness of her life, its cruel lack of opportunity in contrast with the gifts she felt to be hers, and on which he had dwelt, was swept back into her mind. self-pity, dignity, and inherent self-respect struggled against her woman's desire to give; an inherited racial pride whispered that she was worthy of the best, but because she had lacked the chance, he refrained from offering her what he would have laid at the feet of another woman. "i'll give you advantages--there's nothing i wouldn't give you. why won't you come to me? i'll take care of you." "do you think i want to be taken care of?" she wheeled on him so swiftly that he started back. "is that what you think i want?" "no, no," he protested, when he recovered his speech. "do you think i'm after--what you can give me?" she shot at him. "what you can buy for me?" to tell the truth, he had not thought anything about it, that was the trouble. and her question, instead of enlightening him, only added to his confusion and bewilderment. "i'm always getting in wrong with you," he told her, pathetically. "there isn't anything i'd stop at to make you happy, janet, that's what i'm trying to say. i'd go the limit." "your limit!" she exclaimed. "what do you mean?" he demanded. but she had become inarticulate --cryptic, to him. he could get nothing more out of her. "you don't understand me--you never will!" she cried, and burst into tears--tears of rage she tried in vain to control. the world was black with his ignorance. she hated herself, she hated him. her sobs shook her convulsively, and she scarcely heard him as he walked beside her along the empty road, pleading and clumsily seeking to comfort her. once or twice she felt his hand on her shoulders.... and then, unlooked for and unbidden, pity began to invade her. absurd to pity him! she fought against it, but the thought of ditmar reduced to abjectness gained ground. after all, he had tried to be generous, he had done his best, he loved her, he needed her--the words rang in her heart. after all, he did not realize how could she expect him to realize? and her imagination conjured up the situation in a new perspective. her sobs gradually ceased, and presently she stopped in the middle of the road and regarded him. he seemed utterly miserable, like a hurt child whom she longed to comfort. but what she said was:--"i ought to be going home." "not yet!" he begged. "it's early. you say i don't understand you, janet--my god, i wish i did! it breaks me all up to see you cry like that." "i'm sorry," she said, after a moment. "i--i can't make you understand. i guess i'm not like anybody else i'm queer--i can't help it. you must let me go, i only make you unhappy." "let you go!" he cried--and then in utter self-forgetfulness she yielded her lips to his. a sound penetrated the night, she drew back from his arms and stood silhouetted against the glare of the approaching headlight of a trolley car, and as it came roaring down on them she hailed it. ditmar seized her arm. "you're not going--now?" he said hoarsely. "i must," she whispered. "i want to be alone--i want to think. you must let me." "i'll see you to-morrow?" "i don't know--i want to think. i'm--i'm tired." the brakes screamed as the car came joltingly to a stop. she flew up the steps, glancing around to see whether ditmar had followed her, and saw him still standing in the road. the car was empty of passengers, but the conductor must have seen her leaving a man in this lonely spot. she glanced at his face, white and pinched and apathetic--he must have seen hundreds of similar episodes in the course of his nightly duties. he was unmoved as he took her fare. nevertheless, at the thought that these other episodes might resemble hers, her face flamed--she grew hot all over. what should she do now? she could not think. confused with her shame was the memory of a delirious joy, yet no sooner would she give herself up, trembling, to this memory when in turn it was penetrated by qualms of resentment, defiling its purity. was ditmar ashamed of her?... when she reached home and had got into bed she wept a little, but her tears were neither of joy nor sorrow. her capacity for both was exhausted. in this strange mood she fell asleep nor did she waken when, at midnight, lise stealthily crept in beside her. chapter x ditmar stood staring after the trolley car that bore janet away until it became a tiny speck of light in the distance. then he started to walk toward hampton; in the unwonted exercise was an outlet for the pent-up energy her departure had thwarted; and presently his body was warm with a physical heat that found its counterpart in a delicious, emotional glow of anticipation, of exultant satisfaction. after all, he could not expect to travel too fast with her. had he not at least gained a signal victory? when he remembered her lips--which she had indubitably given him!--he increased his stride, and in what seemed an incredibly brief time he had recrossed the bridge, covered the long residential blocks of warren street, and gained his own door. the house was quiet, the children having gone to bed, and he groped his way through the dark parlour to his den, turning on the electric switch, sinking into an armchair, and lighting a cigar. he liked this room of his, which still retained something of that flavour of a refuge and sanctuary it had so eminently possessed in the now forgotten days of matrimonial conflict. one of the few elements of agreement he had held in common with the late mrs. ditmar was a similarity of taste in household decoration, and they had gone together to a great emporium in boston to choose the furniture and fittings. the lamp in the centre of the table was a bronze column supporting a hemisphere of heavy red and emerald glass, the colours woven into an intricate and bizarre design, after the manner of the art nouveau--so the zealous salesman had informed them. cora ditmar, when exhibiting this lamp to admiring visitors, had remembered the phrase, though her pronunciation of it, according to the standard of the sorbonne, left something to be desired. the table and chairs, of heavy, shiny oak marvellously and precisely carved by machines, matched the big panels of the wainscot. the windows were high in the wall, thus preventing any intrusion from the clothes-yard on which they looked. the bookcases, protected by leaded panes, held countless volumes of the fiction from which cora ditmar had derived her knowledge of the great world outside of hampton, together with certain sets she had bought, not only as ornaments, but with a praiseworthy view to future culture,--such as whitmarsh's library of the best literature. these volumes, alas, were still uncut; but some of the pages of the novels--if one cared to open them--were stained with chocolate. the steam radiator was a decoration in itself, the fireplace set in the red and yellow tiles that made the hearth. above the oak mantel, in a gold frame, was a large coloured print of a magdalen, doubled up in grief, with a glory of loose, titian hair, chosen by ditmar himself as expressing the nearest possible artistic representation of his ideal of the female form. cora ditmar's objections on the score of voluptuousness and of insufficient clothing had been vain. she had recognized no immorality of sentimentality in the art itself; what she felt, and with some justice, was that this particular magdalen was unrepentant, and that ditmar knew it. and the picture remained an offence to her as long as she lived. formerly he had enjoyed the contemplation of this figure, reminding him, as it did, of mellowed moments in conquests of the past; suggesting also possibilities of the future. for he had been quick to discount the attitude of bowed despair, the sop flung by a sensuous artist to christian orthodoxy. he had been sceptical about despair--feminine despair, which could always be cured by gifts and baubles. but to-night, as he raised his eyes, he felt a queer sensation marring the ecstatic perfection of his mood. that quality in the picture which so long had satisfied and entranced him had now become repellent, an ugly significant reflection of something --something in himself he was suddenly eager to repudiate and deny. it was with a certain amazement that he found himself on his feet with the picture in his hand, gazing at the empty space where it had hung. for he had had no apparent intention of obeying that impulse. what should he do with it? light the fire and burn it--frame and all? the frame was an integral part of it. what would his housekeeper say? but now that he had actually removed it from the wall he could not replace it, so he opened the closet door and thrust it into a corner among relics which had found refuge there. he had put his past in the closet; yet the relief he felt was mingled with the peculiar qualm that follows the discovery of symptoms never before remarked. why should this woman have this extraordinary effect of making him dissatisfied with himself? he sat down again and tried to review the affair from that first day when he had surprised in her eyes the flame dwelling in her. she had completely upset his life, increasingly distracted his mind until now he could imagine no peace unless he possessed her. hitherto he had recognized in his feeling for her nothing but that same desire he had had for other women, intensified to a degree never before experienced. but this sudden access of morality--he did not actually define it as such--was disquieting. and in the feverish, semi-objective survey he was now making of his emotional tract he was discovering the presence of other disturbing symptoms such as an unwonted tenderness, a consideration almost amounting to pity which at times he had vaguely sensed yet never sought imaginatively to grasp. it bewildered him by hampering a ruthlessness hitherto absolute. the fierceness of her inflamed his passion, yet he recognized dimly behind this fierceness an instinct of self-protection--and he thought of her in this moment as a struggling bird that fluttered out of his hands when they were ready to close over her. so it had been to-night. he might have kept her, prevented her from taking the car. yet he had let her go! there came again, utterly to blot this out, the memory of her lips. even then, there had been something sorrowful in that kiss, a quality he resented as troubling, a flavour that came to him after the wildness was spent. what was she struggling against? what was behind her resistance? she loved him! it had never before occurred to him to enter into the nature of her feelings, having been so preoccupied with and tortured by his own. this realization, that she loved him, as it persisted, began to make him uneasy, though it should, according to all experience, have been a reason for sheer exultation. he began to see that with her it involved complications, responsibilities, disclosures, perhaps all of those things he had formerly avoided and resented in woman. he thought of certain friends of his who had become tangled up--of one in particular whose bank account had been powerless to extricate him.... and he was ashamed of himself. in view of the nature of his sex experience, of his habit of applying his imagination solely to matters of business rather than to affairs of the heart,--if his previous episodes may be so designated,--his failure to surmise that a wish for marriage might be at the back of her resistance is not so surprising as it may seem; he laid down, half smoked, his third cigar. the suspicion followed swiftly on his recalling to mind her vehement repudiation of his proffered gifts did he think she wanted what he could buy for her! she was not purchasable--that way. he ought to have known it, he hadn't realized what he was saying. but marriage! literally it had never occurred to him to image her in a relation he himself associated with shackles. one of the unconscious causes of his fascination was just her emancipation from and innocence of that herd-convention to which most women--even those who lack wedding rings--are slaves. the force of such an appeal to a man of ditmar's type must not be underestimated. and the idea that she, too, might prefer the sanction of the law, the gilded cage as a popular song which once had taken his fancy illuminatingly expressed it--seemed utterly incongruous with the freedom and daring of her spirit, was a sobering shock. was he prepared to marry her, if he could obtain her in no other way? the question demanded a survey of his actual position of which he was at the moment incapable. there were his children! he had never sought to arrive at even an approximate estimate of the boy and girl as factors in his life, to consider his feelings toward them; but now, though he believed himself a man who gave no weight to social considerations--he had scorned this tendency in his wife--he was to realize the presence of ambitions for them. he was young, he was astonishingly successful; he had reason to think, with his opportunities and the investments he already had made, that he might some day be moderately rich; and he had at times even imagined himself in later life as the possessor of one of those elaborate country places to be glimpsed from the high roads in certain localities, which the sophisticated are able to recognize as the seats of the socially ineligible, but which to ditmar were outward and visible emblems of success. he liked to think of george as the inheritor of such a place, as the son of a millionaire, as a "college graduate," as an influential man of affairs; he liked to imagine amy as the wife of such another. in short, ditmar's wife had left him, as an unconscious legacy, her aspirations for their children's social prestige.... the polished oak grandfather's clock in the hall had struck one before he went to bed, mentally wearied by an unwonted problem involving, in addition to self-interest, an element of ethics, of affection not wholly compounded of desire. he slept soundly, however. he was one of those fortunate beings who come into the world with digestive organs and thyroid glands in that condition which--so physiologists tell us--makes for a sanguine temperament. and his course of action, though not decided upon, no longer appeared as a problem; it differed from a business matter in that it could wait. as sufficient proof of his liver having rescued him from doubts and qualms he was able to whistle, as he dressed, and without a tremor of agitation, the forgotten tune suggested to his consciousness during the unpleasant reverie of the night before,--"only a bird in a gilded cage!" it was saturday. he ate a hearty breakfast, joked with george and amy, and refreshed, glowing with an expectation mingled with just the right amount of delightful uncertainty that made the great affairs of life a gamble, yet with the confidence of the conqueror, he walked in sunlight to the mill. in view of this firm and hopeful tone of his being he found it all the more surprising, as he reached the canal, to be seized by a trepidation strong enough to bring perspiration to his forehead. what if she had gone! he had never thought of that, and he had to admit it would be just like her. you never could tell what she would do. nodding at simmons, the watchman, he hurried up the iron-shod stairs, gained the outer once, and instantly perceived that her chair beside the window was empty! caldwell and mr. price stood with their heads together bending over a sheet on which mr. price was making calculations. "hasn't miss bumpus come yet?" ditmar demanded. he tried to speak naturally, casually, but his own voice sounded strange, seemed to strike the exact note of sickening apprehension that suddenly possessed him. both men turned and looked at him in some surprise. "good-morning, mr. ditmar," caldwell said. "why, yes, she's in your room." "oh!" said ditmar. "the boston office has just been calling you--they want to know if you can't take the nine twenty-two," caldwell went on. "it's about that lawsuit. it comes into court monday morning, and mr. sprole is there, and they say they have to see you. miss bumpus has the memorandum." ditmar looked at his watch. "damn it, why didn't they let me know yesterday?" he exclaimed. "i won't see anybody, caldwell--not even orcutt--just now. you understand. i've got to have a little time to do some letters. i won't be disturbed--by any one--for half an hour." caldwell nodded. "all right, mr. ditmar." ditmar went into his office, closing the door behind him. she was occupied as usual, cutting open the letters and laying them in a pile with the deftness and rapidity that characterized all she did. "janet!" he exclaimed. "there's a message for you from boston. i've made a note of it," she replied. "i know--caldwell told me. but i wanted to see you before i went--i had to see you. i sat up half the night thinking of you, i woke up thinking of you. aren't you glad to see me?" she dropped the letter opener and stood silent, motionless, awaiting his approach--a pose so eloquent of the sense of fatality strong in her as to strike him with apprehension, unused though he was to the appraisal of inner values. he read, darkly, something of this mystery in her eyes as they were slowly raised to his, he felt afraid; he was swept again by those unwonted emotions of pity and tenderness--but when she turned away her head and he saw the bright spot of colour growing in her cheek, spreading to her temple, suffusing her throat, when he touched the soft contour of her arm, his passion conquered.... still he was acutely conscious of a resistance within her--not as before, physically directed against him, but repudiating her own desire. she became limp in his arms, though making no attempt to escape, and he knew that the essential self of her he craved still evaded and defied him. and he clung to her the more desperately--as though by crushing her peradventure he might capture it. "you're hurting me," she said at last, and he let her go, standing by helplessly while she went through the movements of readjustment instinctive to women. even in these he read the existence of the reservation he was loth to acknowledge. "don't you love me?" he said. "i don't know." "you do!" he said. "you--you proved it--i know it." she went a little away from him, picking up the paper cutter, but it lay idle in her hand. "for god's sake, tell me what's the matter!" he exclaimed. "i can't stand this. janet, aren't you happy?" she shook her head. "why not? i love you. i--i've never been so happy in my life as i was this morning. why aren't you happy--when we love each other?" "because i'm not." "why not? there's nothing i wouldn't do to make you happy--you know that. tell me!" "you wouldn't understand. i couldn't make you understand." "is it something i've done?" "you don't love me," she said. "you only want me. i'm not made that way, i'm not generous enough, i guess. i've got to have work to do." "work to do! but you'll share my work--it's nothing without you." she shook her head. "i knew you couldn't understand. you don't realize how impossible it is. i don't blame you--i suppose a man can't." she was not upbraiding him, she spoke quietly, in a tone almost lifeless, yet the emotional effect of it was tremendous. "but," he began, and stopped, and was swept on again by an impulse that drowned all caution, all reason. "but you can help me--when we are married." "married!" she repeated. "you want to marry me?" "yes, yes--i need you." he took her hands, he felt them tremble in his, her breath came quickly, but her gaze was so intent as seemingly to penetrate to the depths of him. and despite his man's amazement at her hesitation now that he had offered her his all, he was moved, disturbed, ashamed as he had never been in his life. at length, when he could stand no longer the suspense of this inquisition, he stammered out: "i want you to be my wife." "you've wanted to marry me all along?" she asked. "i didn't think, janet. i was mad about you. i didn't know you." "do you know me now?" "that's just it," he cried, with a flash of clairvoyance, "i never will know you--it's what makes you different from any woman i've ever seen. you'll marry me?" "i'm afraid," she said. "oh, i've thought over it, and you haven't. a woman has to think, a man doesn't, so much. and now you're willing to marry me, if you can't get me any other way." her hand touched his coat, checking his protest. "it isn't that i want marriage--what you can give me--i'm not like that, i've told you so before. but i couldn't live as your--mistress." the word on her lips shocked him a little--but her courage and candour thrilled him. "if i stayed here, it would be found out. i wouldn't let you keep me. i'd have to have work, you see, or i'd lose my self-respect--it's all i've got--i'd kill myself." she spoke as calmly as though she were reviewing the situation objectively. "and then, i've thought that you might come to believe you really wanted to marry me--you wouldn't realize what you were doing, or what might happen if we were married. i've tried to tell you that, too, only you didn't seem to understand what i was saying. my father's only a gatekeeper, we're poor--poorer than some of the operatives in the mill, and the people you know here in hampton wouldn't understand. perhaps you think you wouldn't care, but--" she spoke with more effort, "there are your children. when i've thought of them, it all seems impossible. i'd make you unhappy--i couldn't bear it, i wouldn't stay with you. you see, i ought to have gone away long ago." believing, as he did, that marriage was the goal of all women, even of the best, the immediate capitulation he had expected would have made matters far less difficult. but these scruples of hers, so startlingly his own, her disquieting insight into his entire mental process had a momentary checking effect, summoned up the vague presage of a future that might become extremely troublesome and complicated. his very reluctance to discuss with her the problem she had raised warned him that he had been swept into deep waters. on the other hand, her splendid resistance appealed to him, enhanced her value. and accustomed as he had been to a lifelong self-gratification, the thought of being balked in this supreme desire was not to be borne. such were the shades of his feeling as he listened to her. "that's nonsense!" he exclaimed, when she had finished. "you're a lady --i know all about your family, i remember hearing about it when your father came here--it's as good as any in new england. what do you suppose i care, janet? we love each other--i've got to have you. we'll be married in the spring, when the rush is over." he drew her to him once more, and suddenly, in the ardour of that embrace, he felt her tenseness suddenly relax--as though, against her will--and her passion, as she gave her lips, vied with his own. her lithe body trembled convulsively, her cheeks were wet as she clung to him and hid her face in his shoulder. his sensations in the presence of this thing he had summoned up in her were incomprehensible, surpassing any he had ever known. it was no longer a woman he held in his arms, the woman he craved, but something greater, more fearful, the mystery of sorrow and suffering, of creation and life--of the universe itself. "janet--aren't you happy?" he said again. she released herself and smiled at him wistfully through her tears. "i don't know. what i feel doesn't seem like happiness. i can't believe in it, somehow." "you must believe in it," he said. "i can't,--perhaps i may, later. you'd better go now," she begged. "you'll miss your train." he glanced at the office clock. "confound it, i have to. listen! i'll be back this evening, and i'll get that little car of mine--" "no, not to-night--i don't want to go--to-night." "why not?" "not to-night," she repeated. "well then, to-morrow. to-morrow's sunday. do you know where the boat club is on the river boulevard? i'll be there, to-morrow morning at ten. i'd come for you, to your house," he added quickly, "but we don't want any one to know, yet--do we?" she shook her head. "we must keep it secret for a while," he said. "wear your new dress--the blue one. good-bye--sweetheart." he kissed her again and hurried out of the office.... boarding the train just as it was about to start, he settled himself in the back seat of the smoker, lit a cigar, inhaling deep breaths of the smoke and scarcely noticing an acquaintance who greeted him from the aisle. well, he had done it! he was amazed. he had not intended to propose marriage, and when he tried to review the circumstances that had led to this he became confused. but when he asked himself whether indeed he were willing to pay such a price, to face the revolution marriage--and this marriage in particular--would mean in his life, the tumult in his blood beat down his incipient anxieties. besides, he possessed the kind of mind able to throw off the consideration of possible consequences, and by the time the train had slowed down in the darkness of the north station in boston all traces of worry had disappeared. the future would take care of itself. for the bumpus family, supper that evening was an unusually harmonious meal. hannah's satisfaction over the new stove had by no means subsided, and edward ventured, without reproof, to praise the restored quality of the pie crust. and in contrast to her usual moroseness and self-absorption, even lise was gay--largely because her pet aversion, the dignified and allegedly amorous mr. waiters, floor-walker at the bagatelle, had fallen down the length of the narrow stairway leading from the cashier's cage. she became almost hysterical with glee as she pictured him lying prone beneath the counter dedicated to lingerie, draped with various garments from the pile that toppled over on him. "ruby nash picked a brassiere off his whiskers!" lise shrieked. "she gave the pile a shove when he landed. he's got her number all right. but say, it was worth the price of admission to see that old mutt when he got up, he looked like santa claus. all the girls in the floor were there we nearly split trying to keep from giving him the ha-ha. and ruby says, sympathetic, as she brushed him off, `i hope you ain't hurt, mr. waiters.' he was sore! he went around all afternoon with a bunch on his coco as big as a potato." so vivid was lise's account of this affair which apparently she regarded as compensation for many days of drudgery-that even hannah laughed, though deploring a choice of language symbolic of a world she feared and detested. "if i talked like you," said lise, "they wouldn't understand me." janet, too, was momentarily amused, drawn out of that reverie in which she had dwelt all day, ever since ditmar had left for boston. now she began to wonder what would happen if she were suddenly to announce "i'm going to marry mr. ditmar." after the first shock of amazement, she could imagine her father's complete and complacent acceptance of the news as a vindication of an inherent quality in the bumpus blood. he would begin to talk about the family. for, despite what might have been deemed a somewhat disillusionizing experience, in the depths of his being he still believed in the providence who had presided over the perilous voyage of the mayflower and the birth of peregrine white, whose omniscient mind was peculiarly concerned with the family trees of puritans. and what could be a more striking proof of the existence of this providence, or a more fitting acknowledgment on his part of the bumpus virtues, than that janet should become the wife of the agent of the chippering mills? janet smiled. she was amused, too, by the thought that lise's envy would be modified by the prospect of a heightened social status; since lise, it will be remembered, had her providence likewise. hannah's god was not a providence, but one deeply skilled in persecution, in ingenious methods of torture; one who would not hesitate to dangle baubles before the eyes of his children--only to snatch them away again. hannah's pessimism would persist as far as the altar, and beyond! on the whole, such was janet's notion of the deity, though deep within her there may have existed a hope that he might be outwitted; that, by dint of energy and brains, the fair things of life might be obtained despite a malicious opposition. and she loved ditmar. this must be love she felt, this impatience to see him again, this desire to be with him, this agitation possessing her so utterly that all day long she had dwelt in an unwonted state like a somnambulism: it must be love, though not resembling in the least the generally accepted, virginal ideal. she saw him as he was, crude, powerful, relentless in his desire; his very faults appealed. his passion had overcome his prudence, he had not intended to propose, but any shame she felt on this score was put to flight by a fierce exultation over the fact that she had brought him to her feet, that he wanted her enough to marry her. it was wonderful to be wanted like that! but she could not achieve the mental picture of herself as ditmar's wife--especially when, later in the evening, she walked up warren street and stood gazing at his house from the opposite pavement. she simply could not imagine herself living in that house as its mistress. notwithstanding the testimony of the movies, such a cinderella-like transition was not within the realm of probable facts; things just didn't happen that way. she recalled the awed exclamation of eda when they had walked together along warren street on that evening in summer: "how would you like to live there!"--and hot with sudden embarrassment and resentment she had dragged her friend onward, to the corner. in spite of its size, of the spaciousness of existence it suggested, the house had not appealed to her then. janet did not herself realize or estimate the innate if undeveloped sense of form she possessed, the artist-instinct that made her breathless on first beholding silliston common. and then the vision of silliston had still been bright; but now the light of a slender moon was as a gossamer silver veil through which she beheld the house, as in a stage setting, softening and obscuring its lines, lending it qualities of dignity and glamour that made it seem remote, unreal, unattainable. and she felt a sudden, overwhelming longing, as though her breast would burst.... through the drawn blinds the lights in the second storey gleamed yellow. a dim lamp burned in the deep vestibule, as in a sanctuary. and then, as though some supernaturally penetrating ray had pierced a square hole in the lower walls, a glimpse of the interior was revealed to her, of the living room at the north end of the house. two figures chased one another around the centre table--ditmar's children! was ditmar there? impelled irresistibly by a curiosity overcoming repugnance and fear, she went forward slowly across the street, gained the farther pavement, stepped over the concrete coping, and stood, shivering violently, on the lawn, feeling like an interloper and a thief, yet held by morbid fascination. the children continued to romp. the boy was strong and swift, the girl stout and ungainly in her movements, not mistress of her body; he caught her and twisted her arm, roughly--janet could hear her cries through the window-=when an elderly woman entered, seized him, struggling with him. he put out his tongue at her, but presently released his sister, who stood rubbing her arm, her lips moving in evident recrimination and complaint. the faces of the two were plain now; the boy resembled ditmar, but the features of the girl, heavy and stamped with self-indulgence, were evidently reminiscent of the woman who had been his wife. then the shade was pulled down, abruptly; and janet, overcome by a sense of horror at her position, took to flight.... when, after covering the space of a block she slowed down and tried to imagine herself as established in that house, the stepmother of those children, she found it impossible. despite the fact that her attention had been focussed so strongly on them, the fringe of her vision had included their surroundings, the costly furniture, the piano against the farther wall, the music rack. evidently the girl was learning to play. she felt a renewed, intenser bitterness against her own lot: she was aware of something within her better and finer than the girl, than the woman who had been her mother had possessed--that in her, janet, had lacked the advantages of development. could it--could it ever be developed now? had this love which had come to her brought her any nearer to the unknown realm of light she craved?... chapter xi though december had come, sunday was like an april day before whose sunlight the night-mists of scruples and morbid fears were scattered and dispersed. and janet, as she fared forth from the fillmore street flat, felt resurging in her the divine recklessness that is the very sap of life. the future, save of the immediate hours to come, lost its power over her. the blue and white beauty of the sky proclaimed all things possible for the strong; and the air was vibrant with the sweet music of bells, calling her to happiness. she was going to meet happiness, to meet love--to meet ditmar! the trolley which she took in faber street, though lagging in its mission, seemed an agent of that happiness as it left the city behind it and wound along the heights beside the tarvia roadway above the river, bright glimpses of which she caught through the openings in the woods. and when she looked out of the window on her right she beheld on a little forested rise a succession of tiny "camps" built by residents of hampton whose modest incomes could not afford more elaborate summer places; camps of all descriptions and colours, with queer names that made her smile: "the cranny," "the nook," "snug harbour," "buena vista,"--of course,--which she thought pretty, though she did not know its meaning; and another, in german, equally perplexing, "klein aber mein." though the windows of these places were now boarded up, though the mosquito netting still clung rather dismally to the porches, they were mutely suggestive of contentment and domestic joy. scarcely had she alighted from the car at the rendezvous he had mentioned, beside the now deserted boathouse where in the warm weather the members of the hampton rowing club disported themselves, when she saw an automobile approaching--and recognized it as the gay "roadster" ditmar had exhibited to her that summer afternoon by the canal; and immediately ditmar himself, bringing it to a stop and leaping from it, stood before her in the sunlight, radiating, as it seemed, more sunlight still. with his clipped, blond moustache and his straw-coloured hair--as yet but slightly grey at the temples--he looked a veritable conquering berserker in his huge coat of golden fur. never had he appeared to better advantage. "i was waiting for you," he said, "i saw you in the car." turning to the automobile, he stripped the tissue paper from a cluster of dark red roses with the priceless long stems of which lise used to rave when she worked in the flower store. and he held the flowers against her suit her new suit she had worn for this meeting. "oh," she cried, taking a deep, intoxicating breath of their fragrance. "you brought these--for me?" "from boston--my beauty!" "but i can't wear all of them!" "why not?" he demanded. "haven't you a pin?" she produced one, attaching them with a gesture that seemed habitual, though the thought of their value-revealing in some degree her own worth in his eyes-unnerved her. she was warmly conscious of his gaze. then he turned, and opening a compartment at the back of the car drew from it a bright tweed motor coat warmly lined. "oh, no!" she protested, drawing back. "i'll--i'll be warm enough." but laughingly, triumphantly, he seized her and thrust her arms in the sleeves, his fingers pressing against her. overcome by shyness, she drew away from him. "i made a pretty good guess at the size--didn't i, janet?" he cried, delightedly surveying her. "i couldn't forget it!" his glance grew more concentrated, warmer, penetrating. "you mustn't look at me like that!" she pleaded with lowered eyes. "why not--you're mine--aren't you? you're mine, now." "i don't know. there are lots of things i want to talk about," she replied, but her protest sounded feeble, unconvincing, even to herself. he fairly lifted her into the automobile--it was a caress, only tempered by the semi-publicity of the place. he was giving her no time to think --but she did not want to, think. starting the engine, he got in and leaned toward her. "not here!" she exclaimed. "all right--i'll wait," he agreed, tucking the robe about her deftly, solicitously, and she sank back against the seat, surrendering herself to the luxury, the wonder of being cherished, the caressing and sheltering warmth she felt of security and love, the sense of emancipation from discontent and sordidness and struggle. for a moment she closed her eyes, but opened them again to behold the transformed image of herself reflected in the windshield to confirm the illusion--if indeed it were one! the tweed coat seemed startlingly white in the sunlight, and the woman she saw, yet recognized as herself, was one of the fortunately placed of the earth with power and beauty at her command! and she could no longer imagine herself as the same person who the night before had stood in front of the house in warren street. the car was speeding over the smooth surface of the boulevard; the swift motion, which seemed to her like that of flying, the sparkling air, the brightness of the day, the pressure of ditmar's shoulder against hers, thrilled her. she marvelled at his sure command over the machine, that responded like a live thing to his touch. on the wide, straight stretches it went at a mad pace that took her breath, and again, in turning a corner or passing another car, it slowed down, purring in meek obedience. once she gasped: "not so fast! i can't stand it." he laughed and obeyed her. they glided between river and sky across the delicate fabric of a bridge which but a moment before she had seen in the distance. running through the little village on the farther bank, they left the river. "where are you going?" she asked. "oh, for a little spin," he answered indulgently, turning into a side road that wound through the woods and suddenly stopping. "janet, we've got this day--this whole day to ourselves." he seized and drew her to him, and she yielded dizzily, repaying the passion of his kiss, forgetful of past and future while he held her, whispering brokenly endearing phrases. "you'll ruin my roses," she protested breathlessly, at last, when it seemed that she could no longer bear this embrace, nor the pressure of his lips. "there! you see you're crushing them!" she undid them, and buttoning the coat, held them to her face. their odour made her faint: her eyes were clouded. "listen, claude!" she said at last,--it was the first time she had called him so--getting free. "you must be sensible! some one might come along." "i'll never get enough of you!" he said. "i can't believe it yet." and added irrelevantly: "pin the roses outside." she shook her head. something in her protested against this too public advertisement of their love. "i'd rather hold them," she answered. "let's go on." he started the car again. "listen, i want to talk to you, seriously. i've been thinking." "don't i know you've been thinking!" he told her exuberantly. "if i could only find out what's always going on in that little head of yours! if you keep on thinking you'll dry up, like a new england school-marm. and now do you know what you are? one of those dusky red roses just ready to bloom. some day i'll buy enough to smother you in 'em." "listen!" she repeated, making a great effort to calm herself, to regain something of that frame of mind in which their love had assumed the proportions of folly and madness, to summon up the scruples which, before she had left home that morning, she had resolved to lay before him, which she knew would return when she could be alone again. "i have to think --you won't," she exclaimed, with a fleeting smile. "well, what is it?" he assented. "you might as well get it off now." and it took all her strength to say: "i don't see how i can marry you. i've told you the reasons. you're rich, and you have friends who wouldn't understand--and your children--they wouldn't understand. i--i'm nothing, i know it isn't right, i know you wouldn't be happy. i've never lived--in the kind of house you live in and known the kind of people you know, i shouldn't know what to do." he took his eyes off the road and glanced down at her curiously. his smile was self-confident, exultant. "now do you feel better--you little puritan?" he said. and perforce she smiled in return, a pucker appearing between her eyebrows. "i mean it," she said. "i came out to tell you so. i know--it just isn't possible." "i'd marry you to-day if i could get a license," he declared. "why, you're worth any woman in america, i don't care who she is, or how much money she has." in spite of herself she was absurdly pleased. "now that is over, we won't discuss it again, do you understand? i've got you," he said, "and i mean to hold on to you." she sighed. he was driving slowly now along the sandy road, and with his hand on hers she simply could not think. the spell of his nearness, of his touch, which all nature that morning conspired to deepen, was too powerful to be broken, and something was calling to her, "take this day, take this day," drowning out the other voice demanding an accounting. she was living--what did it all matter? she yielded herself to the witchery of the hour, the sheer delight of forthfaring into the unknown. they turned away from the river, crossing the hills of a rolling country now open, now wooded, passing white farmhouses and red barns, and ancient, weather-beaten dwellings with hipped roofs and "lean-tos" which had been there in colonial days when the road was a bridle-path. cows and horses stood gazing at them from warm paddocks, where the rich, black mud glistened, melted by the sun; chickens scratched and clucked in the barnyards or flew frantically across the road, sometimes within an ace of destruction. janet flinched, but ditmar would laugh, gleefully, boyishly. "we nearly got that one!" he would exclaim. and then he had to assure her that he wouldn't run over them. "i haven't run over one yet,--have i?" he would demand. "no, but you will, it's only luck." "luck!" he cried derisively. "skill! i wish i had a dollar for every one i got when i was learning to drive. there was a farmer over here in chester--" and he proceeded to relate how he had had to pay for two turkeys. "he got my number, the old hayseed, he was laying for me, and the next time i went back that way he held me up for five dollars. i can remember the time when a man in a motor was an easy mark for every reuben in the county. they got rich on us." she responded to his mood, which was wholly irresponsible, exuberant, and they laughed together like children, every little incident assuming an aspect irresistibly humorous. once he stopped to ask an old man standing in his dooryard how far it was to kingsbury. "wal, mebbe it's two mile, they mostly call it two," said the patriarch, after due reflection, gathering his beard in his band. "mebbe it's more." his upper lip was blue, shaven, prehensile. "what did you ask him for, when you know?" said janet, mirthfully, when they had gone on, and ditmar was imitating him. ditmar's reply was to wink at her. presently they saw another figure on the road. "let's see what he'll say," ditmar proposed. this man was young, the colour of mahogany, with glistening black hair and glistening black eyes that regarded the too palpable joyousness of their holiday humour in mute surprise. "i no know--stranger," he said. "no speaka portugueso?" inquired ditmar, gravely. "the country is getting filthy with foreigners," he observed, when he had started the car. "i went down to plymouth last summer to see the old rock, and by george, it seemed as if there wasn't anybody could speak american on the whole cape. all the portuguese islands are dumped there --cranberry pickers, you know." "i didn't know that," said janet. "sure thing!" he exclaimed. "and when i got there, what do you think? there was hardly enough of the old stone left to stand on, and that had a fence around it like an exhibit in an exposition. it had all been chipped away by souvenir hunters." she gazed at him incredulously. "you don't believe me! i'll take you down there sometime. and another thing, the rock's high and dry--up on the land. i said to charlie crane, who was with me, that it must have been a peach of a jump for old miles standish and priscilla what's her name." "how i'd love to see the ocean again!" janet exclaimed. "why, i'll take you--as often as you like," he promised. "we'll go out on it in summer, up to maine, or down to the cape." her enchantment was now so great that nothing seemed impossible. "and we'll go down to plymouth, too, some sunday soon, if this weather keeps up. if we start early enough we can get there for lunch, easy. we'll see the rock. i guess some of your ancestors must have come over with that mayflower outfit--first cabin, eh? you look like it." janet laughed. "it's a joke on them, if they did. i wonder what they'd think of hampton, if they could see it now. i counted up once, just to tease father--he's the seventh generation from ebenezer bumpus, who came to dolton. well, i proved to him he might have one hundred and twenty-six other ancestors besides ebenezer and his wife." "that must have jarred him some," was ditmar's comment. "great old man, your father. i've talked to him--he's a regular historical society all by himself. well, there must be something in it, this family business. now, you can tell he comes from fine old american stock-he looks it." janet flushed. "a lot of good it does!" she exclaimed. "i don't know," said ditmar. "it's something to fall back on--a good deal. and he hasn't got any of that nonsense in his head about labour unions--he's a straight american. and you look the part," he added. "you remind me--i never thought of it until now--you remind me of a picture of priscilla i saw once in a book of poems longfellow's, you know. i'm not much on literature, but i remember that, and i remember thinking she could have me. funny isn't it, that you should have come along? but you've got more ginger than the woman in that picture. i'm the only man that ever guessed it isn't that so?" he asked jealously. "you're wonderful!" retorted janet, daringly. "you just bet i am, or i couldn't have landed you," he asserted. "you're chock full of ginger, but it's been all corked up. you're so prim-so priscilla." he was immensely pleased with the adjective he had coined, repeating it. "it's a great combination. when i think of it, i want to shake you, to squeeze you until you scream." "then please don't think of it," she said. "that's easy!" he exclaimed, mockingly. at a quarter to one they entered a sleepy village reminiscent of a new england of other days. the long street, deeply shaded in summer, was bordered by decorous homes, some of which had stood there for a century and a half; others were of the mansard period. the high school, of strawberry-coloured brick, had been the pride and glory of the kingsbury of the ' s: there were many churches, some graceful and some hideous. at the end of the street they came upon a common, surrounded by stone posts and a railing, with a monument in the middle of it, and facing the common on the north side was a rambling edifice with many white gables, in front of which, from an iron arm on a post, swung a quaint sign, "kingsbury tavern." in revolutionary and coaching days the place bad been a famous inn; and now, thanks to the enterprise of a man who had foreseen the possibilities of an era of automobiles, it had become even more famous. a score of these modern vehicles were drawn up before it under the bare, ancient elms; there was a scene of animation on the long porch, where guests strolled up and down or sat in groups in the rocking-chairs which the mild weather had brought forth again. ditmar drew up in line with the other motors, and stopped. "well, here we are!" he exclaimed, as he pulled off his gauntlets. "i guess i could get along with something to eat. how about you? they treat you as well here as any place i know of in new england." he assumed their lunching together at a public place as a matter of course to which there could not possibly be an objection, springing out of the car, removing the laprobe from her knees, and helping her to alight. she laid the roses on the seat. "aren't you going to bring them along?" he demanded. "i'd rather not," she said. "don't you think they'll be safe here?" "oh, i guess so," he replied. she was always surprising him; but her solicitation concerning them was a balm, and he found all such instinctive acts refreshing. "afraid of putting up too much of a front, are you?" he asked smilingly. "i'd rather leave them here," she replied. as she walked beside ditmar to the door she was excited, unwontedly self-conscious, painfully aware of inspection by the groups on the porch. she had seen such people as these hurrying in automobiles through the ugliness of faber street in hampton toward just such delectable spots as this village of kingsbury--people of that world of freedom and privilege from which she was excluded; ditmar's world. he was at home here. but she? the delusion that she somehow had been miraculously snatched up into it was marred by their glances. what were they thinking of her? her face was hot as she passed them and entered the hall, where more people were gathered. but ditmar's complacency, his ease and self-confidence, his manner of owning the place, as it were, somewhat reassured her. he went up to the desk, behind which, stood a burly, red-complexioned man who greeted him effusively, yet with the air of respect accorded the powerful. "hullo, eddie," said ditmar. "you've got a good crowd here to-day. any room for me?" "sure, mr. ditmar, we can always make room for you. well, i haven't laid eyes on you for a dog's age. only last sunday mr. crane was here, and i was asking him where you'd been keeping yourself." "why, i've been busy, eddie. i've landed the biggest order ever heard of in hampton. some of us have to work, you know; all you've got to do is to loaf around this place and smoke cigars and rake in the money." the proprietor of the kingsbury tavern smiled indulgently at this persiflage. "let me present you to miss bumpus," said ditmar. "this is my friend, eddie hale," he added, for janet's benefit. "and when you've eaten his dinner you'll believe me when i say he's got all the other hotel men beaten a mile." janet smiled and flushed. she had been aware of mr. hale's discreet glance. "pleased to meet you, miss bumpus," he said, with a somewhat elaborate bow. "eddie," said ditmar, "have you got a nice little table for us?" "it's a pity i didn't know you was coming, but i'll do my best," declared mr. hale, opening the door in the counter. "oh, i guess you can fix us all right, if you want to, eddie." "mr. ditmar's a great josher," mr. hale told janet confidentially as he escorted them into the dining-room. and ditmar, gazing around over the heads of the diners, spied in an alcove by a window a little table with tilted chairs. "that one'll do," he said. "i'm sorry, but it's engaged," apologized mr. hale. "forget it, eddie--tell 'em they're late," said ditmar, making his way toward it. the proprietor pulled out janet's chair. "say," he remarked, "it's no wonder you get along in business." "well, this is cosy, isn't it?" said ditmar to janet when they were alone. he handed her the menu, and snapped his fingers for a waitress. "why didn't you tell me you were coming to this place?" she asked. "i wanted to surprise you. don't you like it?" "yes," she replied. "only--" "only, what?" "i wish you wouldn't look at me like that--here." "all right. i'll try to be good until we get into the car again. you watch me! i'll behave as if we'd been married ten years." he snapped his fingers again, and the waitress hurried up to take their orders. "kingsbury's still dry, i guess," he said to the girl, who smiled sympathetically, somewhat ruefully. when she had gone he began to talk to janet about the folly, in general, of prohibition, the fuse oil distributed on the sly. "i'll bet i could go out and find half a dozen rum shops within a mile of here!" he declared. janet did not doubt it. ditmar's aplomb, his faculty of getting what he wanted, had amused and distracted her. she was growing calmer, able to scrutinize, at first covertly and then more boldly the people at the other tables, only to discover that she and ditmar were not the objects of the universal curiosity she had feared. once in a while, indeed, she encountered and then avoided the glance of some man, felt the admiration in it, was thrilled a little, and her sense of exhilaration returned as she regained her poise. she must be nice looking--more than that--in her new suit. on entering the tavern she had taken off the tweed coat, which ditmar had carried and laid on a chair. this new and amazing adventure began to go to her head like wine.... when luncheon was over they sat in a sunny corner of the porch while ditmar smoked his cigar. his digestion was good, his spirits high, his love-making--on account of the public nature of the place--surreptitious yet fervent. the glamour to which janet had yielded herself was on occasions slightly troubled by some new and enigmatic element to be detected in his voice and glances suggestive of intentions vaguely disquieting. at last she said: "oughtn't we to be going home?" "home!" he ridiculed the notion. "i'm going to take you to the prettiest road you ever saw--around by french's lower falls. i only wish it was summer." "i must be home before dark," she told him. "you see, the family don't know where i am. i haven't said anything to them about--about this." "that's right," he said, after a moment's hesitation: "i didn't think you would. there's plenty of time for that--after things get settled a little--isn't there?" she thought his look a little odd, but the impression passed as they walked to the motor. he insisted now on her pinning the roses on the tweed coat, and she humoured him. the winter sun had already begun to drop, and with the levelling rays the bare hillsides, yellow and brown in the higher light, were suffused with pink; little by little, as the sun fell lower, imperceptible clouds whitened the blue cambric of the sky, distant copses were stained lilac. and janet, as she gazed, wondered at a world that held at once so much beauty, so much joy and sorrow,--such strange sorrow as began to invade her now, not personal, but cosmic. at times it seemed almost to suffocate her; she drew in deep breaths of air: it was the essence of all things--of the man by her side, of herself, of the beauty so poignantly revealed to her. gradually ditmar became conscious of this detachment, this new evidence of an extraordinary faculty of escaping him that seemed unimpaired. constantly he tried by leaning closer to her, by reaching out his hand, to reassure himself that she was at least physically present. and though she did not resent these tokens, submitting passively, he grew perplexed and troubled; his optimistic atheism concerning things unseen was actually shaken by the impression she conveyed of beholding realities hidden from him. shadows had begun to gather in the forest, filmy mists to creep over the waters. he asked if she were cold, and she shook her head and sighed as one coming out of a trance, smiling at him. "it's been a wonderful day!" she said. "the greatest ever!" he agreed. and his ardour, mounting again, swept away the unwonted mood of tenderness and awe she had inspired in him, made him bold to suggest the plan which had been the subject of an ecstatic contemplation. "i'll tell you what we'll do," he said, "we'll take a little run down to boston and have dinner together. we'll be there in an hour, and back by ten o'clock." "to boston!" she repeated. "now?" "why not?" he said, stopping the car. "here's the road--it's a boulevard all the way." it was not so much the proposal as the passion in his voice, in his touch, the passion to which she felt herself responding that filled her with apprehension and dismay, and yet aroused her pride and anger. "i told you i had to be home," she said. "i'll have you home by ten o'clock; i promise. we're going to be married, janet," he whispered. "oh, if you meant to marry me you wouldn't ask me to do this!" she cried. "i want to go back to hampton. if you won't take me, i'll walk." she had drawn away from him, and her hand was on the door. he seized her arm. "for god's sake, don't take it that way!" he cried, in genuine alarm. "all i meant was--that we'd have a nice little dinner. i couldn't bear to leave you, it'll be a whole week before we get another day. do you suppose i'd--i'd do anything to insult you, janet?" with her fingers still tightened over the door-catch she turned and looked at him. "i don't know," she said slowly. "sometimes i think you would. why shouldn't you? why should you marry me? why shouldn't you try to do with me what you've done with other women? i don't know anything about the world, about life. i'm nobody. why shouldn't you?" "because you're not like the other women--that's why. i love you--won't you believe it?" he was beside himself with anxiety. "listen--i'll take you home if you want to go. you don't know how it hurts me to have you think such things!" "well, then, take me home," she said. it was but gradually that she became pacified. a struggle was going on within her between these doubts of him he had stirred up again and other feelings aroused by his pleadings. night fell, and when they reached the silliston road the lights of hampton shone below them in the darkness. "you'd better let me out here," she said. "you can't drive me home." he brought the car to a halt beside one of the small wooden shelters built for the convenience of passengers. "you forgive me--you understand, janet?" he asked. "sometimes i don't know what to think," she said, and suddenly clung to him. "i--i forgive you. i oughtn't to suspect such things, but i'm like that. i'm horrid and i can't help it." she began to unbutton the coat he had bought for her. "aren't you going to take it?" he said. "it's yours." "and what do you suppose my family would say if i told them mr. ditmar had given it to me?" "come on, i'll drive you home, i'll tell them i gave it to you, that we're going to be married," he announced recklessly. "oh, no!" she exclaimed in consternation. "you couldn't. you said so yourself--that you didn't want, any one to know, now. i'll get on the trolley." "and the roses?" he asked. she pressed them to her face, and chose one. "i'll take this," she said, laying the rest on the seat.... he waited until he saw her safely on the trolley car, and then drove slowly homeward in a state of amazement. he had been on the verge of announcing himself to the family in fillmore street as her prospective husband! he tried to imagine what that household was like; and again he found himself wondering why she had not consented to his proposal. and the ever-recurring question presented itself--was he prepared to go that length? he didn't know. she was beyond him, he had no clew to her, she was to him as mysterious as a symphony. certain strains of her moved him intensely--the rest was beyond his grasp.... at supper, while his children talked and laughed boisterously, he sat silent, restless, and in spite of their presence the house seemed appallingly empty. when janet returned home she ran to her bedroom, and taking from the wardrobe the tissue paper that had come with her new dress, and which she had carefully folded, she wrapped the rose in it, and put it away in the back of a drawer. thus smothered, its fragrance stifled, it seemed emblematic, somehow, of the clandestine nature of her love.... the weeks that immediately followed were strange ones. all the elements of life that previously had been realities, trivial yet fundamental, her work, her home, her intercourse with the family, became fantastic. there was the mill to which she went every day: she recognized it, yet it was not the same mill, nor was fillmore street the fillmore street of old. nor did the new and feverish existence over whose borderland she had been transported seem real, save in certain hours she spent in ditmar's company, when he made her forget--hers being a temperament to feel the weight of an unnatural secrecy. she was aware, for instance, that her mother and even her father thought her conduct odd, were anxious as to her absences on certain nights and on sundays. she offered no explanation. it was impossible. she understood that the reason why they refrained from questioning her was due to a faith in her integrity as well as to a respect for her as a breadwinner who lead earned a right to independence. and while her suspicion of hannah's anxiety troubled her, on the occasions when she thought of it, lise's attitude disturbed her even more. from lise she had been prepared for suspicion, arraignment, ridicule. what a vindication if it were disclosed that she, janet, had a lover--and that lover ditmar! but lise said nothing. she was remote, self-absorbed. hannah spoke about it on the evenings janet stayed at home. she would not consent to meet ditmar every evening. yet, as the days succeeded one another, janet was often astonished by the fact that their love remained apparently unsuspected by mr. price and caldwell and others in the office. they must have noticed, on some occasions, the manner in which ditmar looked at her; and in business hours she had continually to caution him, to keep him in check. again, on the evening excursions to which she consented, though they were careful to meet in unfrequented spots, someone might easily have recognized him; and she did not like to ponder over the number of young women in the other offices who knew her by sight. these reflections weighed upon her, particularly when she seemed conscious of curious glances. but what caused her the most concern was the constantly recurring pressure to which ditmar himself subjected her, and which, as time went on, she found increasingly difficult to resist. he tried to take her by storm, and when this method failed, resorted to pleadings and supplications even harder to deny because of the innate feminine pity she felt for him. to recount these affairs would be a mere repetition of identical occurrences. on their second sunday excursion he had actually driven her, despite her opposition, several miles on the boston road; and her resistance only served to inflame him the more. it seemed, afterwards, as she sat unnerved, a miracle that she had stopped him. then came reproaches: she would not trust him; they could not be married at once; she must understand that!--an argument so repugnant as to cause her to shake with sobs of inarticulate anger. after this he would grow bewildered, then repentant, then contrite. in contrition--had he known it--he was nearest to victory. as has been said, she did not intellectualize her reasons, but the core of her resistance was the very essence of an individuality having its roots in a self-respecting and self-controlling inheritance--an element wanting in her sister lise. it must have been largely the thought of lise, the spectacle of lise--often perhaps unconsciously present that dominated her conduct; yet reinforcing such an ancestral sentiment was another, environmental and more complicated, the result in our modern atmosphere of an undefined feminism apt to reveal itself in many undesirable ways, but which in reality is a logical projection of the american tradition of liberty. to submit was not only to lose her liberty, to become a dependent, but also and inevitably, she thought, to lose ditmar's love.... no experience, however, is emotionally continuous, nor was their intimacy by any means wholly on this plane of conflict. there were hours when, ditmar's passion leaving spent itself, they achieved comradeship, in the office and out of it; revelations for janet when he talked of himself, relating the little incidents she found most illuminating. and thus by degrees she was able to build up a new and truer estimate of him. for example, she began to perceive that his life outside of his interest in the mills, instead of being the romance of privileged joys she had once imagined, had been almost as empty as her own, without either unity or direction. her perception was none the less keen because definite terms were wanting for its expression. the idea of him that first had captivated her was that of an energized and focussed character controlling with a sure hand the fortunes of a great organization; of a power in the city and state, of a being who, in his leisure moments, dwelt in a delectable realm from which she was excluded. she was still acutely conscious of his force, but what she now felt was its lack of direction--save for the portion that drove the chippering mills. the rest of it, like the river, flowed away on the line of least resistance to the sea. as was quite natural, this gradual discovery of what he was--or of what he wasn't--this truer estimate, this partial disillusionment, merely served to deepen and intensify the feeling he had aroused in her; to heighten, likewise, the sense of her own value by confirming a belief in her possession of certain qualities, of a kind of fibre he needed in a helpmate. she dwelt with a woman's fascination upon the prospect of exercising a creative influence--even while she acknowledged the fearful possibility of his power in unguarded moments to overwhelm and destroy her. here was another incentive to resist the gusts of his passion. she could guide and develop him by helping and improving herself. hope and ambition throbbed within her, she felt a contempt for his wife, for the women who had been her predecessors. he had not spoken of these, save once or twice by implication, but with what may seem a surprising leniency she regarded them as consequences of a life lacking in content. if only she could keep her head, she might supply that content, and bring him happiness! the thought of his children troubled her most, but she was quick to perceive that he got nothing from them; and even though it were partly his own fault, she was inclined to lay the heavier blame on the woman who had been their mother. the triviality, the emptiness of his existence outside of the walls of the mill made her heart beat with pure pity. for she could understand it. one of the many, and often humorous, incidents that served to bring about this realization of a former aimlessness happened on their second sunday excursion. this time he had not chosen the kingsbury tavern, but another automobilists' haunt, an enlightening indication of established habits involving a wide choice of resorts. while he was paying for luncheon and chatting with the proprietor, ditmar snatched from the change he had flung down on the counter a five dollar gold coin. "now how in thunder did that get into my right-hand pocket? i always keep it in my vest," he exclaimed; and the matter continued to disturb him after they were in the automobile. "it's my lucky piece. i guess i was so excited at the prospect of seeing you when i dressed this morning i put it into my change. just see what you do to me!" "does it bring you luck?" she inquired smilingly. "how about you! i call you the biggest piece of luck i ever had." "you'd better not be too sure," she warned him. "oh, i'm not worrying. i has that piece in my pocket the day i went down to see old stephen chippering, when he made me agent, and i've kept it ever since. and i'll tell you a funny thing--it's enough to make any man believe in luck. do you remember that day last summer i was tinkering with the car by the canal and you came along?" "the day you pretended to be tinkering," she corrected him. he laughed. "so you were on to me?" he said. "you're a foxy one!" "anyone could see you were only pretending. it made me angry, when i thought of it afterwards." "i just had to do it--i wanted to talk to you. but listen to what i'm going to tell you! it's a miracle, all right,--happening just at that time--that very morning. i was coming back to boston from new york on the midnight, and when the train ran into back bay and i was putting on my trousers the piece rolled out among the bed clothes. i didn't know i'd lost it until i sat down in the parker house to eat my breakfast, and i suddenly felt in my pocket. it made me sick to think it was gone. well, i started to telephone the pullman office, and then i made up my mind i'd take a taxi and go down to the south station myself, and just as i got out of the cab there was the nigger porter, all dressed up in his glad rags, coming out of the station! i knew him, i'd been on his car lots of times. `say, george,' i said, `i didn't forget you this morning, did i?' "`no, suh,' said george, 'you done give me a quarter.' "`i guess you're mistaken, george,' says i, and i fished out a ten dollar bill. you ought to have seen that nigger's eyes." "`what's this for, mister ditmar?' says he. "`for that lucky gold piece you found in lower seven,' i told him. `we'll trade.' "'was you in lower seven?--so you was!' says george. well, he had it all right--you bet he had it. now wasn't that queer? the very day you and i began to know each other!" "wonderful!" janet agreed. "why don't you put it on your watch chain?" "well, i've thought of that," he replied, with the air of having considered all sides of the matter. "but i've got that charm of the secret order i belong to--that's on my chain. i guess i'll keep it in my vest pocket." "i didn't know you were so superstitious," she mocked. "pretty nearly everybody's superstitious," he declared. and she thought of lise. "i'm not. i believe if things are going to happen well, they're going to happen. nothing can prevent it." "by thunder" he exclaimed, struck by her remark. "you are like that you're different from any person i ever knew...." from such anecdotes she pieced together her new ditmar. he spoke of a large world she had never seen, of new york and washington and chicago, where he intended to take her. in the future he would never travel alone. and he told her of his having been a delegate to the last national republican convention, explaining what a delegate was. he gloried in her innocence, and it was pleasant to dazzle her with impressions of his cosmopolitanism. in this, perhaps, he was not quite so successful as he imagined, but her eyes shone. she had never even been in a sleeping car! for her delectation he launched into an enthusiastic description of these vehicles, of palatial compartment cars, of limited, transcontinental trains, where one had a stenographer and a barber at one's disposal. "neither of them would do me any good," she complained. "you could go to the manicure," he said. there had been in ditmar's life certain events which, in his anecdotal moods, were magnified into matters of climacteric importance; high, festal occasions on which it was sweet to reminisce, such as his visit as delegate at large to that chicago convention. he had travelled on a special train stocked with cigars and white seal champagne, in the company of senators and congressmen and ex-governors, state treasurers, collectors of the port, mill owners, and bankers to whom he referred, as the french say, in terms of their "little" names. he dwelt on the magnificence of the huge hotel set on the borders of a lake like an inland sea, and related such portions of the festivities incidental to "the seeing of chicago" as would bear repetition. no women belonged to this realm; no women, at least, who were to be regarded as persons. ditmar did not mention them, but no doubt they existed, along with the cigars and the white seal champagne, contributing to the amenities. and the excursion, to janet, took on the complexion of a sort of glorified picnic in the course of which, incidentally, a president of the united states had been chosen. in her innocence she had believed the voters to perform this function. ditmar laughed. "do you suppose we're going to let the mob run this country?" he inquired. "once in a while we can't get away with it as we'd like, we have to take the best we can." thus was brought home to her more and more clearly that what men strove and fought for were the joys of prominence, privilege, and power. everywhere, in the great world, they demanded and received consideration. it was ditmar's boast that if nobody else could get a room in a crowded new york hotel, he could always obtain one. and she was fain to concede --she who had never known privilege--a certain intoxicating quality to this eminence. if you could get the power, and refused to take it, the more fool you! a topsy-turvy world, in which the stupid toiled day by day, week by week, exhausting their energies and craving joy, while others adroitly carried off the prize; and virtue had apparently as little to do with the matter as fair hair or a club foot. if janet had ever read darwin, she would have recognized in her lover a creature rather wonderfully adapted to his environment; and what puzzled her, perhaps, was the riddle that presents itself to many better informed than herself--the utter absence in this environment of the sign of any being who might be called god. her perplexities--for she did have them--took the form of an instinctive sense of inadequacy, of persistently recurring though inarticulate convictions of the existence of elements not included in ditmar's categories--of things that money could not buy; of things, too, alas! that poverty was as powerless to grasp. stored within her, sometimes rising to the level of consciousness, was that experience at silliston in the may weather when she had had a glimpse--just a glimpse! of a garden where strange and precious flowers were in bloom. on the other hand, this mysterious perception by her of things unseen and hitherto unguessed, of rays of delight in the spectrum of values to which his senses were unattuned, was for ditmar the supreme essence of her fascination. at moments he was at once bewildered and inebriated by the rare delicacy of fabric of the woman whom he had somehow stumbled upon and possessed. then there were the hours when they worked together in the office. here she beheld ditmar at his best. it cannot be said that his infatuation for her was ever absent from his consciousness: he knew she was there beside him, he betrayed it continually. but here she was in the presence of what had been and what remained his ideal, the chippering mill; here he acquired unity. all his energies were bent toward the successful execution of the bradlaugh order, which had to be completed on the first of february. and as day after day went by her realization of the magnitude of the task he had undertaken became keener. excitement was in the air. ditmar seemed somehow to have managed to infuse not only orcutt, the superintendent, but the foremen and second hands and even the workers with a common spirit of pride and loyalty, of interest, of determination to carry off this matter triumphantly. the mill seemed fairly to hum with effort. janet's increasing knowledge of its organization and processes only served to heighten her admiration for the confidence ditmar had shown from the beginning. it was superb. and now, as the probability of the successful execution of the task tended more and more toward certainty, he sometimes gave vent to his boyish, exuberant spirits. "i told holster, i told all those croakers i'd do it, and by thunder i will do it, with three days' margin, too! i'll get the last shipment off on the twenty-eighth of january. why, even george chippering was afraid i couldn't handle it. if the old man was alive he wouldn't have had cold feet." then ditmar added, half jocularly, half seriously, looking down on her as she sat with her note-book, waiting for him to go on with his dictation: "i guess you've had your share in it, too. you've been a wonder, the way you've caught on and taken things off my shoulders. if orcutt died i believe you could step right into his shoes." "i'm sure i could step into his shoes," she replied. "only i hope he won't die." "i hope he won't, either," said ditmar. "and as for you--" "never mind me, now," she said. he bent over her. "janet, you're the greatest girl in the world." yes, she was happiest when she felt she was helping him, it gave her confidence that she could do more, lead him into paths beyond which they might explore together. she was useful. sometimes, however, he seemed to her oversanguine; though he had worked hard, his success had come too easily, had been too uniform. his temper was quick, the prospect of opposition often made him overbearing, yet on occasions he listened with surprising patience to his subordinates when they ventured to differ from his opinions. at other times janet had seen him overrule them ruthlessly; humiliate them. there were days when things went wrong, when there were delays, complications, more matters to attend to than usual. on one such day, after the dinner hour, mr. orcutt entered the office. his long, lean face wore a certain expression janet had come to know, an expression that always irritated ditmar--the conscientious superintendent having the unfortunate faculty of exaggerating annoyances by his very bearing. ditmar stopped in the midst of dictating a peculiarly difficult letter, and looked up sharply. "well," he asked, "what's the trouble now?" orcutt seemed incapable of reading storm signals. when anything happened, he had the air of declaring, "i told you so." "you may remember i spoke to you once or twice, mr. ditmar, of the talk over the fifty-four hour law that goes into effect in january." "yes, what of it?" ditmar cut in. "the notices have been posted, as the law requires." "the hands have been grumbling, there are trouble makers among them. a delegation came to me this noon and wanted to know whether we intended to cut the pay to correspond to the shorter working hours." "of course it's going to be cut," said ditmar. "what do they suppose? that we're going to pay 'em for work they don't do? the hands not paid by the piece are paid practically by the hour, not by the day. and there's got to be some limit to this thing. if these damned demagogues in the legislature keep on cutting down the hours of women and children every three years or so--and we can't run the mill without the women and children--we might as well shut down right now. three years ago, when they made it fifty-six hours, we were fools to keep up the pay. i said so then, at the conference, but they wouldn't listen to me. they listened this time. holster and one or two others croaked, but we shut 'em up. no, they won't get any more pay, not a damned cent." orcutt had listened patiently, lugubriously. "i told them that." "what did they say?" "they said they thought there'd be a strike." "pooh! strike!" exclaimed ditmar with contemptuous violence. "do you believe that? you're always borrowing trouble, you are. they may have a strike at one mill, the clarendon. i hope they do, i hope holster gets it in the neck--he don't know how to run a mill anyway. we won't have any strike, our people understand when they're well off, they've got all the work they can do, they're sending fortunes back to the old country or piling them up in the banks. it's all bluff." "there was a meeting of the english branch of the i. w. w. last night. a committee was appointed," said orcutt, who as usual took a gloomy satisfaction in the prospect of disaster. "the i. w. w.! my god, orcutt, don't you know enough not to come in here wasting my time talking about the i. w. w.? those anarchists haven't got any organization. can't you get that through your head?" "all right," replied orcutt, and marched off. janet felt rather sorry for him, though she had to admit that his manner was exasperating. but ditmar's anger, instead of cooling, increased: it all seemed directed against the unfortunate superintendent. "would you believe that a man who's been in this mill twenty-five years could be such a fool?" he demanded. "the i. w. w.! why not the ku klux? he must think i haven't anything to do but chin. i don't know why i keep him here, sometimes i think he'll drive me crazy." his eyes seemed to have grown small and red, as was always the case when his temper got the better of him. janet did not reply, but sat with her pencil poised over her book. "let's see, where was i?" he asked. "i can't finish that letter now. go out and do the others." mundane experience, like a badly mixed cake, has a tendency to run in streaks, and on the day following the incident related above janet's heart was heavy. ditmar betrayed an increased shortness of temper and preoccupation; and the consciousness that her love had lent her a clairvoyant power to trace the source of his humours though these were often hidden from or unacknowledged by himself--was in this instance small consolation. she saw clearly enough that the apprehensions expressed by mr. orcutt, whom he had since denounced as an idiotic old woman, had made an impression, aroused in him the ever-abiding concern for the mill which was his life's passion and which had been but temporarily displaced by his infatuation with her. that other passion was paramount. what was she beside it? would he hesitate for a moment to sacrifice her if it came to a choice between them? the tempestuousness of these thoughts, when they took possession of her, hinting as they did of possibilities in her nature hitherto unguessed and unrevealed, astonished and frightened her; she sought to thrust them away, to reassure herself that his concern for the successful delivery of the bradlaugh order was natural. during the morning, in the intervals between interviews with the superintendents, he was self-absorbed, and she found herself inconsistently resenting the absence of those expressions of endearment--the glances and stolen caresses--for indulgence in which she had hitherto rebuked him: and though pride came to her rescue, fuel was added to her feeling by the fact that he did not seem to notice her coolness. since he failed to appear after lunch, she knew he must be investigating the suspicions orcutt had voiced; but at six o'clock, when he had not returned, she closed up her desk and left the office. an odour of cheap perfume pervading the corridor made her aware of the presence of miss lottie myers. "oh, it's you!" said that young woman, looking up from the landing of the stairs. "i might have known it you never make a get-away until after six, do you?" "oh, sometimes," said janet. "i stayed as a special favour to-night," miss myers declared. "but i'm not so stuck on my job that i can't tear myself away from it." "i don't suppose you are," said janet. for a moment miss myers looked as if she was about to be still more impudent, but her eye met janet's, and wavered. they crossed the bridge in silence. "well, ta-ta," she said. "if you like it, it's up to you. five o'clock for mine,"--and walked away, up the canal, swinging her hips defiantly. and janet, gazing after her, grew hot with indignation and apprehension. her relations with ditmar were suspected, after all, made the subject of the kind of comment indulged in, sotto voce, by lottie myers and her friends at the luncheon hour. she felt a mad, primitive desire to run after the girl, to spring upon and strangle her and compel her to speak what was in her mind and then retract it; and the motor impulse, inhibited, caused a sensation of sickness, of unhappiness and degradation as she turned her steps slowly homeward. was it a misinterpretation, after all--what lottie myers had implied and feared to say?... in fillmore street supper was over, and lise, her face contorted, her body strained, was standing in front of the bureau "doing" her hair, her glance now seeking the mirror, now falling again to consult a model in one of those periodicals of froth and fashion that cause such numberless heart burnings in every quarter of our democracy, and which are filled with photographs of "prominent" persons at race meetings, horse shows, and resorts, and with actresses, dancers,--and mannequins. janet's eyes fell on the open page to perceive that the coiffure her sister so painfully imitated was worn by a young woman with an insolent, vapid face and hard eyes, whose knees were crossed, revealing considerably more than an ankle. the picture was labelled, "a dance at palm beach--a flashlight of mrs. 'trudy' gascoigne-schell,"--one of those mysterious, hybrid names which, in connection with the thoughts of new york and the visible rakish image of the lady herself, cause involuntary shudders down the spine of the reflecting american provincial. some such responsive quiver, akin to disgust, janet herself experienced. "it's the very last scream," lise was saying. "and say, if i owned a ball dress like that i'd be somebody's lulu all right! can i have the pleasure of the next maxixe, miss bumpus?" with deft and rapid fingers she lead parted her hair far on the right side and pulled it down over the left eyebrow, twisted it over her ear and tightly around her head, inserting here and there a hairpin, seizing the hand mirror with the cracked back, and holding it up behind her. finally, when the operation was finished to her satisfaction she exclaimed, evidently to the paragon in the picture, "i get you!" whereupon, from the wardrobe, she produced a hat. "you sure had my number when you guessed the feathers on that other would get draggled," she observed in high good humour, generously ignoring their former unpleasantness on the subject. when she had pinned it on she bent mockingly over her sister, who sat on the bed. "how d'you like my new toque? peekaboo! that's the way the guys rubberneck to see if you're good lookin'." lise was exalted, feverish, apparently possessed by some high secret; her eyes shone, and when she crossed the room she whistled bars of ragtime and executed mincing steps of the maxixe. fumbling in the upper drawer for a pair of white gloves (also new), she knocked off the corner of the bureau her velvet bag; it opened as it struck the floor, and out of it rolled a lilac vanity case and a yellow coin. casting a suspicious, lightning glance at janet, she snatched up the vanity case and covered the coin with her foot. "lock the doors!" she cried, with an hysteric giggle. then removing her foot she picked up the coin surreptitiously. to her amazement her sister made no comment, did not seem to have taken in the significance of the episode. lise had expected a tempest of indignant, searching questions, a "third degree," as she would have put it. she snapped the bag together, drew on her gloves, and, when she was ready to leave, with characteristic audacity crossed the room, taking her sister's face between her hands and kissing her. "tell me your troubles, sweetheart!" she said--and did not wait to hear them. janet was incapable of speech--nor could she have brought herself to ask lise whether or not the money had been earned at the bagatelle, and remained miraculously unspent. it was possible, but highly incredible. and then, the vanity case and the new hat were to be accounted for! the sight of the gold piece, indeed, had suddenly revived in janet the queer feeling of faintness, almost of nausea she had experienced after parting with lottie myers. and by some untoward association she was reminded of a conversation she had had with ditmar on the saturday afternoon following their first sunday excursion, when, on opening her pay envelope, she had found twenty dollars. "are you sure i'm worth it?" she had demanded--and he had been quite sure. he had added that she was worth more, much more, but that he could not give her as yet, without the risk of comment, a sum commensurate with the value of her services.... but now she asked herself again, was she worth it? or was it merely--part of her price? going to the wardrobe and opening a drawer at the bottom she searched among her clothes until she discovered the piece of tissue paper in which she had wrapped the rose rescued from the cluster he had given her. the petals were dry, yet they gave forth, still, a faint, reminiscent fragrance as she pressed them to her face. janet wept.... the following morning as she was kneeling in a corner of the room by the letter files, one of which she had placed on the floor, she recognized his step in the outer office, heard him pause to joke with young caldwell, and needed not the visual proof--when after a moment he halted on the threshold--of the fact that his usual, buoyant spirits were restored. he held a cigar in his hand, and in his eyes was the eager look with which she had become familiar, which indeed she had learned to anticipate as they swept the room in search of her. and when they fell on her he closed the door and came forward impetuously. but her exclamation caused him to halt in bewilderment. "don't touch me!" she said. and he stammered out, as he stood over her:--"what's the matter?" "everything. you don't love me--i was a fool to believe you did." "don't love you!" he repeated. "my god, what's the trouble now? what have i done?" "oh, it's nothing you've done, it's what you haven't done, it's what you can't do. you don't really care for me--all you care for is this mill --when anything happens here you don't know i'm alive." he stared at her, and then an expression of comprehension, of intense desire grew in his eyes; and his laugh, as he flung his cigar out of the open window and bent down to seize her, was almost brutal. she fought him, she tried to hurt him, and suddenly, convulsively pressed herself to him. "you little tigress!" he said, as he held her. "you were jealous--were you--jealous of the mill?" and he laughed again. "i'd like to see you with something really to be jealous about. so you love me like that, do you?" she could feel his heart beating against her. "i won't be neglected," she told him tensely. "i want all of you--if i can't have all of you, i don't want any. do you understand?" "do i understand? well, i guess i do." "you didn't yesterday," she reproached him, somewhat dazed by the swiftness of her submission, and feeling still the traces of a lingering resentment. she had not intended to surrender. "you forgot all about me, you didn't know i was here, much less that i was hurt. oh, i was hurt! and you--i can tell at once when anything's wrong with you--i know without your saying it." he was amazed, he might indeed have been troubled and even alarmed by this passion he had aroused had his own passion not been at the flood. and as he wiped away her tears with his handkerchief he could scarcely believe his senses that this was the woman whose resistance had demanded all his force to overcome. indeed, although he recognized the symptoms she betrayed as feminine, as having been registered--though feebly compared to this! by incidents in his past, precisely his difficulty seemed to be in identifying this complex and galvanic being as a woman, not as something almost fearful in her significance, outside the bounds of experience.... presently she ceased to tremble, and he drew her to the window. the day was as mild as autumn, the winter sun like honey in its mellowness; a soft haze blurred the outline of the upper bridge. "only two more days until sunday," he whispered, caressingly, exultantly.... chapter xii it had been a strange year in hampton, unfortunate for coal merchants, welcome to the poor. but sunday lacked the transforming touch of sunshine. the weather was damp and cold as janet set out from fillmore street. ditmar, she knew, would be waiting for her, he counted on her, and she could not bear to disappoint him, to disappoint herself. and all the doubts and fears that from time to time had assailed her were banished by this impulse to go to him, to be with him. he loved her! the words, as she sat in the trolley car, ran in her head like the lilt of a song. what did the weather matter? when she alighted at the lonely cross-roads snow had already begun to fall. but she spied the automobile, with its top raised, some distance down the lane, and in a moment she was in it, beside him, wrapped in the coat she had now come to regard as her own. he buttoned down the curtains and took her in his arms. "what shall we do to-day," she asked, "if it snows?" "don't let that worry you, sweetheart," he said. "i have the chains on, i can get through anything in this car." he was in high, almost turbulent spirits as he turned the car and drove it out of the rutty lane into the state road. the snow grew thicker and thicker still, the world was blotted out by swiftly whirling, feathery flakes that melted on the windshield, and through the wet glass janet caught distorted glimpses of black pines and cedars beside the highway. the ground was spread with fleece. occasionally, and with startling suddenness, other automobiles shot like dark phantoms out of the whiteness, and like phantoms disappeared. presently, through the veil, she recognized silliston--a very different silliston from that she had visited on the fragrant day in springtime, when the green on the common had been embroidered with dandelions, and the great elms whose bare branches were now fantastically traced against the flowing veil of white --heavy with leaf. vignettes emerged--only to fade!--of the old-world houses whose quaint beauty had fascinated and moved her. and she found herself wondering what had become of the strange man she had mistaken for a carpenter. all that seemed to have taken place in a past life. she asked ditmar where he was going. "boston," he told her. "there's no other place to go." "but you'll never get back if it goes on snowing like this." "well, the trains are still running," he assured her, with a quizzical smile. "how about it, little girl?" it was a term of endearment derived, undoubtedly, from a theatrical source, in which he sometimes indulged. she did not answer. surprisingly, to-day, she did not care. all she could think of, all she wanted was to go on and on beside him with the world shut out--on and on forever. she was his--what did it matter? they were on their way to boston! she began, dreamily, to think about boston, to try to restore it in her imagination to the exalted place it had held before she met ditmar; to reconstruct it from vague memories of childhood when, in two of the family peregrinations, she had crossed it. traces remained of emotionally-toned impressions acquired when she had walked about the city holding edward's hand--of a long row of stately houses with forbidding fronts, set on a hillside, of a wide, tree-covered space where children were playing. and her childish verdict, persisting to-day, was one of inaccessibility, impenetrability, of jealously guarded wealth and beauty. those houses, and the treasures she was convinced they must contain, were not for her! some of the panes of glass in their windows were purple--she remembered a little thing like that, and asking her father the reason! he hadn't known. this purple quality had somehow steeped itself into her memory of boston, and even now the colour stood for the word, impenetrable. that was extraordinary. even now! well, they were going to boston; if ditmar had said they were going to bagdad it would have been quite as credible--and incredible. wherever they were going, it was into the larger, larger life, and walls were to crumble before them, walls through which they would pass, even as they rent the white veil of the storm, into regions of beauty.... and now the world seemed abandoned to them alone, so empty, so still were the white villages flitting by; so empty, so still the great parkway of the fells stretching away and away like an enchanted forest under the snow, like the domain of some sleeping king. and the flakes melted silently into the black waters. and the wide avenue to which they came led to a sleeping palace! no, it was a city, somerville, ditmar told her, as they twisted in and out of streets, past stores, churches and fire-engine houses, breasted the heights, descended steeply on the far side into cambridge, and crossed the long bridge over the charles. and here at last was boston--beacon street, the heart or funnel of it, as one chose. ditmar, removing one of the side curtains that she might see, with just a hint in his voice of a reverence she was too excited to notice, pointed out the stern and respectable facades of the twin chippering mansions standing side by side. save for these shrines--for such in some sort they were to him--the back bay in his eyes was nothing more than a collection of houses inhabited by people whom money and social position made unassailable. but to-day he, too, was excited. never had he been more keenly aware of her sensitiveness to experience; and he to whom it had not occurred to wonder at boston wondered at her, who seemed able to summon forth a presiding, brooding spirit of the place from out of the snow. deep in her eyes, though they sparkled, was the reflection of some mystic vision; her cheeks were flushed. and in her delight, vicariously his own, he rejoiced; in his trembling hope of more delight to come, which this mentorship would enhance,--despite the fast deepening snow he drove her up one side of commonwealth avenue and down the other, encircling the common and the public garden; stopping at the top of park street that she might gaze up at the state house, whose golden dome, seen through the veil, was tinged with blue. boston! why not russia? janet was speechless for sheer lack of words to describe what she felt.... at length he brought the car to a halt opposite an imposing doorway in front of which a glass roof extended over the pavement, and janet demanded where they were. "well, we've got to eat, haven't we?" ditmar replied. she noticed that he was shivering. "are you cold?" she inquired with concern. "i guess i am, a little," he replied. "i don't know why i should be, in a fur coat. but i'll be warm soon enough, now." a man in blue livery hurried toward them across the sidewalk, helping them to alight. and ditmar, after driving the car a few paces beyond the entrance, led her through the revolving doors into a long corridor, paved with marble and lighted by bulbs glowing from the ceiling, where benches were set against the wall, overspread by the leaves of potted plants set in the intervals between them. "sit down a moment," he said to her. "i must telephone to have somebody take that car, or it'll stay there the rest of the winter." she sat down on one of the benches. the soft light, the warmth, the exotic odour of the plants, the well-dressed people who trod softly the strip of carpet set on the marble with the air of being at home--all contributed to an excitement, intense yet benumbing. she could not think. she didn't want to think--only to feel, to enjoy, to wring the utmost flavour of enchantment from these new surroundings; and her face wore the expression of one in a dream. presently she saw ditmar returning followed by a boy in a blue uniform. "all right," he said. at the end of the corridor was an elevator in which they were shot to one of the upper floors; and the boy, inserting a key in a heavy mahogany door, revealed a sitting-room. between its windows was a table covered with a long, white cloth reaching to the floor, on which, amidst the silverware and glass, was set a tall vase filled with dusky roses. janet, drawing in a deep breath of their fragrance, glanced around the room. the hangings, the wall-paper, the carpet, the velvet upholstery of the mahogany chairs, of the wide lounge in the corner were of a deep and restful green; the marble mantelpiece, with its english coal grate, was copied--had she known it--from a mansion of the georgian period. the hands of a delicate georgian clock pointed to one. and in the large mirror behind the clock she beheld an image she supposed, dreamily, to be herself. the bell boy was taking off her coat, which he hung, with ditmar's, on a rack in a corner. "shall i light the fire, sir?" he asked. "sure," said ditmar. "and tell them to hurry up with lunch." the boy withdrew, closing the door silently behind him. "we're going to have lunch here!" janet exclaimed. "why not? i thought it would be nicer than a public dining-room, and when i got up this morning and saw what the weather was i telephoned." he placed two chairs before the fire, which had begun to blaze. "isn't it cosy?" he said, taking her hands and pulling her toward him. his own hands trembled, the tips of his fingers were cold. "you are cold!" she said. "not now--not now," he replied. the queer vibrations were in his voice that she had heard before. "sweetheart! this is the best yet, isn't it? and after that trip in the storm!" "it's beautiful!" she murmured, gently drawing away from him and looking around her once more. "i never was in a room like this." "well, you'll be in plenty more of them," he exulted. "sit down beside the fire, and get warm yourself." she obeyed, and he took the chair at her side, his eyes on her face. as usual, she was beyond him; and despite her exclamations of surprise, of appreciation and pleasure she maintained the outward poise, the inscrutability that summed up for him her uniqueness in the world of woman. she sat as easily upright in the delicate chippendale chair as though she had been born to it. he made wild surmises as to what she might be thinking. was she, as she seemed, taking all this as a matter of course? she imposed on him an impelling necessity to speak, to say anything--it did not matter what--and he began to dwell on the excellences of the hotel. she did not appear to hear him, her eyes lingering on the room, until presently she asked:--"what's the name of this hotel?" he told her. "i thought they only allowed married people to come, like this, in a private room." "oh!" he began--and the sudden perception that she had made this statement impartially added to his perplexity. "well," he was able to answer, "we're as good as married, aren't we, janet?" he leaned toward her, he put his hand on hers. "the manager here is an old friend of mine. he knows we're as good as married." "another old friend!" she queried. and the touch of humour, in spite of his taut nerves, delighted him. "yes, yes," he laughed, rather uproariously. "i've got 'em everywhere, as thick as landmarks." "you seem to," she said. "i hope you're hungry," he said. "not very," she replied. "it's all so strange--this day, claude. it's like a fairy story, coming here to boston in the snow, and this place, and--and being with you." "you still love me?" he cried, getting up. "you must know that i do," she answered simply, raising her face to his. and he stood gazing down into it, with an odd expression she had never seen before.... "what's the matter?" she asked. "nothing--nothing," he assured her, but continued to look at her. "you're so--so wonderful," he whispered, "i just can't believe it." "and if it's hard for you," she answered, "think what it must be for me!" and she smiled up at him. ditmar had known a moment of awe.... suddenly he took her face between his hands and pressed his rough cheek against it, blindly. his hands trembled, his body was shaken, as by a spasm. "why, you're still cold, claude!" she cried anxiously. and he stammered out: "i'm not--it's you--it's having you!" before she could reply to this strange exclamation, to which, nevertheless, some fire in her leaped in response, there came a knock at the door, and he drew away from her as he answered it. two waiters entered obsequiously, one bearing a serving table, the other holding above his head a large tray containing covered dishes and glasses. "i could do with a cocktail!" ditmar exclaimed, and the waiter smiled as he served them. "here's how!" he said, giving her a glass containing a yellow liquid. she tasted it, made a grimace, and set it down hastily. "what's the trouble?" he asked, laughing, as she hurried to the table and took a drink of water. "it's horrid!" she cried. "oh, you'll get over that idea," he told her. "you'll be crazy about 'em." "i never want to taste another," she declared. he laughed again. he had taken his at a swallow, but almost nullifying its effect was this confirmation--if indeed he had needed it--of the extent of her inexperience. she was, in truth, untouched by the world --the world in which he had lived. he pulled out her chair for her and she sat down, confronted by a series of knives, forks, and spoons on either side of a plate of oysters. oysters served in this fashion, needless to say, had never formed part of the menu in fillmore street, or in any hampton restaurant where she had lunched. but she saw that ditmar had chosen a little fork with three prongs, and she followed his example. "you mustn't tell me you don't like cotuits!" he exclaimed. she touched one, delicately, with her fork. "they're alive!" she exclaimed, though the custom of consuming them thus was by no means unknown to her. lise had often boasted of a taste for oysters on the shell, though really preferring them smothered with red catsup in a "cocktail." "they're alive, but they don't know it. they won't eat you," ditmar replied gleefully. "squeeze a little lemon on one." another sort of woman, he reflected, would have feigned a familiarity with the dish. she obeyed him, put one in her mouth, gave a little shiver, and swallowed it quickly. "well?" he said. "it isn't bad, is it?" "it seems so queer to eat anything alive, and enjoy it," she said, as she ate the rest of them. "if you think they're good here you ought to taste them on the cape, right out of the water," he declared, and went on to relate how he had once eaten a fabulous number in a contest with a friend of his, and won a bet. he was fond of talking about wagers he had won. betting had lent a zest to his life. "we'll roll down there together some day next summer, little girl. it's a great place. you can go in swimming three times a day and never feel it. and talk about eating oysters, you can't swallow 'em as fast as a fellow i know down there, joe pusey, can open 'em. it's some trick to open 'em." he described the process, but she--scarcely listened. she was striving to adjust herself to the elements of a new and revolutionary experience; to the waiters who came and went, softly, deferentially putting hot plates before her, helping her to strange and delicious things; a creamy soup, a fish with a yellow sauce whose ingredients were artfully disguised, a breast of guinea fowl, a salad, an ice, and a small cup of coffee. instincts and tastes hitherto unsuspected and ungratified were aroused in her. what would it be like always to be daintily served, to eat one's meals in this leisurely and luxurious manner? as her physical hunger was satisfied by the dainty food, even as her starved senses drank in the caressing warmth and harmony of the room, the gleaming fire, the heavy scent of the flowers, the rose glow of the lights in contrast to the storm without,--so the storm flinging itself against the windows, powerless to reach her, seemed to typify a former existence of cold, black mornings and factory bells and harsh sirens, of toil and limitations. had her existence been like that? or was it a dream, a nightmare from which she had awakened at last? from time to time, deep within her, she felt persisting a conviction that that was reality, this illusion, but she fought it down. she wanted--oh, how she wanted to believe in the illusion! facing her was the agent, the genius, the man who had snatched her from that existence, who had at his command these delights to bestow. she loved him, she belonged to him, he was to be her husband--yet there were moments when the glamour of this oddly tended to dissolve, when an objective vision intruded and she beheld herself, as though removed from the body, lunching with a strange man in a strange place. and once it crossed her mind--what would she think of another woman who did this? what would she think if it were lise? she could not then achieve a sense of identity; it was as though she had partaken of some philtre lulling her, inhibiting her power to grasp the fact in its enormity. and little by little grew on her the realization of what all along she had known, that the spell of these surroundings to which she had surrendered was an expression of the man himself. he was the source of it. more and more, as he talked, his eyes troubled and stirred her; the touch of his hand, as he reached across the table and laid it on hers, burned her. when the waiters had left them alone she could stand the strain no longer, and she rose and strayed about the room, examining the furniture, the curtains, the crystal pendants, faintly pink, that softened and diffused the light; and she paused before the grand piano in the corner. "i'd like to be able to play!" she said. "you can learn," he told her. "i'm too old!" he laughed. and as he sat smoking his eyes followed her ceaselessly. above the sofa hung a large print of the circus maximus, with crowded tiers mounting toward the sky, and awninged boxes where sat the vestal virgins and the emperor high above a motley, serried group on the sand. at the mouth of a tunnel a lion stood motionless, menacing, regarding them. the picture fascinated janet. "it's meant to be rome, isn't it?" she asked. "what? that? i guess so." he got up and came over to her. "sure," he said. "i'm not very strong on history, but i read a book once, a novel, which told how those old fellows used to like to see christians thrown to the lions just as we like to see football games. i'll get the book again--we'll read it together." janet shivered.... "here's another picture," he said, turning to the other side of the room. it was, apparently, an engraved copy of a modern portrait, of a woman in evening dress with shapely arms and throat and a small, aristocratic head. around her neck was hung a heavy rope of pearls. "isn't she beautiful!" janet sighed. "beautiful!" he led her to the mirror. "look!" he said. "i'll buy you pearls, janet, i want to see them gleaming against your skin. she can't compare to you. i'll--i'll drape you with pearls." "no, no," she cried. "i don't want them, claude. i don't want them. please!" she scarcely knew what she was saying. and as she drew away from him her hands went out, were pressed together with an imploring, supplicating gesture. he seized them. his nearness was suffocating her, she flung herself into his arms, and their lips met in a long, swooning kiss. she began instinctively but vainly to struggle, not against him --but against a primal thing stronger than herself, stronger than he, stronger than codes and conventions and institutions, which yet she craved fiercely as her being's fulfilment. it was sweeping them dizzily --whither? the sheer sweetness and terror of it! "don't, don't!" she murmured desperately. "you mustn't!" "janet--we're going to be married, sweetheart,--just as soon as we can. won't you trust me? for god's sake, don't be cruel. you're my wife, now--" his voice seemed to come from a great distance. and from a great distance, too, her own in reply, drowned as by falling waters. "do you love me?--will you love me always--always?" and he answered hoarsely, "yes--always--i swear it, janet." he had found her lips again, he was pulling her toward a door on the far side of the room, and suddenly, as he opened it, her resistance ceased.... the snow made automobiling impossible, and at half past nine that evening ditmar had escorted janet to the station in a cab, and she had taken the train for hampton. for a while she sat as in a trance. she knew that something had happened, something portentous, cataclysmic, which had irrevocably changed her from the janet bumpus who had left hampton that same morning--an age ago. but she was unable to realize the metamorphosis. in the course of a single day she had lived a lifetime, exhausted the range of human experience, until now she was powerless to feel any more. the car was filled with all sorts and conditions of people returning to homes scattered through the suburbs and smaller cities north of boston--a mixed, sunday-night crowd; and presently she began, in a detached way, to observe them. their aspects, their speech and manners had the queer effect of penetrating her consciousness without arousing the emotional judgments of approval or disapproval which normally should have followed. ordinarily she might have felt a certain sympathy for the fragile young man on the seat beside her who sat moodily staring through his glasses at the floor: and the group across the aisle would surely have moved her to disgust. two couples were seated vis-a-vis, the men apparently making fun of a "pony" coat one of the girls was wearing. in spite of her shrieks, which drew general attention, they pulled it from her back--an operation regarded by the conductor himself with tolerant amusement. whereupon her companion, a big, blond teuton with an inane guffaw, boldly thrust an arm about her waist and held her while he presented the tickets. janet beheld all this as one sees dancers through a glass, without hearing the music. behind her two men fell into conversation. "i guess there's well over a foot of snow. i thought we'd have an open winter, too." "look out for them when they start in mild!" "i was afraid this darned road would be tied up if i waited until morning. i'm in real estate, and there's a deal on in my town i've got to watch every minute...." even the talk between two slouch-hatted millhands, foreigners, failed at the time to strike janet as having any significance. they were discussing with some heat the prospect of having their pay reduced by the fifty-four hour law which was to come into effect on monday. they denounced the mill owners. "they speed up the machine and make work harder," said one. "i think we goin' to have a strike sure." "bad sisson too to have strike," replied the second pessimistically. "it will be cold winter, now." across the black square of the window drifted the stray lights of the countryside, and from time to time, when the train stopped, she gazed out, unheeding, at the figures moving along the dim station platforms. suddenly, without premeditation or effort, she began to live over again the day, beginning with the wonders, half revealed, half hidden, of that journey through the whiteness to boston.... awakened, listening, she heard beating louder and louder on the shores of consciousness the waves of the storm which had swept her away--waves like crashing chords of music. she breathed deeply, she turned her face to the window, seeming to behold reflected there, as in a crystal, all her experiences, little and great, great and little. she was seated once more leaning back in the corner of the carriage on her way to the station, she felt ditmar's hand working in her own, and she heard his voice pleading forgiveness--for her silence alarmed him. and she heard herself saying:--"it was my fault as much as yours." and his vehement reply:--"it wasn't anybody's fault--it was natural, it was wonderful, janet. i can't bear to see you sad." to see her sad! twice, during the afternoon and evening, he had spoken those words--or was it three times? was there a time she had forgotten? and each time she had answered: "i'm not sad." what she had felt indeed was not sadness,--but how could she describe it to him when she herself was amazed and dwarfed by it? could he not feel it, too? were men so different?... in the cab his solicitation, his tenderness were only to be compared with his bewilderment, his apparent awe of the feeling he himself had raised up in her, and which awed her, likewise. she had actually felt that bewilderment of his when, just before they had reached the station, she had responded passionately to his last embrace. even as he returned her caresses, it had been conveyed to her amazingly by the quality of his touch. was it a lack all women felt in men? and were these, even in supreme moments, merely the perplexed transmitters of life?--not life itself? her thoughts did not gain this clarity, though she divined the secret. and yet she loved him--loved him with a fierceness that frightened her, with a tenderness that unnerved her.... at the hampton station she took the trolley, alighting at the common, following the narrow path made by pedestrians in the heavy snow to fillmore street. she climbed the dark stairs, opened the dining-room door, and paused on the threshold. hannah and edward sat there under the lamp, hannah scanning through her spectacles the pages of a sunday newspaper. on perceiving janet she dropped it hastily in her lap. "well, i was concerned about you, in all this storm!" she exclaimed. "thank goodness you're home, anyway. you haven't seen lise, have you?" "lise?" janet repeated. "hasn't she been home?" "your father and i have been alone all day long. not that it is so uncommon for lise to be gone. i wish it wasn't! but you! when you didn't come home for supper i was considerably worried." janet sat down between her mother and father and began to draw off her gloves. "i'm going to marry mr. ditmar," she announced. for a few moments the silence was broken only by the ticking of the old-fashioned clock. "mr. ditmar!" said hannah, at length. "you're going to marry mr. ditmar!" edward was still inarticulate. his face twitched, his eyes watered as he stared at her. "not right away," said janet. "well, i must say you take it rather cool," declared hannah, almost resentfully. "you come in and tell us you're going to marry mr. ditmar just like you were talking about the weather." hannah's eyes filled with tears. there had been indeed an unconscious lack of consideration in janet's abrupt announcement, which had fallen like a spark on the dry tinder of hannah's hope. the result was a suffocating flame. janet, whom love had quickened, had a swift perception of this. she rose quickly and took hannah in her arms and kissed her. it was as though the relation between them were reversed, and the daughter had now become the mother and the comforter. "i always knew something like this would happen!" said edward. his words incited hannah to protest. "you didn't anything of the kind, edward bumpus," she exclaimed. "just to think of janet livin' in that big house up in warren street!" he went on, unheeding, jubilant. "you'll drop in and see the old people once in a while, janet, you won't forget us?" "i wish you wouldn't talk like that, father," said janet. "well, he's a fine man, claude ditmar, i always said that. the way he stops and talks to me when he passes the gate--" "that doesn't make him a good man," hannah declared, and added: "if he wasn't a good man, janet wouldn't be marrying him." "i don't know whether he's good or not," said janet. "that's so, too," observed hannah, approvingly. "we can't any of us tell till we've tried 'em, and then it's too late to change. i'd like to see him, but i guess he wouldn't care to come down here to fillmore street." the difference between ditmar's social and economic standing and their own suggested appalling complications to her mind. "i suppose i won't get a sight of him till after you're married, and not much then." "there's plenty of time to think about that, mother," answered janet. "i'd want to have everything decent and regular," hannah insisted. "we may be poor, but we come of good stock, as your father says." "it'll be all right--mr. ditmar will behave like a gentleman," edward assured her. "i thought i ought to tell you about it," janet said, "but you mustn't mention it, yet, not even to lise. lise will talk. mr. ditmar's very busy now,--he hasn't made any plans." "i wish lise could get married!" exclaimed hannah, irrelevantly. "she's been acting so queer lately, she's not been herself at all." "now there you go, borrowing trouble, mother," edward exclaimed. he could not take his eyes from janet, but continued to regard her with benevolence. "lise'll get married some day. i don't suppose we can expect another mr. ditmar...." "well," said hannah, presently, "there's no use sitting up all night." she rose and kissed janet again. "i just can't believe it," she declared, "but i guess it's so if you say it is." "of course it's so," said edward. "i so want you should be happy, janet," said hannah.... was it so? her mother and father, the dwarfed and ugly surroundings of fillmore street made it seem incredible once more. and--what would they say if they knew what had happened to her this day? when she had reached her room, janet began to wonder why she had told her parents. had it not been in order to relieve their anxiety--especially her mother's--on the score of her recent absences from home? yes, that was it, and because the news would make them happy. and then the mere assertion to them that she was to marry ditmar helped to make it more real to herself. but, now that reality was fading again, she was unable to bring it within the scope of her imagination, her mind refused to hold one remembered circumstance long enough to coordinate it with another: she realized that she was tired--too tired to think any more. but despite her exhaustion there remained within her, possessing her, as it were overshadowing her, unrelated to future or past, the presence of the man who had awakened her to an intensity of life hitherto unconceived. when her head touched the pillow she fell asleep.... when the bells and the undulating scream of the siren awoke her, she lay awhile groping in the darkness. where was she? who was she? the discovery of the fact that the nail of the middle finger on her right hand was broken, gave her a clew. she had broken that nail in reaching out to save something--a vase of roses--that was it!--a vase of roses on a table with a white cloth. ditmar had tipped it over. the sudden flaring up of this trivial incident served to re-establish her identity, to light a fuse along which her mind began to run like fire, illuminating redly all the events of the day before. it was sweet to lie thus, to possess, as her very own, these precious, passionate memories of life lived at last to fulness, to feel that she had irrevocably given herself and taken--all. a longing to see ditmar again invaded her: he would take an early train, he would be at the office by nine. how could she wait until then? with a movement that had become habitual, subconscious, she reached out her hand to arouse her sister. the coldness of the sheets on the right side of the bed sent a shiver through her--a shiver of fear. "lise!" she called. but there was no answer from the darkness. and janet, trembling, her heart beating wildly, sprang from the bed, searched for the matches, and lit the gas. there was no sign of lise; her clothes, which she had the habit of flinging across the chairs, were nowhere to be seen. janet's eyes fell on the bureau, marked the absence of several knick-knacks, including a comb and brush, and with a sudden sickness of apprehension she darted to the wardrobe and flung open the doors. in the bottom were a few odd garments, above was the hat with the purple feather, now shabby and discarded, on the hooks a skirt and jacket lise wore to work at the bagatelle in bad weather. that was all.... janet sank down in the rocking-chair, her hands clasped together, overwhelmed by the sudden apprehension of the tragedy that had lurked, all unsuspected, in the darkness: a tragedy, not of lise alone, but in which she herself was somehow involved. just why this was so, she could not for the moment declare. the room was cold, she was clad only in a nightdress, but surges of heat ran through her body. what should she do? she must think. but thought was impossible. she got up and closed the window and began to dress with feverish rapidity, pausing now and again to stand motionless. in one such moment there entered her mind an incident that oddly had made little impression at the time of its occurrence because she, janet, had been blinded by the prospect of her own happiness--that happiness which, a few minutes ago, had seemed so real and vital a thing! and it was the memory of this incident that suddenly threw a glaring, evil light on all of lise's conduct during the past months--her accidental dropping of the vanity case and the gold coin! now she knew for a certainty what had happened to her sister. having dressed herself, she entered the kitchen, which was warm, filled with the smell of frying meat. streaks of grease smoke floated fantastically beneath the low ceiling, and hannah, with the frying-pan in one hand and a fork in the other, was bending over the stove. wisps of her scant, whitening hair escaped from the ridiculous, tightly drawn knot at the back of her head; in the light of the flickering gas-jet she looked so old and worn that a sudden pity smote janet and made her dumb --pity for her mother, pity for herself, pity for lise; pity that lent a staggering insight into life itself. hannah had once been young, desirable, perhaps, swayed by those forces which had swayed her. janet wondered why she had never guessed this before, and why she had guessed it now. but it was hannah who, looking up and catching sight of janet's face, was quick to divine the presage in it and gave voice to the foreboding that had weighed on her for many weeks. "where's lise?" and janet could not answer. she shook her head. hannah dropped the fork, the handle of the frying pan and crossed the room swiftly, seizing janet by the shoulders. "is she gone? i knew it, i felt it all along. i thought she'd done something she was afraid to tell about--i tried to ask her, but i couldn't--i couldn't! and now she's gone. oh, my god, i'll never forgive myself!" the unaccustomed sight of her mother's grief was terrible. for an instant only she clung to janet, then becoming mute, she sat down in the kitchen chair and stared with dry, unseeing eyes at the wall. her face twitched. janet could not bear to look at it, to see the torture in her mother's eyes. she, janet, seemed suddenly to have grown old herself, to have lived through ages of misery and tragedy.... she was aware of a pungent odour, went to the stove, picked up the fork, and turned the steak. now and then she glanced at hannah. grief seemed to have frozen her. then, from the dining-room she heard footsteps, and edward stood in the doorway. "well, what's the matter with breakfast?" he asked. from where he stood he could not see hannah's face, but gradually his eyes were drawn to her figure. his intuition was not quick, and some moments passed before the rigidity of the pose impressed itself upon him. "is mother sick?" he asked falteringly. janet went to him. but it was hannah who spoke. "lise has gone," she said. "lise--gone," edward repeated. "gone where?" "she's run away--she's disgraced us," hannah replied, in a monotonous, dulled voice. edward did not seem to understand, and presently janet felt impelled to break the silence. "she didn't come home last night, father." "didn't come home? mebbe she spent the night with a friend," he said. it seemed incredible, at such a moment, that he could still be hopeful. "no, she's gone, i tell you, she's lost, we'll never lay eyes on her again. my god, i never thought she'd come to this, but i might have guessed it. lise! lise! to think it's my lise!" hannah's voice echoed pitifully through the silence of the flat. so appealing, so heartbroken was the cry one might have thought that lise, wherever she was, would have heard it. edward was dazed by the shock, his lower lip quivered and fell. he walked over to hannah's chair and put his hand on her shoulder. "there, there, mother," he pleaded. "if she's gone, we'll find her, we'll bring her back to you." hannah shook her head. she pushed back her chair abruptly and going over to the stove took the fork from janet's hand and put the steak on the dish. "go in there and set down, edward," she said. "i guess we've got to have breakfast just the same, whether she's gone or not." it was terrible to see hannah, with that look on her face, going about her tasks automatically. and edward, too, seemed suddenly to have become aged and broken; his trust in the world, so amazingly preserved through many vicissitudes, shattered at last. he spilled his coffee when he tried to drink, and presently he got up and wandered about the room, searching for his overcoat. it was janet who found it and helped him on with it. he tried to say something, but failing, departed heavily for the mill. janet began to remove the dishes from the table. "you've got to eat something, too, before you go to work," said hannah. "i've had all i want," janet replied. hannah followed her into the kitchen. the scarcely touched food was laid aside, the coffee-pot emptied, hannah put the cups in the basin in the sink and let the water run. she turned to janet and seized her hands convulsively. "let me do this, mother," said janet. she knew her mother was thinking of the newly-found joy that lise's disgrace had marred, but she released her hands, gently, and took the mop from the nail on which it hung. "you sit down, mother," she said. hannah would not. they finished the dishes together in silence while the light of the new day stole in through the windows. janet went into her room, set it in order, made up the bed, put on her coat and hat and rubbers. then she returned to hannah, who seized her. "it ain't going to spoil your happiness?" but janet could not answer. she kissed her mother, and went out, down the stairs into the street. the day was sharp and cold and bracing, and out of an azure sky the sun shone with dazzling brightness on the snow, which the west wind was whirling into little eddies of white smoke, leaving on the drifts delicate scalloped designs like those printed by waves on the sands of the sea. they seemed to janet that morning hatefully beautiful. in front of his tin shop, whistling cheerfully and labouring energetically with a shovel to clean his sidewalk, was johnny tiernan, the tip of his pointed nose made very red by the wind. "good morning, miss bumpus," he said. "now, if you'd only waited awhile, i'd have had it as clean as a parlour. it's fine weather for coal bills." she halted. "can i see you a moment, mr. tiernan?" johnny looked at her. "why sure," he said. leaning his shovel against the wall, he gallantly opened the door that she might pass in before him and then led the way to the back of the shop where the stove was glowing hospitably. he placed a chair for her. "now what can i be doing to serve you?" he asked. "it's about my sister," said janet. "miss lise?" "i thought you might know what man she's been going with lately," said janet. mr. tiernan had often wondered how much janet knew about her sister. in spite of a momentary embarrassment most unusual in him, the courage of her question made a strong appeal, and his quick sympathies suspected the tragedy behind her apparent calmness. he met her magnificently. "why," he said, "i have seen miss lise with a fellow named duval--howard duval--when he's been in town. he travels for a boston shoe house, humphrey and gillmount." "i'm afraid lise has gone away with him," said janet. "i thought you might be able to find out something about him, and--whether any one had seen them. she left home yesterday morning." for an instant mr. tiernan stood silent before her, his legs apart, his fingers running through his bristly hair. "well, ye did right to come straight to me, miss janet. it's me that can find out, if anybody can, and it's glad i am to help you. just you stay here--make yourself at home while i run down and see some of the boys. i'll not be long--and don't be afraid i'll let on about it." he seized his overcoat and departed. presently the sun, glinting on the sheets of tin, started janet's glance straying around the shop, noting its disorderly details, the heaped-up stovepipes, the littered work-bench with the shears lying across the vise. once she thought of ditmar arriving at the office and wondering what had happened to her.... the sound of a bell made her jump. mr. tiernan had returned. "she's gone with him," said janet, not as a question, but as one stating a fact. mr. tiernan nodded. "they took the nine-thirty-six for boston yesterday morning. eddy colahan was at the depot." janet rose. "thank you," she said simply. "what are you going to do?" he asked. "i'm going to boston," she answered. "i'm going to find out where she is." "then it's me that's going with you," he announced. "oh no, mr. tiernan!" she protested. "i couldn't let you do that." "and why not?" he demanded. "i've got a little business there myself. i'm proud to go with you. it's your sister you want, isn't it?" "yes." "well, what would you be doing by yourself--a young lady? how will you find your sister?" "do you think you can find her?" "sure i can find her," he proclaimed, confidently. he had evidently made up his mind that casual treatment was what the affair demanded. "haven't i good friends in boston?" by friendship he swayed his world: nor was he completely unknown--though he did not say so--to certain influential members of his race of the boston police department. pulling out a large nickel watch and observing that they had just time to catch the train, he locked up his shop, and they set out together for the station. mr. tiernan led the way, for the path was narrow. the dry snow squeaked under his feet. after escorting her to a seat on the train, he tactfully retired to the smoking car, not to rejoin her until they were on the trestle spanning the charles river by the north station. all the way to boston she had sat gazing out of the window at the blinding whiteness of the fields, incapable of rousing herself to the necessity of thought, to a degree of feeling commensurate with the situation. she did not know what she would say to lise if she should find her; and in spite of mr. tiernan's expressed confidence, the chances of success seemed remote. when the train began to thread the crowded suburbs, the city, spreading out over its hills, instead of thrilling her, as yesterday, with a sense of dignity and power, of opportunity and emancipation, seemed a labyrinth with many warrens where vice and crime and sorrow could hide. in front of the station the traffic was already crushing the snow into filth. they passed the spot where, the night before, the carriage had stopped, where ditmar had bidden her good-bye. something stirred within her, became a shooting pain.... she asked mr. tiernan what he intended to do. "i'm going right after the man, if he's here in the city," he told her. and they boarded a street car, which almost immediately shot into the darkness of the subway. emerging at scollay square, and walking a few blocks, they came to a window where guns, revolvers, and fishing tackle were displayed, and on which was painted the name, "timothy mulally." mr. tiernan entered. "is tim in?" he inquired of one of the clerks, who nodded his head towards the rear of the store, where a middle-aged, grey-haired irishman was seated at a desk under a drop light. "is it you, johnny?" he exclaimed, looking up. "it's meself," said mr. tiernan. "and this is miss bumpus, a young lady friend of mine from hampton." mr. mulally rose and bowed. "how do ye do, ma'am," he said. "i've got a little business to do for her," mr. tiernan continued. "i thought you might offer her a chair and let her stay here, quiet, while i was gone." "with pleasure, ma'am," mr. mulally replied, pulling forward a chair with alacrity. "just sit there comfortable--no one will disturb ye." when, in the course of half an hour, mr. tiernan returned, there was a grim yet triumphant look in his little blue eyes, but it was not until janet had thanked mr. mulally for his hospitality and they had reached the sidewalk that he announced the result of his quest. "well, i caught him. it's lucky we came when we did--he was just going out on the road again, up to maine. i know where miss lise is." "he told you!" exclaimed janet. "he told me indeed, but it wasn't any joy to him. he was all for bluffing at first. it's easy to scare the likes of him. he was as white as his collar before i was done with him. he knows who i am, all right he's heard of me in hampton," mr. tiernan added, with a pardonable touch of pride. "what did you say?" inquired janet, curiously. "say?" repeated mr. tiernan. "it's not much i had to say, miss janet. i was all ready to go to mr. gillmount, his boss. i'm guessing he won't take much pleasure on this trip." she asked for no more details. chapter xiii once more janet and mr. tiernan descended into the subway, taking a car going to the south and west, which finally came out of the tunnel into a broad avenue lined with shabby shops, hotels and saloons, and long rows of boarding--and rooming-houses. they alighted at a certain corner, walked a little way along a street unkempt and dreary, mr. tiernan scrutinizing the numbers until he paused in front of a house with a basement kitchen and snow-covered, sandstone steps. climbing these, he pulled the bell, and they stood waiting in the twilight of a half-closed vestibule until presently shuffling steps were heard within; the door was cautiously opened, not more than a foot, but enough to reveal a woman in a loose wrapper, with an untidy mass of bleached hair and a puffy face like a fungus grown in darkness. "i want to see miss lise bumpus," mr. tiernan demanded. "you've got the wrong place. there ain't no one of that name here," said the woman. "there ain't! all right," he insisted aggressively, pushing open the door in spite of her. "if you don't let this young lady see her quick, there's trouble coming to you." "who are you?" asked the woman, impudently, yet showing signs of fear. "never mind who i am," mr. tiernan declared. "i know all about you, and i know all about duval. if you don't want any trouble you won't make any, and you'll take this young lady to her sister. i'll wait here for you, miss janet," he added. "i don't know nothing about her--she rented my room that's all i know," the woman replied sullenly. "if you mean that couple that came here yesterday--" she turned and led the way upstairs, mounting slowly, and janet followed, nauseated and almost overcome by the foul odours of dead cigarette smoke which, mingling with the smell of cooking cabbage rising from below, seemed the very essence and reek of hitherto unimagined evil. a terror seized her such as she had never known before, an almost overwhelming impulse to turn and regain the air and sunlight of the day. in the dark hallway of the second story the woman knocked at the door of a front room. "she's in there, unless she's gone out." and indeed a voice was heard petulantly demanding what was wanted--lise's voice! janet hesitated, her hand on the knob, her body fallen against the panels. then, as she pushed open the door, the smell of cigarette smoke grew stronger, and she found herself in a large bedroom, the details of which were instantly photographed on her mind--the dingy claret-red walls, the crayon over the mantel of a buxom lady in a decollete costume of the ' 's, the outspread fan concealing the fireplace, the soiled lace curtains. the bed was unmade, and on the table beside two empty beer bottles and glasses and the remains of a box of candy--suggestive of a sunday purchase at a drug store--she recognized lise's vanity case. the effect of all this, integrated at a glance, was a paralyzing horror. janet could not speak. she remained gazing at lise, who paid no attention to her entrance, but stood with her back turned before an old-fashioned bureau with a marble top and raised sides. she was dressed, and engaged in adjusting her hat. it was not until janet pronounced her name that she turned swiftly. "you!" she exclaimed. "what the--what brought you here?" "oh, lise!" janet repeated. "how did you get here?" lise demanded, coming toward her. "who told you where i was? what business have you got sleuthing 'round after me like this?" for a moment janet was speechless once more, astounded that lise could preserve her effrontery in such an atmosphere, could be insensible to the evils lurking in this house--evils so real to janet that she seemed actually to feel them brushing against her. "lise, come away from here," she pleaded, "come home with me!" "home!" said lise, defiantly, and laughed. "what do you take me for? why would i be going home when i've been trying to break away for two years? i ain't so dippy as that--not me! go home like a good little girl and march back to the bagatelle and ask 'em to give me another show standing behind a counter all day. nix! no home sweet home for me! i'm all for easy street when it comes to a home like that." heartless, terrific as the repudiation was, it struck a self-convicting, almost sympathetic note in janet. she herself had revolted against the monotony and sordidness of that existence she herself! she dared not complete the thought, now. "but this!" she exclaimed. "what's the matter with it?" lise demanded. "it ain't commonwealth avenue, but it's got fillmore street beat a mile. there ain't no whistles hereto get you out of bed at six a.m., for one thing. there ain't no geezers, like walters, to nag you 'round all day long. what's the matter with it?" something in lise's voice roused janet's spirit to battle. "what's the matter with it?" she cried. "it's hell--that's the matter with it. can't you see it? can't you feel it? you don't know what it means, or you'd come home with me." "i guess i know what it means as well as you do," said lise, sullenly. "we've all got to croak sometime, and i'd rather croak this way than be smothered up in hampton. i'll get a run for my money, anyway." "no, you don't know what it means," janet repeated, "or you wouldn't talk like that. do you think this man will support you, stick to you? he won't, he'll desert you, and you'll have to go on the streets." a dangerous light grew in lise's eyes. "he's as good as any other man, he's as good as ditmar," she said. "they're all the same, to girls like us." janet's heart caught, it seemed to stop beating. was this a hazard on lise's part, or did she speak from knowledge? and yet what did it matter whether lise knew or only suspected, if her words were true, if men were all alike? had she been a dupe as well as lise? and was the only difference between them now the fact that lise was able, without illusion, to see things as they were, to accept the consequences, while she, janet, had beheld visions and dreamed dreams? was there any real choice between the luxurious hotel to which ditmar had taken her and this detestable house? suddenly, seemingly by chance, her eyes fell on the box of drug-store candy from which the cheap red ribbon had been torn, and by some odd association of ideas it suggested and epitomized lise's sunday excursion with a mama hideous travesty on the journey of wonders she herself had taken. had that been heaven, and this of lise's, hell?... and was. lise's ambition to be supported in idleness and luxury to be condemned because she had believed her own to be higher? did not both lead to destruction? the weight that had lain on her breast since the siren had awakened her that morning and she had reached out and touched the chilled, empty sheets now grew almost unsupportable. "it's true," said janet, "all men are the same." lise was staring at her. "my god!" she exclaimed. "you?" "yes-me," cried janet.--"and what are you going to do about it? stay here with him in this filthy place until he gets tired of you and throws you out on the street? before i'd let any man do that to me i'd kill him." lise began to whimper, and suddenly buried her face in the pillow. but a new emotion had begun to take possession of janet--an emotion so strong as to give her an unlookedfor sense of detachment. and the words lise had spoken between her sobs at first conveyed no meaning. "i'm going to have a baby...." lise was going to have a child! why hadn't she guessed it? a child! perhaps she, janet, would have a child! this enlightenment as to lise's condition and the possibility it suggested in regard to herself brought with it an overwhelming sympathy which at first she fiercely resented then yielded to. the bond between them, instead of snapping, had inexplicably strengthened. and lise, despite her degradation, was more than ever her sister! forgetting her repugnance to the bed, janet sat down beside lise and put an arm around her. "he said he'd marry me, he swore he was rich--and he was a spender all right. and then some guy came up to me one night at gruber's and told me he was married already." "what?" janet exclaimed. "sure! he's got a wife and two kids here in boston. that was a twenty-one round knockout! maybe i didn't have something to tell him when he blew into hampton last friday! but he said he couldn't help it--he loved me." lise sat up, seemingly finding relief in the relation of her wrongs, dabbing her eyes with a cheap lace handkerchief. "well, while he'd been away--this thing came. i didn't know what was the matter at first, and when i found out i was scared to death, i was ready to kill myself. when i told him he was scared too, and then he said he'd fix it. say, i was a goat to think he'd marry me!" lise laughed hysterically. "and then--" janet spoke with difficulty, "and then you came down here?" "i told him he'd have to see me through, i'd start something if he didn't. say, he almost got down on his knees, right there in gruber's! but he came back inside of ten seconds--he's a jollier, for sure, he was right there with the goods, it was because he loved me, he couldn't help himself, i was his cutie, and all that kind of baby talk." lise's objective manner of speaking about her seducer amazed janet. "do you love him?" she asked. "say, what is love?" lise demanded. "do you ever run into it outside of the movies? do i love him? well, he's a good looker and a fancy dresser, he ain't a tight wad, and he can start a laugh every minute. if he hadn't put it over on me i wouldn't have been so sore. i don't know he ain't so bad. he's weak, that's the trouble with him." this was the climax! lise's mental processes, her tendency to pass from wild despair to impersonal comment, her inability, her courtesan's temperament that prevented her from realizing tragedy for more than a moment at a time--even though the tragedy were her own--were incomprehensible to janet. "get on to this," lise adjured her. "when i first was acquainted with him he handed me a fairy tale that he was taking five thousand a year from humphrey and gillmount, he was going into the firm. he had me razzle-dazzled. he's some hypnotizes as a salesman, too, they say. nothing was too good for me; i saw myself with a house on the avenue shopping in a limousine. well, he blew up, but i can't help liking him." "liking him!" cried janet passionately. "i'd kill him that's what i'd do." lise regarded her with unwilling admiration. "that's where you and me is different," she declared. "i wish i was like that, but i ain't. and where would i come in? now you're wise why i can't go back to hampton. even if i was stuck on the burg and cryin' my eyes out for the bagatelle i couldn't go back." "what are you going to do?" janet demanded. "well," said lise, "he's come across--i'll say that for him. maybe it's because he's scared, but he's stuck on me, too. when you dropped in i was just going down town to get a pair of patent leathers, these are all wore out," she explained, twisting her foot, "they ain't fit for boston. and i thought of lookin' at blouses--there's a sale on i was reading about in the paper. say, it's great to be on easy street, to be able to stay in bed until you're good and ready to get up and go shopping, to gaze at the girls behind the counter and ask the price of things. i'm going to walling's and give the salesladies the ha-ha--that's what i'm going to do." "but--?" janet found words inadequate. lise understood her. "oh, i'm due at the doctor's this afternoon." "where?" "the doctor's. don't you get me?--it's a private hospital." lise gave a slight shudder at the word, but instantly recovered her sang-froid. "howard fixed it up yesterday--and they say it ain't very bad if you take it early." for a space janet was too profoundly shocked to reply. "lise! that's a crime!" she cried. "crime, nothing!" retorted lise, and immediately became indignant. "say, i sometimes wonder how you could have lived all these years without catching on to a few things! what do you take me for! what'd i do with a baby?" what indeed! the thought came like an avalanche, stripping away the veneer of beauty from the face of the world, revealing the scarred rock and crushed soil beneath. this was reality! what right had society to compel a child to be born to degradation and prostitution? to beget, perhaps, other children of suffering? were not she and lise of the exploited, of those duped and tempted by the fair things the more fortunate enjoyed unscathed? and now, for their natural cravings, their family must be disgraced, they must pay the penalty of outcasts! neither lise nor she had had a chance. she saw that, now. the scorching revelation of life's injustice lighted within her the fires of anarchy and revenge. lise, other women might submit tamely to be crushed, might be lulled and drugged by bribes: she would not. a wild desire seized her to get back to hampton. "give me the address of the hospital," she said. "come off!" cried lise, in angry bravado. "do you think i'm going to let you butt into this? i guess you've got enough to do to look out for your own business." janet produced a pencil from her bag, and going to the table tore off a piece of the paper in which had been wrapped the candy box. "give me the address," she insisted. "say, what are you going to do?" "i want to know where you are, in case anything happens to you." "anything happens! what do you mean?" janet's words had frightened lise, the withdrawal of janet's opposition bewildered her. but above all, she was cowed by the sudden change in janet herself, by the attitude of steely determination eloquent of an animus persons of lise's type are incapable of feeling, and which to them is therefore incomprehensible. "nothing's going to happen to me," she whined. "the place is all right --he'd be scared to send me there if it wasn't. it costs something, too. say, you ain't going to tell 'em at home?" she cried with a fresh access of alarm. "if you do as i say, i won't tell anybody," janet replied, in that odd, impersonal tone her voice had acquired. "you must write me as soon--as soon as it is over. do you understand?" "honest to god i will," lise assured her. "and you mustn't come back to a house like this." "where'll i go?" lise asked. "i don't know. we'll find out when the time comes," said janet, significantly. "you've seen him!" lise exclaimed. "no," said janet, "and i don't want to see him unless i have to. mr. tiernan has seen him. mr. tiernan is downstairs now, waiting for me." "johnny tiernan! is johnny tiernan downstairs?" janet wrote the address, and thrust the slip of paper in her bag. "good-bye, lise," she said. "i'll come down again i'll come down whenever you want me." lise suddenly seized her and clung to her, sobbing. for a while janet submitted, and then, kissing her, gently detached herself. she felt, indeed, pity for lise, but something within her seemed to have hardened--something that pity could not melt, possessing her and thrusting heron to action. she knew not what action. so strong was this thing that it overcame and drove off the evil spirits of that darkened house as she descended the stairs to join mr. tiernan, who opened the door for her to pass out. once in the street, she breathed deeply of the sunlit air. nor did she observe mr. tiernan's glance of comprehension.... when they arrived at the north station he said:--"you'll be wanting a bite of dinner, miss janet," and as she shook her head he did not press her to eat. he told her that a train for hampton left in ten minutes. "i think i'll stay in boston the rest of the day, as long as i'm here," he added. she remembered that she had not thanked him, she took his hand, but he cut her short. "it's glad i was to help you," he assured her. "and if there's anything more i can do, miss janet, you'll be letting me know--you'll call on johnny tiernan, won't you?" he left her at the gate. he had intruded with no advice, he had offered no comment that she had come downstairs alone, without lise. his confidence in her seemed never to have wavered. he had respected, perhaps partly imagined her feelings, and in spite of these now a sense of gratitude to him stole over her, mitigating the intensity of their bitterness. mr. tiernan alone seemed stable in a chaotic world. he was a man. no sooner was she in the train, however, than she forgot mr. tiernan utterly. up to the present the mental process of dwelling upon her own experience of the last three months had been unbearable, but now she was able to take a fearful satisfaction in the evolving of parallels between her case and lise's. despite the fact that the memories she had cherished were now become hideous things, she sought to drag them forth and compare them, ruthlessly, with what must have been the treasures of lise. were her own any less tawdry? only she, janet, had been the greater fool of the two, the greater dupe because she had allowed herself to dream, to believe that what she had done had been for love, for light! because she had not listened to the warning voice within her! it had always been on the little, unpremeditated acts of ditmar that she had loved to linger, and now, in the light of lise's testimony, of lise's experience, she saw them all as false. it seemed incredible, now, that she had ever deceived herself into thinking that ditmar meant to marry her, that he loved her enough to make her his wife. nor was it necessary to summon and marshal incidents to support this view, they came of themselves, crowding one another, a cumulative and appalling array of evidence, before which she stood bitterly amazed at her former stupidity. and in the events of yesterday, which she pitilessly reviewed, she beheld a deliberate and prearranged plan for her betrayal. had he not telephoned to boston for the rooms, rehearsed in his own mind every detail of what had subsequently happened? was there any essential difference between the methods of ditmar and duval? both were skilled in the same art, and ditmar was the cleverer of the two. it had only needed her meeting with lise, in that house, to reveal how he had betrayed her faith and her love, sullied and besmirched them. and then came the odd reflection,--how strange that that same sunday had been so fateful for herself and lise! the agony of these thoughts was mitigated by the scorching hatred that had replaced her love, the desire for retaliation, revenge. occasionally, however, that stream of consciousness was broken by the recollection of what she had permitted and even advised her sister to do; and though the idea of the place to which lise was going sickened her, though she achieved a certain objective amazement at the transformation in herself enabling her to endorse such a course, she was glad of having endorsed it, she rejoiced that lise's child would not be born into a world that had seemed--so falsely--fair and sweet, and in reality was black and detestable. her acceptance of the act--for lise--was a function of the hatred consuming her, a hatred which, growing in bigness, had made ditmar merely the personification of that world. from time to time her hands clenched, her brow furrowed, powerful waves of heat ran through her, the craving for action became so intense she could scarcely refrain from rising in her seat. by some odd whim of the weather the wind had backed around into the east, gathering the clouds once more. the brilliancy of the morning had given place to greyness, the high slits of windows seemed dirtier than ever as the train pulled into the station at hampton, shrouded in gothic gloom. as she left the car janet was aware of the presence on the platform of an unusual number of people; she wondered vaguely, as she pushed her way through them, why they were there, what they were talking about? one determination possessed her, to go to the chippering mill, to ditmar. emerging from the street, she began to walk rapidly, the change from inaction to exercise bringing a certain relief, starting the working of her mind, arousing in her a realization of the necessity of being prepared for the meeting. therefore, instead of turning at faber street, she crossed it. but at the corner of the common she halted, her glance drawn by a dark mass of people filling the end of hawthorne street, where it was blocked by the brick-coloured facade of the clarendon mill. in the middle distance men and boys were running to join this crowd. a girl, evidently an irish-american mill hand of the higher paid sort, hurried toward her from the direction of the mill itself. janet accosted her. "it's the strike," she explained excitedly, evidently surprised at the question. "the polaks and the dagoes and a lot of other foreigners quit when they got their envelopes--stopped their looms and started through the mill, and when they came into our room i left. i didn't want no trouble with 'em. it's the fifty-four hour law--their pay's cut two hours. you've heard about it, i guess." janet nodded. "they had a big mass meeting last night in maxwell hall," the girl continued, "the foreigners--not the skilled workers. and they voted to strike. they tell me they're walking out over at the patuxent, too." "and the chippering?" asked janet, eagerly. "i don't know--i guess it'll spread to all of 'em, the way these foreigners are going on--they're crazy. but say," the girl added, "it ain't right to cut our pay, either, is it? they never done it two years ago when the law came down to fifty-six." janet did not wait to reply. while listening to this explanation, excitement had been growing in her again, and some fearful, overpowering force of attraction emanating from that swarm in the distance drew her until she yielded, fairly running past the rows of italian tenements in their strange setting of snow, not to pause until she reached the fruit shop where she and eda had eaten the olives. now she was on the outskirts of the crowd that packed itself against the gates of the clarendon. it spread over the width of east street, growing larger every minute, until presently she was hemmed in. here and there hoarse shouts of approval and cheers arose in response to invisible orators haranging their audiences in weird, foreign tongues; tiny american flags were waved; and suddenly, in one of those unforeseen and incomprehensible movements to which mobs are subject, a trolley car standing at the end of the hawthorne street track was surrounded, the desperate clanging of its bell keeping pace with the beating of janet's heart. a dark sicilian, holding aloft the green, red, and white flag of italy, leaped on the rear platform and began to speak, the slav conductor regarding him stupidly, pulling the bellcord the while. three or four policemen fought their way to the spot, striving to clear the tracks, bewildered and impotent in the face of the alien horde momentarily growing more and more conscious of power. janet pushed her way deeper and deeper into the crowd. she wanted to savour to the full its wrath and danger, to surrender herself to be played upon by these sallow, stubby-bearded exhorters, whose menacing tones and passionate gestures made a grateful appeal, whose wild, musical words, just because they were uncomprehended, aroused in her dim suggestions of a race-experience not her own, but in which she was now somehow summoned to share. that these were the intruders whom she, as a native american, had once resented and despised did not occur to her. the racial sense so strong in her was drowned in a sense of fellowship. their anger seemed to embody and express, as nothing else could have done, the revolt that had been rising, rising within her soul; and the babel to which she listened was not a confusion of tongues, but one voice lifted up to proclaim the wrongs of all the duped, of all the exploited and oppressed. she was fused with them, their cause was her cause, their betrayers her betrayers. suddenly was heard the cry for which she had been tensely but unconsciously awaiting. another cry like that had rung out in another mob across the seas more than a century before. "ala bastille!" became "to the chippering!" some man shouted it out in shrill english, hundreds repeated it; the sicilian leaped from the trolley car, and his path could be followed by the agitated progress of the alien banner he bore. "to the chippering!" it rang in janet's ears like a call to battle. was she shouting it, too? a galvanic thrill ran through the crowd, an impulse that turned their faces and started their steps down east street toward the canal, and janet was irresistibly carried along. nay, it seemed as if the force that second by second gained momentum was in her, that she herself had released and was guiding it! her feet were wet as she ploughed through the trampled snow, but she gave no thought to that. the odour of humanity was in her nostrils. on the left a gaunt jew pressed against her, on the right a solid ruthenian woman, one hand clasping her shawl, the other holding aloft a miniature emblem of new world liberty. her eyes were fixed on the grey skies, and from time to time her lips were parted in some strange, ancestral chant that could be heard above the shouting. all about janet were dark, awakening faces.... it chanced that an american, a college graduate, stood gazing down from a point of vantage upon this scene. he was ignorant of anthropology, psychology, and the phenomena of environment; but bits of "knowledge" --which he embodied in a newspaper article composed that evening stuck wax-like in his brain. not thus, he deplored, was the anglo-saxon wont to conduct his rebellions. these czechs and slavs, hebrews and latins and huns might have appropriately been clad in the skins worn by the hordes of attila. had they not been drawn hither by the renown of the republic's wealth? and how essentially did they differ from those other barbarians before whose bewildered, lustful gaze had risen the glittering palaces on the hills of the tiber? the spoils of rome! the spoils of america! they appeared to him ferocious, atavistic beasts as they broke into the lumberyard beneath his window to tear the cord-wood from the piles and rush out again, armed with billets.... janet, in the main stream sweeping irresistibly down the middle of the street, was carried beyond the lumberyard into the narrow roadway beside the canal--presently to find herself packed in the congested mass in front of the bridge that led to the gates of the chippering mill. across the water, above the angry hum of human voices could be heard the whirring of the looms, rousing the mob to a higher pitch of fury. the halt was for a moment only. the bridge rocked beneath the weight of their charge, they battered at the great gates, they ran along the snow-filled tracks by the wall of the mill. some, in a frenzy of passion, hurled their logs against the windows; others paused, seemingly to measure the distance and force of the stroke, thus lending to their act a more terrible and deliberate significance. a shout of triumph announced that the gates, like a broken dam, had given way, and the torrent poured in between the posts, flooding the yard, pressing up the towered stairways and spreading through the compartments of the mill. more ominous than the tumult seemed the comparative silence that followed this absorption of the angry spirits of the mob. little by little, as the power was shut off, the antiphonal throbbing of the looms was stilled. pinioned against the parapet above the canal--almost on that very spot where, the first evening, she had met ditmar--janet awaited her chance to cross. every crashing window, every resounding blow on the panels gave her a fierce throb of joy. she had not expected the gates to yield--her father must have insecurely fastened them. gaining the farther side of the canal, she perceived him flattened against the wall of the gatehouse shaking his fist in the faces of the intruders, who rushed past him unheeding. his look arrested her. his face was livid, his eyes were red with anger, he stood transformed by a passion she had not believed him to possess. she had indeed heard him give vent to a mitigated indignation against foreigners in general, but now the old-school americanism in which he had been bred, the americanism of individual rights, of respect for the convention of property, had suddenly sprung into flame. he was ready to fight for it, to die for it. the curses he hurled at these people sounded blasphemous in janet's ears. "father!" she cried. "father!" he looked at her uncomprehendingly, seemingly failing to recognize her. "what are you doing here?" he demanded, seizing her and attempting to draw her to the wall beside him. but she resisted. there sprang from her lips an unpremeditated question: "where is mr. ditmar?" she was, indeed, amazed at having spoken it. "i don't know," edward replied distractedly. "we've been looking for him everywhere. my god, to think that this should happen with me at the gates!" he lamented. "go home, janet. you can't tell what'll happen, what these fiends will do, you may get hurt. you've got no business here." catching sight of a belated and breathless policeman, he turned from her in desperation. "get 'em out! far god's sake, can't you get 'em out before they ruin the machines?" but janet waited no longer. pushing her way frantically through the people filling the yard she climbed the tower stairs and made her way into one of the spinning rooms. the frames were stilled, the overseer and second hands, thrust aside, looked on helplessly while the intruders harangued, cajoled or threatened the operatives, some of whom were cowed and already departing; others, sullen and resentful, remained standing in the aisles; and still others seemed to have caught the contagion of the strike. suddenly, with reverberating strokes, the mill bells rang out, the electric gongs chattered, the siren screeched, drowning the voices. janet did not pause, but hurried from room to room until, in passing through an open doorway in the weaving department she ran into mr. caldwell. he halted a moment, in surprise at finding her there, calling her by name. she clung to his sleeve, and again she asked the question:-- "where's mr. ditmar?" caldwell shook his head. his answer was the same as edward's. "i don't know," he shouted excitedly above the noise. "we've got to get this mob out before they do any damage." he tore himself away, she saw him expostulating with the overseer, and then she went on. these tower stairs, she remembered, led to a yard communicating by a little gate with the office entrance. the door of the vestibule was closed, but the watchman, simmons, recognizing her, permitted her to enter. the offices were deserted, silent, for the bells and the siren had ceased their clamour; the stenographers and clerks had gone. the short day was drawing to a close, shadows were gathering in the corners of ditmar's room as she reached the threshold and gazed about her at the objects there so poignantly familiar. she took off her coat. his desk was littered with books and papers, and she started, mechanically, to set it in order, replacing the schedule books on the shelves, sorting out the letters and putting them in the basket. she could not herself have told why she should take up again these trivial tasks as though no cataclysmic events had intervened to divide forever the world of yesterday from that of to-morrow. with a movement suggestive of tenderness she was picking up ditmar's pen to set it in the glass rack when her ear caught the sound of voices, and she stood transfixed, listening intently. there were footsteps in the corridor, the voices came nearer; one, loud and angered, she detected above the others. it was ditmar's! nothing had happened to him! dropping the pen, she went over to the window, staring out over the grey waters, trembling so violently that she could scarcely stand. she did not look around when they entered the room ditmar, caldwell, orcutt, and evidently a few watchmen and overseers. some one turned on the electric switch, darkening the scene without. ditmar continued to speak in vehement tones of uncontrolled rage. "why in hell weren't those gates bolted tight?" he demanded. "that's what i want to know! there was plenty of time after they turned the corner of east street. you might have guessed what they would do. but instead of that you let 'em into the mill to shut off the power and intimidate our own people." he called the strikers an unprintable name, and though janet stood, with her back turned, directly before him, he gave no sign of being aware of her presence. "it wasn't the gatekeeper's fault," she heard orcutt reply in a tone quivering with excitement and apprehension. "they really didn't give us a chance--that's the truth. they were down canal street and over the bridge before we knew it." "it's just as i've said a hundred times," ditmar retorted. "i can't afford to leave this mill a minute, i can't trust anybody--" and he broke out in another tirade against the intruders. "by god, i'll fix 'em for this--i'll crush 'em. and if any operatives try to walkout here i'll see that they starve before they get back--after all i've done for 'em, kept the mill going in slack times just to give 'em work. if they desert me now, when i've got this bradlaugh order on my hands--" speech became an inadequate expression of his feelings, and suddenly his eye fell on janet. she had turned, but her look made no impression on him. "call up the chief of police," he said. automatically she obeyed, getting the connection and handing him the receiver, standing by while he denounced the incompetence of the department for permitting the mob to gather in east street and demanded deputies. the veins of his forehead were swollen as he cut short the explanations of the official and asked for the city hall. in making an appointment with the mayor he reflected on the management of the city government. and when janet by his command obtained the boston office, he gave the mill treasurer a heated account of the afternoon's occurrences, explaining circumstantially how, in his absence at a conference in the patuxent mill, the mob had gathered in east street and attacked the chippering; and he urged the treasurer to waste no time in obtaining a force of detectives, in securing in boston and new york all the operatives that could be hired, in order to break the impending strike. save for this untimely and unreasonable revolt he was bent on stamping out, for ditmar the world to-day was precisely the same world it had been the day before. it seemed incredible to janet that he could so regard it, could still be blind to the fact that these workers whom he was determined to starve and crush if they dared to upset his plans and oppose his will were human beings with wills and passions and grievances of their own. until to-day her eyes had been sealed. in agony they had been opened to the panorama of sorrow and suffering, of passion and evil; and what she beheld now as life was a vast and terrible cruelty. she had needed only this final proof to be convinced that in his eyes she also was but one of those brought into the world to minister to his pleasure and profit. he had taken from her, as his weed, the most precious thing a woman has to give, and now that she was here again at his side, by some impulse incomprehensible to herself--in spite of the wrong he had done her!--had sought him out in danger, he had no thought of her, no word for her, no use save a menial one: he cared nothing for any help she might be able to give, he had no perception of the new light which had broken within her soul.... the telephoning seemed interminable, yet she waited with a strange patience while he talked with mr. george chippering and two of the most influential directors. these conversations had covered the space of an hour or more. and perhaps as a result of self-suggestion, of his repeated assurances to mr. semple, to mr. chippering, and the directors of his ability to control the situation, ditmar's habitual self-confidence was gradually restored. and when at last he hung up the instrument and turned to her, though still furious against the strikers, his voice betrayed the joy of battle, the assurance of victory. "they can't bluff me, they'll have to guess again. it's that damned holster--he hasn't any guts--he'd give in to 'em right now if i'd let him. it's the limit the way he turned the clarendon over to them. i'll show him how to put a crimp in 'em if they don't turn up here to-morrow morning." he was so magnificently sure of her sympathy! she did, not reply, but picked up her coat from the chair where she had laid it. "where are you going?" he demanded. and she replied laconically, "home." "wait a minute," he said, rising and taking a step toward her. "you have an appointment with the mayor," she reminded him. "i know," he said, glancing at the clock over the door. "where have you been?--where were you this morning? i was worried about you, i--i was afraid you might be sick." "were you?" she said. "i'm all right. i had business in boston." "why didn't you telephone me? in boston?" he repeated. she nodded. he started forward again, but she avoided him. "what's the matter?" he cried. "i've been worried about you all day --until this damned strike broke loose. i was afraid something had happened." "you might have asked my father," she said. "for god's sake, tell me what's the matter!" his desire for her mounted as his conviction grew more acute that something had happened to disturb a relationship which, he had congratulated himself, after many vicissitudes and anxieties had at last been established. he was conscious, however, of irritation because this whimsical and unanticipated grievance of hers should have developed at the moment when the caprice of his operatives threatened to interfere with his cherished plans--for ditmar measured the inconsistencies of humanity by the yardstick of his desires. her question as to why he had not made inquiries of her father added a new element to his disquietude. as he stood thus, worried, exasperated, and perplexed, the fact that there was in her attitude something ominous, dangerous, was slow to dawn on him. his faculties were wholly unprepared for the blow she struck him. "i hate you!" she said. she did not raise her voice, but the deliberate, concentrated conviction she put into the sentence gave it the dynamic quality of a bullet. and save for the impact of it--before which he physically recoiled--its import was momentarily without meaning. "what?" he exclaimed, stupidly. "i might have known you never meant to marry me," she went on. her hands were busy with the buttons of her coat. "all you want is to use me, to enjoy me and turn me out when you get tired of me--the way you've done with other women. it's just the same with these mill hands, they're not human beings to you, they're--they're cattle. if they don't do as you like, you turn them out; you say they can starve for all you care." "for god's sake, what do you mean?" he demanded. "what have i done to you, janet? i love you, i need you!" "love me!" she repeated. "i know how men of your sort love--i've seen it--i know. as long as i give you what you want and don't bother you, you love me. and i know how these workers feel," she cried, with sudden, passionate vehemence. "i never knew before, but i know now. i've been with them, i marched up here with them from the clarendon when they battered in the gates and smashed your windows--and i wanted to smash your windows, too, to blow up your mill." "what are you saying? you came here with the strikers? you were with that mob?" asked ditmar, astoundedly. "yes, i was in that mob. i belong there, with them, i tell you--i don't belong here, with you. but i was a fool even then, i was afraid they'd hurt you, i came into the mill to find you, and you--and you you acted as if you'd never seen me before. i was a fool, but i'm glad i came--i'm glad i had a chance to tell you this." "my god--won't you trust me?" he begged, with a tremendous effort to collect himself. "you trusted me yesterday. what's happened to change you? won't you tell me? it's nothing i've done--i swear. and what do you mean when you say you were in that mob? i was almost crazy when i came back and found they'd been here in this mill--can't you understand? it wasn't that i didn't think of you. i'd been worrying about you all day. look at this thing sensibly. i love you, i can't get along without you--i'll marry you. i said i would, i meant it i'll marry you just as soon as i can clean up this mess of a strike. it won't take long." "don't touch me!" she commanded, and he recoiled again. "i'll tell you where i've been, if you want to know,--i've been to see my sister in--in a house, in boston. i guess you know what kind of a house i mean, you've been in them, you've brought women to them,--just like the man that brought her there. would you marry me now--with my sister there? and am i any different from her? you you've made me just like her." her voice had broken, now, into furious, uncontrolled weeping--to which she paid no heed. ditmar was stunned; he could only stare at her. "if i have a child," she said, "i'll--i'll kill you--i'll kill myself." and before he could reply--if indeed he had been able to reply--she had left the office and was running down the stairs.... chapter xiv what was happening to hampton? some hundreds of ignorant foreigners, dissatisfied with the money in their pay envelopes, had marched out of the clarendon mill and attacked the chippering and behold, the revered structure of american government had quivered and tumbled down like a pack of cards! despite the feverish assurances in the banner "extra" that the disturbance was merely local and temporary, solid citizens became panicky, vaguely apprehending the release of elemental forces hitherto unrecognized and unknown. who was to tell these solid, educated business men that the crazy industrial babel they had helped to rear, and in which they unconsciously dwelt, was no longer the simple edifice they thought it? that authority, spelled with a capital, was a thing of the past? that human instincts suppressed become explosives to displace the strata of civilization and change the face of the world? that conventions and institutions, laws and decrees crumble before the whirlwind of human passions? that their city was not of special, but of universal significance? and how were these, who still believed themselves to be dwelling under the old dispensation, to comprehend that environments change, and changing demand new and terrible philosophies? when night fell on that fateful tuesday the voice of syndicalism had been raised in a temple dedicated to ordered, anglo-saxon liberty--the hampton city hall. only for a night and a day did the rebellion lack both a leader and a philosophy. meanwhile, in obedience to the unerring instinct for drama peculiar to great metropolitan dailies, newspaper correspondents were alighting from every train, interviewing officials and members of labour unions and mill agents: interviewing claude ditmar, the strongest man in hampton that day. he at least knew what ought to be done, and even before his siren broke the silence of the morning hours in vigorous and emphatic terms he had informed the mayor and council of their obvious duty. these strikers were helots, unorganized scum; the regular unions--by comparison respectable--held aloof from them. here, in effect, was his argument: a strong show of force was imperative; if the police and deputies were inadequate, request the governor to call out the local militia; but above all, waste no time, arrest the ringleaders, the plotters, break up all gatherings, keep the streets clear. he demanded from the law protection of his property, protection for those whose right to continue at work was inalienable. he was listened to with sympathy and respect--but nothing was done! the world had turned upside down indeed if the city government of hampton refused to take the advice of the agent of the chippering mill! american institutions were a failure! but such was the fact. some unnamed fear, outweighing their dread of the retributions of capital, possessed these men, made them supine, derelict in the face of their obvious duty. by the faint grey light of that bitter january morning ditmar made his way to the mill. in faber street dark figures flitted silently across the ghostly whiteness of the snow, and gathered in groups on the corners; seeking to avoid these, other figures hurried along the sidewalks close to the buildings, to be halted, accosted, pleaded with--threatened, perhaps. picketing had already begun! the effect of this pantomime of the eternal struggle for survivals which he at first beheld from a distance, was to exaggerate appallingly the emptiness of the wide street, to emphasize the absence of shoppers and vehicles; and a bluish darkness lurked in the stores, whose plate glass windows were frosted in quaint designs. where were the police? it was not fear that ditmar felt, he was galvanized and dominated by anger, by an overwhelming desire for action; physical combat would have brought him relief, and as he quickened his steps he itched to seize with his own hands these foreigners who had dared to interfere with his cherished plans, who had had the audacity to challenge the principles of his government which welcomed them to its shores. he would have liked to wring their necks. his philosophy, too, was environmental. and beneath this wrath, stimulating and energizing it the more, was the ache in his soul from the loss for which he held these enemies responsible. two days ago happiness and achievement had both been within his grasp. the only woman--so now it seemed--he had ever really wanted! what had become of her? what obscure and passionate impulse had led her suddenly to defy and desert him, to cast in her lot with these insensate aliens? a hundred times during the restless, inactive hours of a sleepless night this question had intruded itself in the midst of his scheming to break the strike, as he reviewed, word by word, act by act, that almost incomprehensible revolt of hers which had followed so swiftly--a final, vindictive blow of fate--on that other revolt of the workers. at moments he became confused, unable to separate the two. he saw her fire in that other.... her sister, she had said, had been disgraced; she had defied him to marry her in the face of that degradation--and this suddenly had sickened him. he had let her go. what a fool he had been to let her go! had she herself been--! he did not finish this thought. throughout the long night he had known, for a certainty, that this woman was a vital part of him, flame of his flame. had he never seen her he would have fought these strikers to their knees, but now the force of this incentive was doubled. he would never yield until he had crushed them, until he had reconquered her. he was approaching one of the groups of strikers, and unconsciously he slowed his steps. the whites of his eyes reddened. the great coat of golden fur he wore gave to his aspect an added quality of formidableness. there were some who scattered as he drew near, and of the less timorous spirits that remained only a few raised dark, sullen glances to encounter his, which was unflinching, passionately contemptuous. throughout the countless generations that lay behind them the instinct of submission had played its dominant, phylogenetic role. he was the master. the journey across the seas had not changed that. a few shivered--not alone because they were thinly clad. he walked on, slowly, past other groups, turned the corner of west street, where the groups were more numerous, while the number of those running the gantlet had increased. and he heard, twice or thrice, the word "scab!" cried out menacingly. his eyes grew redder still as he spied a policeman standing idly in a doorway. "why in hell don't you do your duty?" he demanded. "what do you mean by letting them interfere with these workers?" the man flinched. he was apologetic. "so long as they're peaceable, mr. ditmar--those are my orders. i do try to keep 'em movin'." "your orders? you're a lot of damned cowards," ditmar replied, and went on. there were mutterings here; herded together, these slaves were bolder; and hunger and cold, discouragement at not being able to stop the flow toward the mills were having their effect. by the frozen canal, the scene of the onslaught of yesterday, the crowd had grown comparatively thick, and at the corner of the lodging-house row ditmar halted a moment, unnoticed save by a few who nudged one another and murmured. he gave them no attention, he was trying to form an estimate of the effect of the picketing on his own operatives. some came with timid steps; others, mostly women, fairly ran; still others were self-possessed, almost defiant--and such he marked. there were those who, when the picketers held them by the sleeve, broke precipitately from their annoyers, and those who hesitated, listening with troubled faces, with feelings torn between dread of hunger for themselves and their children and sympathy with the revolt. a small number joined the ranks of the picketers. ditmar towered above these foreigners, who were mostly undersized: a student of human nature and civilization, free from industrial complexes, would from that point of vantage have had much to gather from the expressions coming within his view, but to ditmar humanity was a means to an end. suddenly, from the cupolas above the battlement of the mill, the bells shattered the early morning air, the remnant of the workers hastened across the canal and through the guarded gates, which were instantly closed. ditmar was left alone among the strikers. as he moved toward the bridge they made a lane for him to pass; one or two he thrust out of his way. but there were mutterings, and from the sidewalk he heard a man curse him. perhaps we shall understand some day that the social body, also, is subject to the operation of cause and effect. it was not what an ingenuous orthodoxy, keeping alive the fate of the ancient city from which lot fled, would call the wrath of heaven that visited hampton, although a sermon on these lines was delivered from more than one of her pulpits on the following sunday. let us surmise, rather, that a decrepit social system in a moment of lowered vitality becomes an easy prey to certain diseases which respectable communities are not supposed to have. the germ of a philosophy evolved in decadent europe flies across the sea to prey upon a youthful and vigorous america, lodging as host wherever industrial strife has made congenial soil. in four and twenty hours hampton had "caught" syndicalism. all day tuesday, before the true nature of the affection was developed, prominent citizens were outraged and appalled by the supineness of their municipal phagocytes. property, that sacred fabric of government, had been attacked and destroyed, law had been defied, and yet the city hall, the sanctuary of american tradition, was turned over to the alien mob for a continuous series of mass meetings. all day long that edifice, hitherto chastely familiar with american doctrine alone, with patriotic oratory, with perorations that dwelt upon the wrongs and woes of ireland--part of our national propaganda--all day long that edifice rang with strange, exotic speech, sometimes guttural, often musical, but always impassioned, weirdly cadenced and intoned. from the raised platform, in place of the shrewd, matter-of-fact new england politician alive to the vote--getting powers of fourth of july patriotism, in place of the vehement but fun-loving son of erin, men with wild, dark faces, with burning black eyes and unkempt hair, unshaven, flannel skirted--made more alien, paradoxically, by their conventional, ready-made american clothes--gave tongue to the inarticulate aspirations of the peasant drudge of europe. from lands long steeped in blood they came, from low countries by misty northern seas, from fair and ancient plains of lombardy, from guelph and ghibelline hamlets in the apennines, from vine-covered slopes in sicily and greece; from the balkans, from caucasus and carpathia, from the mountains of lebanon, whose cedars lined the palaces of kings; and from villages beside swollen rivers that cross the dreary steppes. each peasant listened to a recital in his own tongue--the tongue in which the folklore, the cradle sayings of his race had been preserved--of the common wrongs of all, of misery still present, of happiness still unachieved in this land of liberty and opportunity they had found a mockery; to appeals to endure and suffer for a common cause. but who was to weld together this medley of races and traditions, to give them the creed for which their passions were prepared, to lead into battle these ignorant and unskilled from whom organized labour held aloof? even as dusk was falling, even as the mayor, the hon. michael mcgrath, was making from the platform an eloquent plea for order and peace, promising a committee of arbitration and thinking about soldiers, the leader and the philosophy were landing in hampton. the "five o'clock" edition of the banner announced him, antonio antonelli, of the industrial workers of the world! an ominous name, an ominous title,--compared by a well-known publicist to the sound of a fire-bell in the night. the industrial workers, not of america, but of the world! no wonder it sent shivers down the spine of hampton! the writer of the article in the banner was unfamiliar with the words "syndicalism" and "sabotage," or the phrase "direct action," he was too young to know the history of the knights, he had never heard of a philosophy of labour, or of sorel or pouget, but the west he had heard of,--the home of lawlessness, of bloodshed, rape, and murder. for obvious reasons he did not betray this opinion, but for him the i.w.w. was born in the west, where it had ravaged and wrecked communities. his article was guardedly respectful, but he ventured to remind his readers that mr. antonelli had been a leader in some of these titanic struggles between crude labour and capital--catastrophes that hitherto had seemed to the citizens of hampton as remote as kansas cyclones.... some of the less timorous of the older inhabitants, curious to learn what doctrine this interloper had to proclaim, thrust their way that evening into the city hall, which was crowded, as the papers said, "to suffocation." not prepossessing, this modern robespierre; younger than he looked, for life had put its mark on him; once, in the days of severe work in the mines, his body had been hard, and now had grown stout. in the eyes of a complacent, arm-chair historian he must have appeared one of the, strange and terrifying creatures which, in times of upheaval, are thrust from the depths of democracies to the surface, with gifts to voice the longings and passions of those below. he did not blink in the light; he was sure of himself, he had a creed and believed in it; he gazed around him with the leonine stare of the conqueror, and a hush came over the hall as he arose. his speech was taken down verbatim, to be submitted to the sharpest of legal eyes, when was discovered the possession of a power--rare among agitators--to pour forth in torrents apparently unpremeditated appeals, to skirt the border of sedition and never transgress it, to weigh his phrases before he gave them birth, and to remember them. if he said an incendiary thing one moment he qualified it the next; he justified violence only to deprecate it; and months later, when on trial for his life and certain remarks were quoted against him, he confounded his prosecutors by demanding the contexts. skilfully, always within the limits of their intelligence, he outlined to his hearers his philosophy and proclaimed it as that of the world's oppressed. their cause was his--the cause of human progress; he universalized, it. the world belonged to the "producer," if only he had the courage to take possession of his own.... suddenly the inspirer was transformed into the man of affairs who calmly proposed the organization of a strike committee, three members of which were to be chosen by each nationality. and the resolution, translated into many tongues, was adopted amidst an uproar of enthusiasm. until that moment the revolt had been personal, local, founded on a particular grievance which had to do with wages and the material struggle for existence. now all was changed; now they were convinced that the deprivation and suffering to which they had pledged themselves were not for selfish ends alone, but also vicarious, dedicated to the liberation of all the downtrodden of the earth. antonelli became a saviour; they reached out to touch him as he passed; they trooped into the snowy street, young men and old, and girls, and women holding children in their arms, their faces alight with something never known or felt before. such was antonelli to the strikers. but to those staid residents of hampton who had thought themselves still to be living in the old new england tradition, he was the genius of an evil dream. hard on his heels came a nightmare troop, whose coming brought to the remembrance of the imaginative the old nursery rhyme:--"hark! hark! the dogs do bark, the beggars are come to town." it has, indeed, a knell-like ring. do philosophies tend also to cast those who adopt them into a mould? these were of the self-same breed, indubitably the followers of antonelli. the men wore their hair long, affected, like their leader, soft felt hats and loose black ties that fell over the lapels of their coats. loose morals and loose ties! the projection of these against a puritan background ties symbolical of everything the anglo-saxon shudders at and abhors; of anarchy and mob rule, of bohemia and vagabondia, of sedition and murder, of latin revolutions and reigns of terror; of sex irregularity--not of the clandestine sort to be found in decent communities--but of free love that flaunts itself in the face of an outraged public. for there were women in the band. all this, and more, the invaders suggested--atheism, unfamiliarity with soap and water, and, more vaguely, an exotic poetry and art that to the virile of american descent is saturated with something indefinable yet abhorrent. such things are felt. few of the older citizens of hampton were able to explain why something rose in their gorges, why they experienced a new and clammy quality of fear and repulsion when, on the day following antonelli's advent, these strangers arrived from nowhere to install themselves--with no baggage to speak of --in hampton's more modest but hitherto respectable hostelries. and no sooner had the city been rudely awakened to the perilous presence, in overwhelming numbers, of ignorant and inflammable foreigners than these turned up and presumed to lead the revolt, to make capital out of it, to interpret it in terms of an exotic and degenerate creed. hampton would take care of itself--or else the sovereign state within whose borders it was would take care of it. and his honour the mayor, who had proclaimed his faith in the reasonableness of the strikers, who had scorned the suggestions of indignant inhabitants that the governor be asked for soldiers, twenty-four hours too late arranged for the assembly of three companies of local militia in the armory, and swore in a hundred extra police. the hideous stillness of fillmore street was driving janet mad. what she burned to do was to go to boston and take a train for somewhere in the west, to lose herself, never to see hampton again. but--there was her mother. she could not leave hannah in these empty rooms, alone; and edward was to remain at the mill, to eat and sleep there, until the danger of the strike had passed. a messenger had come to fetch his clothes. after leaving ditmar in the office of the mill, janet crept up the dark stairs to the flat and halted in the hallway. through the open doorway of the dining-room she saw hannah seated on the horsehair sofa --for the first time within memory idle at this hour of the day. nothing else could have brought home to her like this the sheer tragedy of their plight. until then janet had been sustained by anger and excitement, by physical action. she thought hannah was staring at her; after a moment it seemed that the widened pupils were fixed in fascination on something beyond, on the thing that had come to dwell here with them forever. janet entered the room. she sat down on the sofa and took her mother's hand in hers. and hannah submitted passively. janet could not speak. a minute might have passed, and the silence, which neither had broken, acquired an intensity that to janet became unbearable. never had the room been so still! her glance, raised instinctively to the face of the picture-clock, saw the hands pointing to ten. every monday morning, as far back as she could recall, her father had wound it before going to work--and to-day he had forgotten. getting up, she opened the glass door, and stood trying to estimate the hour: it must be, she thought, about six. she set the hands, took the key from the nail above the shelf, wound up the weight, and started the pendulum. and the sound of familiar ticking was a relief, releasing at last her inhibited powers of speech. "mother," she said, "i'll get some supper for you." on hannah, these simple words had a seemingly magical effect. habit reasserted itself. she started, and rose almost briskly. "no you won't," she said, "i'll get it. i'd ought to have thought of it before. you must be tired and hungry." her voice was odd and thin. janet hesitated a moment, and ceded. "well, i'll set the dishes on the table, anyway." janet had sought refuge, wistfully, in the commonplace. and when the meal was ready she strove to eat, though food had become repulsive. "you must take something, mother," she said. "i don't feel as if i ever wanted to eat anything again," she replied. "i know," said janet, "but you've got to." and she put some of the cold meat, left over from sunday's dinner, on hannah's plate. hannah took up a fork, and laid it down again. suddenly she said:--"you saw lise?" "yes," said janet. "where is she?" "in a house--in boston." "one of--those houses?" "i--i don't know," said janet. "i think so." "you went there?" "mr. tiernan went with me." "she wouldn't come home?" "not--not just now, mother." "you left her there, in that place? you didn't make her come home?" the sudden vehemence of this question, the shrill note of reproach in hannah's voice that revealed, even more than the terrible inertia from which she had emerged, the extent of her suffering, for the instant left janet utterly dismayed. "oh mother!" she exclaimed. "i tried--i--i couldn't." hannah pushed back her chair. "i'll go to her, i'll make her come. she's disgraced us, but i'll make her. where is she? where is the house?" janet, terrified, seized her mother's arm. then she said:--"lise isn't there any more--she's gone away." "away and you let her go away? you let your sister go away and be a--a woman of the town? you never loved her--you never had any pity for her." tears sprang into janet's eyes--tears of pity mingled with anger. the situation had grown intolerable! yet how could she tell hannah where lise was! "you haven't any right to say that, mother!" she cried. "i did my best. she wouldn't come. i--i can't tell you where she's gone, but she promised to write, to send me her address." "lise" hannah's cry seemed like the uncomprehending whimper of a stricken child, and then a hidden cadence made itself felt, a cadence revealing to janet with an eloquence never before achieved the mystery of mother love, and by some magic of tone was evoked a new image of lise--of lise as she must be to hannah. no waywardness, no degradation or disgrace could efface it. the infant whom hannah had clutched to her breast, the woman, her sister, whom janet had seen that day were one--immutably one. this, then, was what it meant to be a mother! all the years of deadening hope had not availed to kill the craving--even in this withered body it was still alive and quick. the agony of that revelation was scarcely to be borne. and it seemed that lise, even in the place where she was, must have heard that cry and heeded it. and yet--the revelation of lise's whereabouts, of lise's contemplated act janet had nearly been goaded into making, died on her lips. she could not tell hannah! and lise's child must not come into a world like this. even now the conviction remained, fierce, exultant, final. but if janet had spoken now hannah would not have heard her. under the storm she had begun to rock, weeping convulsively.... but gradually her weeping ceased. and to janet, helplessly watching, this process of congealment was more terrible even than the release that only an unmitigated violence of grief had been able to produce. in silence hannah resumed her shrunken duties, and when these were finished sat awhile, before going to bed, her hands lying listless in her lap. she seemed to have lived for centuries, to have exhausted the gamut of suffering which, save for that one wild outburst, had been the fruit of commonplace, passive, sordid tragedy that knows no touch of fire.... the next morning janet was awakened by the siren. never, even in the days when life had been routine and commonplace, had that sound failed to arouse in her a certain tremor of fear; with its first penetrating shriek, terror invaded her: then, by degrees, overcoming her numbness, came an agonizing realization of tragedy to be faced. the siren blew and blew insistently, as though it never meant to stop; and now for the first time she seemed to detect in it a note of futility. there were those who would dare to defy it. she, for one, would defy it. in that reflection she found a certain fierce joy. and she might lie in bed if she wished --how often had she longed to! but she could not. the room was cold, appallingly empty and silent as she hurried into her clothes. the dining-room lamp was lighted, the table set, her mother was bending over the stove when she reached the kitchen. after the pretence of breakfast was gone through janet sought relief in housework, making her bed, tidying her room. it was odd, this morning, how her notice of little, familiar things had the power to add to her pain, brought to mind memories become excruciating as she filled the water pitcher from the kitchen tap she found herself staring at the nick broken out of it when lise had upset it. she recalled lise's characteristically flippant remark. and there was the streak in the wall-paper caused one night by the rain leaking through the roof. after the bed was made and the room swept she stood a moment, motionless, and then, opening the drawer in the wardrobe took from it the rose which she had wrapped in tissue paper and hidden there, and with a perverse desire as it were to increase the bitterness consuming her, to steep herself in pain, she undid the parcel and held the withered flower to her face. even now a fragrance, faint yet poignant, clung to it.... she wrapped it up again, walked to the window, hesitated, and then with a sudden determination to destroy this sole relic of her happiness went to the kitchen and flung it into the stove. hannah, lingering over her morning task of cleaning, did not seem to notice the act. janet turned to her. "i think i'll go out for a while, mother," she said. "you'd ought to," hannah replied. "there's no use settin' around here." the silence of the flat was no longer to be endured. and janet, putting on her coat and hat, descended the stairs. not once that morning had her mother mentioned lise; nor had she asked about her own plans--about ditmar. this at least was a relief; it was the question she had feared most. in the street she met the postman. "i have a letter for you, miss janet," he said. and on the pink envelope he handed her, in purple ink, she recognized the unformed, childish handwriting of lise. "there's great doings down at the city hall," the postman added "the foreigners are holding mass meetings there." janet scarcely heard him as she tore open the envelope. "dear janet," the letter ran. "the doctor told me i had a false alarm, there was nothing to it. wouldn't that jar you? boston's a slow burg, and there's no use of my staying here now. i'm going to new york, and maybe i'll come back when i've had a look at the great white way. i've got the coin, and i gave him the mit to-night. if you haven't anything better to do, drop in at the bagatelle and give walters my love, and tell them not to worry at home. there's no use trying to trail me. your affectionate sister lise." janet thrust the letter in her pocket. then she walked rapidly westward until she came to the liver-coloured facade of the city hall, opposite the common. pushing through the crowd of operatives lingering on the pavement in front of it, she entered the building.... produced from scanned images of public domain material from the google print project.) [transcriber's note: underscores have been used to indicate _italic_ fonts. original spelling variants have not been standardized. in the tables, _s._ or s. was used for shillings; and _d._ or d. for pence. "it should also be noted that slight errors of a few farthings in the additions have crept into the totals of some of the columns, but as they do not affect the accuracy of the wage figures the appendix has been copied exactly as it was published." (appendix vi.)] women in the printing trades: a sociological study. edited by j. ramsay macdonald, with a preface by professor f. y. edgeworth. investigators: mrs. j. l. hammond, mrs. h. oakeshott, miss a. black, miss a. harrison, miss irwin, and others. london: p. s. king & son, orchard house, westminster. . preface. my only qualification for writing this preface is the circumstance that, as a representative of the royal economic society, i attended the meetings of the committee appointed to direct and conduct the investigations of which the results are summarised in the following pages. from what i saw and heard at those meetings i received the impression that the evidence here recorded was collected with great diligence and sifted with great care. it seems to constitute a solid contribution to a department of political economy which has perhaps not received as much attention as it deserves. among the aspects of women's work on which some new light has been thrown, is the question why women in return for the same or a not very different amount of work should often receive very much less wages. it is a question which not only in its bearing on social life is of the highest practical importance, but also from a more abstract point of view is of considerable theoretical interest, so far as it seems to present the paradox of _entrepreneurs_ paying at very different rates for factors of production which are not so different in efficiency. the question as stated has some resemblance to the well-known demand for an explanation which charles ii. preferred to the royal society: there occurs the preliminary question whether the circumstance to be explained exists. the alleged disproportion between the remuneration of men and women is indeed sometimes only apparent, or at least appears to be greater than it is really. often, however, it is real and great where it is not apparent. on the one hand, in many cases in which at first sight women seem to be doing the same work as men for less pay, it is found on careful inquiry, that they are not doing the same work. "the same work nominally is not always the same work actually," as the editor reminds us (chapter iv. par. ). "men feeders, for instance, carry formes and do little things about the machine which women do not do." in this and other ways men afford to the employer a greater "net advantageousness," as mr. sidney webb puts it in his valuable study on the "alleged differences in the wages paid to men and to women for similar work" (_economic journal_, vol. i. pp. _et seq._). the examples of this phenomenon adduced by mr. webb, and in the evidence before the royal commission on labour, are supplemented by these records. to instance one of the less obvious ways in which a difference in net advantageousness makes itself felt, employers say: "it does not pay to train women: they would leave us before we got the same return for our trouble as we get from men." at the same time it is to be noticed in many of these cases that though the work of women is less efficient, it is not so inferior as their pay. for instance, a manchester employer "estimated that a woman was two-thirds as valuable in a printer's and stationer's warehouse as a man, and she was paid _s._ or _s._ to his _s._," (p. , note). in other cases the difference between the remuneration of men and women for similar work is not obvious because they work in different branches of industry. for example, only five instances of women being employed as lithographic artists are on record (chapter iv. par. ). other branches of the printing trade are as exclusively women's work. such data afford no direct and exact comparison between the remuneration of the two classes in relation to the work done by them respectively. as mr. webb concludes, the inferiority of women's wages cannot be gathered "from a comparison of the rates for identical work, for few such cases exist, but rather from a comparison of the standards of remuneration in men's and women's occupations respectively." "looked at in this light," he continues, "it seems probable that women's work is usually less highly paid than work of equivalent difficulty and productivity done by men." as mrs. fawcett points out in an important supplement to mr. webb's article (_economic journal_, vol. ii. p. ), women are crowded into classes of industry which are less remunerative than those open to men. recognising the fact of different remuneration for the same amount of work, we have next to consider the causes. it is evident that the sort of explanation offered by adam smith for difference of wages in different employments will not avail much in the case with which we are dealing. the lower remuneration of women is not brought about by way of compensation for the greater "agreeableness" or other pleasurable incident or perquisite of their tasks. possibly we might refer to this head, as well as to others, the circumstance that women having in prospect the hopes of domestic life are likely to take less interest in their trade than men do who cast in their lot for life, if this difference in future prospects is attended with a difference in the effort of attention given to work in the present. but doubtless the explanation is to be found chiefly not in compensation produced by the levelling action of competition, but in the absence of competition between men and women--in the existence of monopoly whether natural or artificial, to use mill's distinction (_political economy_, vol. ii. chapter xiv.), together with custom and what mill calls "the unintended effect of general social regulations." a natural monopoly is constituted by the superior strength of man, the occasional exercise of which, as just noticed, entitles him to some superiority of pay for work which at first sight may appear almost identical with that of women. the experience recorded in the following pages does not afford any expectation that this kind of superiority tends to vanish. "there is an almost unanimous chorus of opinion that women's work as compositors is so inferior to men's that it does not pay in the long run" (chapter iv.). speaking of the physiological differences between men and women in relation to their work, the editor concludes that "when all false emphasis and exaggeration have been removed a considerable residuum of difference must remain." custom and the somewhat capricious sense of decorum counts for more than might have been expected in restricting women to certain industries, and accordingly, on the principle emphasised by mrs. fawcett, depressing their wages. "i know my place, and i'm not going to take men's work from them," said a female operative to an employer who wanted her to varnish books (chapter iv.). "why, that is men's work, and we shouldn't think of doing it," was the answer given by forewomen and others to the question why they did not turn their hands to simple and easy processes which were being done by men (chapter v.). among artificial monopolies must be placed that which is constituted by legislation. the factory laws, of which a lucid summary is given (chapter vi. § ), impose certain conditions on the work of women which, it may be supposed and has been asserted, place them at a sensible disadvantage in their competition with men, who are free from those restrictions. but the evidence now collected goes to prove that the disadvantage occasioned to women in their competition with men by the factory acts is not appreciable; thus confirming the conclusions obtained by the committee which the british association appointed to consider this very question (report, ). the evidence of the large majority of employers in the printing trade is in favour of the acts; the evidence of employees is almost unanimous. of a hundred and three employers "not half-a-dozen remembered dismissing women in consequence of the new enactment" (chapter vi. § ). of a hundred and three employers, who expressed an opinion, twenty-six stated that in their opinion legislation had not affected women's labour at all, sixty considered it to have been beneficial, and seventeen looked on all legislation as grandmotherly and ridiculous (p. ). the opinion of the employers is much influenced by the experience that "after overtime the next day's work suffers." the still stronger feeling of the workers in favour of the factory acts is partly based on the same fact: "long hours," said one, "don't do any good, for they mean that you work less next day: if you work all night, then you are so tired that you have to take a day off; you have gained nothing" (p. ). upon the whole the moderate conclusion appears to be that "except in a few small houses the employment of women as compositors has not been affected by the factory acts" (p. ). what little evidence there is to the contrary is exhibited by the editor with creditable candour (p. ). it is admitted that a "slight residuum of night work" may have been transferred to male hands. trades unionism forms another species of "artificial monopoly," the organisation of men in the printing trades being much stronger than that of women. the difference is partly accounted for by the fact, already noticed in other connections, that woman having an eye to marriage is not equally wedded to her trade. some frankly admit that "marriage is sure to come along, and then they will work in factories and workshops no longer" (p. ). whatever the cause, it appears from the editor's historical retrospect that women's unions have not flourished in the trades under consideration. all attempts to organise women in the printing trade proper, as distinguished from the bookbinding industry, have failed. even the society of women employed in bookbinding, though organised by mrs. emma paterson, seems to have had only a moderate success. thus the men unionists have had their way in arranging that their standard wage should not be lowered by the influx of cheap labour offered by women. some unions indeed admit women on equal terms with men, with less advantage to the former than might have been expected. a regulation of this sort adopted by the london society of compositors is followed by the result that "it is practically impossible for any woman to join the society" (p. ). at perth a few years ago, when women began to be employed on general bookwork and setting up newspaper copy, the men's union decided that the women must either be paid the same rates as the men or be got rid of altogether (p. ). one general result of such _primâ facie_ equalitarian regulations is probably to promote that crowding of women into less remunerative occupations which was above noticed as a cardinal fact of the situation. it is for this reason apparently that mrs. fawcett does not welcome the principle that "women's wages should be the same as men's for the same work." "to encourage women under all circumstances to claim the same wages as men for the same work would be to exclude from work altogether all those women who were industrially less efficient than men" (see the article by mrs. fawcett referred to in the _economic journal_, vol. iii. p. , and compare her article in that journal, vol. ii. p. , already cited). of course it may be argued that, in view of the circumstance that women workers are often subsidised by men and of other incidents of family life, to permit the unrestricted competition of men with women would tend to lower the remuneration and degrade the character of labour as a whole. without expressing an opinion on this matter, seeking to explain rather than to justify the cardinal fact that the industrial competition between men and women is very imperfect, one may suggest that it is favoured by another element of monopoly. the employer in a large business has some of the powers proper to monopoly. as professor marshall says (in a somewhat different connection) "a man who employs a thousand others is in himself an absolutely rigid combination to the extent of one thousand units in the labour market." this consideration may render it easier to understand how it is possible for certain employers to give effect to the dispositions which are attributed to them in the following passages: "conservative notions about women's sphere, and chivalrous prejudices about protecting them, influence certain employers in determining what work they _ought_ to do" (p. ). "a rigid sense of propriety based on a certain amount of good reason, seems to determine many employers to separate male from female departments" (p. ). a notice of this subject would be inadequate without reference to the relation between the use of machinery and the competition of women against men. in some cases the cheapness of women's work averts the introduction of machinery. "one investigator whilst being taken over certain large printing works was shown women folding one of the illustrated weekly papers. folding machines were standing idle in the department, and she was told that these were used by the men when folding had to be done at times when the factory law prohibited women's labour" (p. ). a well-known bookbinder said: "if women would take a fair price for work done it would not be necessary to employ machinery." in the warrington newspaper offices the cheapness of women's labour makes it unnecessary to introduce linotypes (pp. and ). on the other hand, in the case of bookbinding, the employment of machinery makes it possible for the less skilled and lower-paid women to do work formerly done by men (p. ). but the relations are not in general so simple. rather, as the editor remarks, "what really happens is an all-round shifting of the distribution of labour-power and skill, and a rearrangement of the subdivision of labour" (p. ). the cheerful assumption proper to abstract economics, that labour displaced by the introduction of machinery can turn to some other employment, is seldom, it is to be feared, so perfectly realised as in the case of the bookbinders below mentioned (p. , note): "there was much gloom among the men when the rounding and backing machine came in, but though profitable work was taken away from the 'rounders' and 'backers' they had more 'lining up' and other work to do in consequence, so nobody was turned off." so far i have adverted to only one of the problems which are elucidated by this investigation. a sense of proportion might require that i should dwell on other topics of great interest such as home work and the work of married women, the technique of the industries connected with printing which the editor has described minutely, and the statistics relating to women's wages, in the treatment of which a master hand, that of mr. a. l. bowley, may be recognised. but i must not go on like the chairman who with a lengthy opening address detains an audience eager to hear the principal speaker. i will only in conclusion express the hope that the committee which has obtained such useful results may be enabled to prosecute further investigations with like diligence. f. y. edgeworth. contents. introduction xv i. i. the trades described ii. women in the trades iii. women's work and organisation iv. men and women as workers v. industrial training vi. legislation vii. women and machinery viii. home work ix. married and unmarried x. wages ii.--appendices. i. points upon which enquiries were made ii. descriptions of certain typical firms iii. general glasgow report iv. women in the printing trades in birmingham v. tables of individual earnings for consecutive weeks through lengthened periods vi. mr. dunning's statement of wages, vii. table showing number of males and females engaged in these trades at various ages in index introduction. the investigation upon which this book is based was undertaken by the women's industrial council; the royal statistical society, the royal economic society, and the hutchinson trustees consenting to be represented on the committee responsible for the work. upon this committee, the women's industrial council was represented by miss a. black, miss c. black, mrs. hammond, mr. stephen n. fox, and mr. j. ramsay macdonald; the royal statistical society by mr. j. a. baines; the royal economic society by professor f. y. edgeworth, and the hutchinson trustees by mr. a. l. bowley. mrs. hogg also represented the women's industrial council up to her death in . the committee takes this opportunity of thanking the hutchinson trustees for their liberal financial assistance, and of expressing its appreciation of the services so carefully and enthusiastically performed by the investigators, especially those of mrs. hammond, who is mainly responsible for the work done in london; of mrs. oakeshott, who assisted mrs. hammond; of mrs. muirhead, who supplied information about birmingham; of miss harrison, who investigated bristol and the south-west, and leeds and district; and of miss irwin and mr. jones, who were in charge of the scottish enquiries. to the many employers, trade union secretaries, and others who were so willing to give assistance to the investigators, the committee also desires to express its gratitude. whoever has had experience in collecting and sifting such evidence as is dealt with in this investigation knows how difficult it is to arrive at proper values and just conclusions. and women's trades seem to offer special difficulties of this kind. there are no trade union conditions, no general trade rules, no uniformity in apprenticeships, so far as the woman worker is concerned, and the variations in conditions are most striking, even between neighbouring employers drawing their supply of labour from practically the same district, though perhaps not from the same social strata. that difference in strata is in some cases a predominating factor in women's employment, and it everywhere confuses economic and industrial considerations. when to this irregularity of conditions is added a reticence as to "one's personal affairs," due partly to women's lack of the sense that their position is of public interest, and also partly to an unwillingness shown by many employers to disclose the facts of cheap labour, it can readily be seen that the committee had to exercise the greatest care in its work. when the investigation was begun there was an idea that it should be the commencement of an enquiry into women's labour in every trade of any importance, but whether that will be carried on or not will now depend on the reception of this volume and on what further financial assistance is forthcoming. the group of trades selected for first treatment shows neither an overwhelming preponderance of women nor a very marked increase in the employment of women. but it illustrates in a specially normal way the main problems of women's labour under ordinary modern conditions. upon one important point this group does not throw much light. the employment of women in the printing trades does not show to any satisfactory extent the family influence of married and unmarried women wage earners. what information the committee was able to gather is dealt with in its proper place, but careful enquiries will have to be made in the highly-organised factory industries before that wealth of fact can be obtained from which conclusions can be drawn, with details properly filled in, regarding the influence of women's earnings upon family incomes. in other respects these trades have yielded most interesting information. they illustrate the industrial mind and capacity of women in the different aspects of training, rates of pay, competition with men, influence of machinery, effect of legislation, and so on. these subjects are dealt with under separate chapters, and though it has been the chief aim of the committee to present well-sifted and reliable facts, it has stated some conclusions which are most obvious, and which appear to be necessary, if bare figures and dry industrial data are to carry any sociological enlightenment. the volume is therefore offered not as a mere description of industrial organisation, but as a study in sociology which indicates a path ahead as well as points out where we stand at the moment. miss clementina black is responsible for the description of the trades, mr. a. l. bowley for the chapter on wages, and mr. stephen fox for the legal and historical part of that on legislation. for the rest, the editor is responsible. chapter i. _the trades described._ the trades covered by this enquiry include a great number of processes, some brief account of which is necessary if the succeeding chapters are to be comprehensible. it will, perhaps, be the easiest way to follow the stages by which paper is converted into books and to return afterwards to such accessory matters as envelope making, relief stamping, lithography, etc. _paper-making._--paper-making is carried on mainly in the counties of kent, lancashire, buckingham, yorkshire, fife, lanark, aberdeen and midlothian, but mills are found scattered over the country where water is favourable to the manufacture.[ ] in london, there is one mill only, and not more than thirteen women are employed in it. of these the majority are occupied in sorting esparto grass, and throwing it by means of pitchforks into machines where the abundant dust is shaken out, and from which the grass is carried on moving bands to the vats where it is boiled into pulp. a few older married women are engaged in cutting rags, removing buttons, etc.; but at the present day paper is but rarely made from rags, and the rags so used are generally sorted and cut by machinery. this is an instance in which machinery has undoubtedly superseded the work of women; but, perhaps, few persons will regret that an occupation so uninviting as the cutting up of old rags should be undertaken rather by a machine than by a human being. with the later processes in the manufacture of paper--the boiling, mixing, bleaching, and refining--women have nothing to do; but a few women are employed in "counting" the sheets of paper before they leave the mill. [footnote : _the directory of paper-makers_ for gives the following number of paper mills as being situated in the following counties:--bucks, ; devon, ; durham, ; kent, ; lancashire, ; yorkshire, ; edinburgh, ; lanark, ; stirling, ; fife, ; aberdeen, ; dublin, .] the work of the women, who are time-workers at from _s._ to _s._ a week, requires no training. the working day begins at a.m., an earlier hour than that of any other factory or shop dealt with in this enquiry. the machinery is kept in constant action, double shifts of men being employed, and when it becomes necessary to feed the machines with grass at night men do the work performed in the day by women. _letter-press printing._--the primary business of the "compositor" is to "set-up type," _i.e._, to arrange the separate movable types in required order for printing successive lines of words. these lines are then arranged in frames called _chases_, each of which containing the types is known as a _forme_; the _formes_ are "locked up," that is, made firm by wooden or metal wedges called _quoins_, and are then carried to the press for a proof impression. the printed page passes on in the shape of proof to the "corrector," and from him to the author, and is then returned in order that corresponding alterations may be made in the placing of the type. finally, when the whole corrected impression has been printed off, comes the "distributing"--the removal of the types from their places and re-sorting into the proper divisions in the "case." were books the only form of printed matter, this description would cover the whole business of the compositor, but there are also handbills and newspapers--to say nothing of lithographic printing, which will be dealt with farther on. the printing of handbills, etc., and the printing of newspapers, require, each in its own way, a high degree of skill and experience, to which women, the vast majority of whom leave the trade comparatively young, seldom attain. in the provinces, however, a few women are engaged upon the printing of weekly or bi-weekly newspapers; and in london, one establishment has been visited in which women regularly do "jobbing" or "display work"--terms which cover the printing of advertisements, posters, handbills, etc.--while at least two other firms employ each one girl upon such work. "none of the other workers," it is reported, "seem to care to learn." the difference between skilful and unskilful work in this department is far greater than an uninitiated person might suppose; and the attractiveness of a poster, advertisement or invitation card depends very largely upon the way in which the type is spaced. in all printing houses employing women compositors, setting up, correcting, and distributing are done by women; in the women's printing society women regularly "impose," that is, divide up the long galleys of type into pages and place the pages so that they may follow in proper order when the sheet is folded, and in another firm a woman was found who could impose; but as a general rule the "imposing" is the work of the man or men employed to lock-up and carry about the heavy formes. no instance has been found in which this latter work, which in some cases is extremely heavy, is done by women. _bookbinding._--this trade covers at least two main divisions, and one of these is minutely subdivided into a great variety of processes. the first process is, in all cases, that of folding. all printed matter occupying more than a single page has to be so folded as to bring the pages into consecutive order, and this process is essentially the same whether the printed sheet be that of a book, a pamphlet, a magazine, or a newspaper. from the trade point of view, however, there is a distinction between the folding of matter intended to be bound up in a real book cover (book-folding) and matter which is not to be bound (printers' folding). as a general rule--liable, however, to many exceptions--book-folding is performed in a binder's shop and printers' folding in a printing house, whence the names. but many printers now have a regular binding department, and periodical or pamphlet work is on the other hand often folded in the workshop of the publisher's binder. the line of demarcation is therefore no very distinct one. prospectus work is _par excellence_ printers' folding, and so are such weekly papers as are still folded by hand. book-folding is done by women, of whom in theory nearly all, and in practice many, are regularly employed. the process is practically identical in both cases. printers' folding is carried on in large firms chiefly by a regular staff; but in times of pressure "job hands" or "grass hands" are called in; and in smaller workplaces job hands do the whole of the work. great sheets of matter, fresh from the press, are distributed in thousands to the workers to be folded either by hand or by machine. in the latter case, the woman merely feeds the machine, taking care to lay the sheet in exactly the right place. in the former, she becomes practically a machine herself, so monotonous is the occupation. the sheet is folded once, twice, three, or even four times, as the case may be, on a fixed plan, and sometimes has to be cut with a long knife as well as folded. the various sheets of a book having been folded, the process of _gathering_ follows. each folder has received a fixed number (probably a thousand) copies of the same sheet, and when she has finished folding the gatherer places the sheets in piles of each "signature," _e.g._ the index letter which one observes on the first page of each sheet in a book, in regular order on a long table. she then walks up and down the side of this table collecting one copy of each sheet and so forming a complete book. the collection thus made passes from the gatherer to the _collator_, who runs over it, noting by means of the printer's "signature" that all the sheets are in order, and placing her mark on the book, thereby becoming responsible for its accuracy. in the case of illustrated books the process of _placing_ comes at this stage. the plates to be inserted are "fanned out"--_i.e._, laid out in fan shape--each receives a narrow strip of paste at the back and is placed next, and stuck to, its proper page. this placing is sometimes done by the collator, sometimes by a separate hand. the whole process of collating is often omitted in the case of pamphlets and small work, and the sheets then pass straight from the folder to the stitcher or sewer. of _sewing_ or _stitching_ there are many varieties. the threads of hand-sewn books generally pass through three bands of tape kept taut by being attached at one end to the table at which the worker sits and at the other to a horizontal bar above. sometimes the book will have been prepared by the sawing of grooves in the back to receive the sewing. this sawing is done by men. stitching machines vary greatly. the simplest kind merely inserts the unpleasant "staple-binder" of wire that is so large a factor in the rapid decomposition of cheap books. in these machines, one variety of which uses thread and knots it, the pamphlet or other work in hand is placed at a particular place in a kind of trough; the operator presses a treadle and the wire is mechanically passed through and pressed flat. other machines of a more complicated sort will sew with thread upon tapes. in this case one girl is required to superintend and a younger assistant to cut apart the books which are delivered by the machine fixed at intervals upon a long continuous tape. such machines are worked by power and set going by the pressure of a treadle. pamphlets or newspapers having neither "cover" nor "wrapper" are now finished--unless, indeed, _inserts_ or _insets_ are to be placed between the pages. these are those unattached advertisements which fall out upon the reader's knee on a first opening, and thereby certainly succeed in catching his attention, though not perhaps his approval. magazines or paper-covered books are sometimes "wrappered" by women, a simple process consisting of glueing the back of each book and clapping on the cover. bound books have end-papers added to them by women, who also paste down the projecting tapes to the fly-pages. at this stage the book passes into the hands of men to be touched no more by women, except perhaps in a few subsidiary processes. but since much debate has taken place over the allotment to men and women of other parts of the work, it becomes necessary to give a cursory glance at the further stages of a book's progress. on leaving the women's hands the book--now no longer a collection of loose sheets but an entity--is placed in a machine to be "nipped," that is, to have the back pressed; then the edges are cut smooth in a "guillotine"; the back is glued upon muslin and rounded, and a groove is made, by hand or machine, at each side of the back, so that the cover may lie flat; this is called "backing," the covering boards and cloth are cut out and pasted together; the design and lettering are stamped upon them in the "blocking-room"; the books are "pasted down," that is, are fixed into their covers by means of pasting down the end leaves, and are "built up" in a large press. if the designs and lettering of the cover are to be gilded, the gold-leaf is laid on by hand according to the stamped-out pattern, which is then restamped, and any gold-leaf not firmly adhering is rubbed off with an old stocking. the stocking is burned in a crucible, and the precious remainder of the gold collected again. "gold laying-on" is done by women; and the workers engaged in this task do nothing else. much dexterity is needed, the gold-leaf being apt to break or blow away at the slightest breath. one investigator describes as "seeming almost marvellous" the skill with which this difficult material is laid in exactly the right place by means of a knife. women also "open-up," _i.e._, look through the books ready to be sent out to see that there are no flaws. such is the life-history of the ordinary book as it comes from the publisher, but "publishers' binding" is not the only section of the binding trade, and is indeed regarded by the workers as "decidedly inferior" to "leather-work," which is emphatically distinguished as "bookbinding." leather-binding is employed mainly for rebinding. it forms, as may be supposed, a comparatively small part of the whole trade, and is practically confined to three large firms in the west end, a few small places, and separate rooms in some general binding establishments. the chief difference of method lies in the better fixing together of back and cover, the "bound" book being laced into the cover, and in the presence of a "head-band," at top and bottom of the back. books to be re-bound are picked to pieces by women and cleaned from glue, etc., re-folded, if necessary, collated, and after being rolled flat (by a man) are sewn at a hand press. repairs to torn pages or plates and the removal of stains are also done by women. this last process demands great care and skill, "foxed" pages requiring to be dipped into a preparation of acid which destroys not only the objectionable stain but also the body of the paper, so that the leaf has to be newly sized and strengthened, and naturally needs very tender handling throughout this whole course of treatment. the best head-bands, too, are made by women by hand, but the head-bands of cheaper books--when they exist at all--are machine-made. head-band makers form a special and extremely small class of workers. a third branch of the trade is "vellum-binding," a name which covers the binding of all ledgers, account books, and bank books, whether bound in vellum or no. the workers engaged in this branch form a separate group, are rarely found on the premises of regular bookbinders, and work chiefly in a separate department in printing houses. the employments of women in vellum-binding are much the same as in publishers' binding; they fold and sew much in the usual manner, the only marked difference arising in the case of large day-books, etc., which are elaborately hand-sewn in frames, each section of the book having a separate guard of linen. it is difficult to draw lines of demarcation between the various workers whose occupations have now been described. in large workplaces a worker will probably be kept at one minute process; the folder will do nothing but fold, the sewer will only sew, the collator only collate, and the inserter only insert. some forewomen, however, think it better to give the women a change of employment. gold layers-on and openers-up are always entirely apart from folders and sewers, but collators begin with folding and sewing, and in small houses sometimes combine one or both these processes with collating. the divisions of work between men and women are not made upon any discernible principle of fitness, and except in the case of folding and sewing, which have belonged to women from time immemorial, the various processes began in the hands of men and have been gradually taken up by women. this gradual encroachment has been generally resented and often resisted by the men, and in may, , an elaborate agreement was drawn up by the bookbinding trade section of the london chamber of commerce representing the masters, and the secretaries of the men's unions representing the men working in the trade. the women workers were not represented or consulted. the agreement is as follows:-- london societies of journeymen bookbinders. _london consolidated society; bookbinders' and machine rulers' consolidated union, london branch; society of day-working bookbinders._ that this meeting of representatives of the bookbinding section of the london chamber of commerce, with representatives of the journeymen bookbinders' trade societies, deeming it desirable that a definition of bookbinding should be agreed upon for the delimitation of work to be paid for at recognised rates, hereby agrees that the following divisions or sub-divisions of labour be for the future recognised as the work of bookbinders or apprentices, taking the book from the time of leaving the women after sewing, except wrappering, which is unaffected by this agreement:-- forwarding, and the following sub-divisions of bookbinding: nipping, knocking down, or pressing. cutting books or magazines. colouring edges of books (where done indoors). cutting leather, except corners, and backs for flush work from sheep and roan. cutting cloth. cutting hollows and linings. cutting boards. bevelling boards. case making. pasting down and building up. flush work throughout. finishing throughout. assistant finishing throughout. blocking throughout. circuit and box work. (bible trade.) provided:--that the representatives of the journeymen agree that they will not make it a grievance if female or unskilled labour is placed upon:-- the rolling, pressing before sewing, sawing up, or papering of outboard work. the laying on, washing up, or cleaning off of cloth work. the varnishing of cloth or bible work. the paper mounts and pictures on cloth cases. taking work out of the press after pasting down, and opening up. the carrying of loads of work about the workshop. further, that the representatives of the journeymen will not object to the introduction of unskilled labour upon cloth cutting, if the recognised rate of wages of _s._ per hours be paid after a probationary period of twelve months, in which the novice may learn the work. owing to the difficulties of drafting a clause affecting the laying on in such a manner as to lay down a line of demarcation between cloth and leather work, it is hereby agreed to leave the subject of laying on _in statu quo_, upon the understanding that it shall not be the policy of the trade societies to interfere, except in the case of innovations upon existing custom.[ ] this agreement not to be construed to the prejudice of the existing holders of situations. adopted by the bookbinding trade section of the london chamber of commerce at its annual meeting on th may, . john diprose, _chairman_. ratified by the executives of the hereunder-mentioned societies on may th, , and signed on their behalf. henry r. king, _secretary, london consolidated society_. william bockett, _secretary, day working bookbinders' society_. thomas e. powell, _secretary, bookbinders and machine rulers' consolidated union_ (_london branch_). [footnote : this clause has been interpreted by the award given in march, , by mr. c. j. stewart, the arbitrator appointed by the board of trade to settle a dispute in the trade regarding wages, hours, apprentices and piece work. the th clause in that award is as follows:--"that the right or practice existing with regard to female labour employed on wrappering and for laying on gold in case work, cloth or leather, or other material, in certain workshops in the trade, shall be made to apply to all workshops in the trade, it being agreed by the employers that no man exclusively employed in gold laying-on shall lose his employment by reason of the employment of women on such work."] closely connected with vellum-binding are the processes of machine-ruling, numbering, paging and perforating. _machine-ruling_ is the process by which lines are ruled for ledgers, invoices, etc. the machine employed resembles a hand-loom in appearance, and is in effect a framework in which pens are fixed at the required distances. ink is conveyed into these from a pad of thick flannel above, and the page to be ruled lies on a broad band below. the re-inking of the flannel is in some cases effected by means of a reservoir and tap supplying a regulated flow, in others the ink is laid on from bowls of red or blue colour by means of a brush. machines worked by a handle still survive in a few places, but as a general rule the machine is driven by power and the operator merely superintends, correcting the machine if it goes wrong, setting the pens and regulating the supply of ink. the newest machines require the services of neither "feeders" nor "wetters," and the simple old picturesque accessories, the cords, the wooden frame, the bowls of colour, are disappearing. women are employed in some houses to feed the machines, which is purely mechanical work; our investigators found four establishments in london in which women can rise to the higher position of "minder," and one other in which they are allowed to damp the flannel and partially "mind." _numbering_ is the process by which consecutive figures are stamped upon cheques, bills, receipts, tickets, or other loose sheets. a machine worked by hand is employed, the number types changing automatically. the attention of the worker is required on three points only: the paper must be placed so as to bring the number into the right position; the machine must not be allowed to skip numbers at a jump--as it is inclined to do; and whenever an additional figure becomes necessary, a certain change must be made. the handle of the machine works up and down, and the process is different from that of stamping, to be described later. there are no power machines for numbering. numbering is said to try the eyes, and the working of a machine handle is considered bad for girls who have any weakness of the chest. _paging_ is the process by which numbers are printed upon the pages of a bound volume. as in numbering, a change has to be made at each " "; and there is need of further care to avoid missing pages. where these are thin or interleaved with tissue paper omissions are very easily made. _perforating_ is done by machines generally worked by power, but sometimes by treadle, with one foot; and this treadle work was described by a woman constantly employed at it as excessively hard work. _lithography._--the work of women and girls in lithography seems to be confined to the feeding of machines. in london the introduction of female labour is comparatively recent, dating from about six or seven years ago, but in the provinces women have been employed for more than thirty years. employers are, for some reason or another, not very ready to give information about this branch of work; but some of the investigators engaged in this enquiry have succeeded in seeing the process. a girl stands on a high platform putting sheets into the proper place in the machine until she has completed the job. a long interval may follow in which she may sew, knit or read. the noise of the machine is incessant, and the work hard, monotonous and mechanical, but if done under proper conditions not necessarily unhealthy. many working-places in london, however, where space is so valuable, are partly underground, dark and ill-ventilated, and in these the ceaseless whirring noise and the smell of the ink grow unendurably trying. workers in such places are rough and of low social standing. most men working in the general stationery trades, and some employers who do not employ women, condemn the doing of this work by women, and since the women have superseded not men but boys, the views of the workmen are not those of trade rivals. girls are said to be in various ways better workers than boys--cleaner-handed, more careful and accurate, less disposed to meddle with the machinery, and therefore less liable to accidents; above all, quieter, more docile, and less apt to strike. the men employed in lithography look favourably on the employment of girls, because no girl attempts to rise into the higher grades and "pick up" the trade without apprenticeship. girls do not, and boys as feeders do, "constitute a danger to the society." moreover, a trade that offers only so uncertain a chance of rising is generally disapproved for a boy. the objection to the employment for girls is that they work among men--an objection which may be a very grave one indeed, or a comparatively slight one, according to the character of the foreman and the management of the workshop. it may be noted that respectable working-class parents almost always consider this objection serious. a few women are reported to be employed as lithographic artists, but no one has been seen in the course of this enquiry. minor stationery trades are envelope-making, black bordering, plain and relief stamping. _envelope-making_ has several subdivisions. the paper is first cut to shape in machines worked by men, then passed to women to be "cemented," _i.e._, to be gummed upon the flaps, folded or "creased," and stuck together. finally the envelopes are packed by women. cementing and folding are reckoned distinct trades. one cementer explained to an investigator, however, that she described herself as a folder, "for people are so ignorant that if you say you are a cementer they think you have something to do with the pavement." cementing may be done by hand or by machine, and the workers are not interchangeable. the hand-worker spreads out the envelopes in the shape of a fan, and passes her brush over all the flaps at once. the machine-cementer puts or , envelopes into a small machine, which grips them and drips gum upon their flaps. the worker extricates the envelopes one by one, and spreads them out to dry. a more complex machine is being introduced which performs the various processes for itself, requiring one girl to feed and one to take-off. the flaps being dry, the envelopes are taken in bundles to the _folders_, who first "crease" them--that is, fold in the sides--then "gum" them with a brush at the required points, and fasten them. this process can also be performed by a machine, and the operator in that case merely feeds the machine with the cemented paper, and the envelope is delivered made. the envelopes are then handed on to the "packers," who count them and make them up into packets, and the packets into parcels. except the original cutting, still done by men, all these processes have always been executed by women. the trade of _black bordering_ is carried on by women who seldom or never perform any other process. black bordering is usually done by hand. the worker spreads out a number of sheets, cards or envelopes, in such a manner as to expose only a certain width of border, and over this exposed portion she passes a brush. of course, only two edges of each sheet, etc., can be laid ready at one time, and each object has to be "laid out" a second time after drying. "it is marvellous to see the speed and dexterity with which the women do the 'laying-out.' they gather up a large number of sheets, lay them on the board and fan them out with a piece of wood used for the purpose, showing the most astounding accuracy of eye in leaving just the right width exposed. sometimes the 'laying out' is done by a machine, and only the blacking by hand." this trade--a steady one on the whole--has, unlike nearly all the other stationery trades, been more prosperous owing to the south african war--a grim little example of the way in which large public events eddy away into undreamed of backwaters! men now never do black bordering, but are reported to have done so once. machinery is now being more widely introduced. _plain, relief and cameo stamping._--under these heads are included all the various processes by which crests, monograms, addresses, etc., are embossed upon notepaper, cards, programmes, or private christmas cards. the trade has increased enormously of late years, and a new process has been introduced which renders it possible to employ the printing press. this, however, is only worth while when the order to be executed is a very large one; and most stamping is done by hand machines, a die being fixed into the machine and impressed by tightly screwing down. the machine is worked (like an ordinary copying press) by a horizontal bar, having a ball at each end, and swung from right to left. the lighter machines can be worked by one hand; the heavier require two, and are found fatiguing. some are so heavy that they can only be worked by men. practice is necessary in order to get the stamp in exactly the right place, and, in relief or cameo work, in order to mix the colours, which are rubbed on the die, to precisely the right thickness. plain stamping--the easiest process--is that in which letters, a coat of arms, or a trade mark, are raised but not coloured; in relief stamping the raised surface is coloured; and in cameo stamping (of which the registered letter envelope is an example) a white device stands out from a coloured background. when two or more colours are employed considerable care, skill, and patience are needed. this work, in two or more colours, is called _illuminating_; in one branch of it--the highest--gold and silver are employed on a coloured surface, and here women are not employed. _show-card mounting._--card mounting is a distinct trade, and is almost entirely in female hands. almanacs, advertisements, and texts for hanging up, all belong to the province of the card mounter, whose main business is to unite the picture and cardboard that arrive separately in her workshop. the board is first cut either by a man at a cutting machine--or "guillotine"--or occasionally by a girl at a rotary machine adjustable to different gauges; then "lined," by having paper pasted over the back and edges. inferior work is not lined. finally, the picture or print is pasted on the card, the backs of three or four pictures being pasted at once, and each in succession being applied to its own card. some means of hanging up is still needed, and various methods are in use. sometimes eyelets are inserted into a punched hole by means of a small machine which a girl works by hand. sometimes the edge is bound with a strip of tin, having loops attached to it; in this case the tin strips are cut by men, and applied by hand machines, again worked by girls. sometimes, as in the case of maps, charts, and large diagrams, a wooden rod is fixed at the top, this fixing being done by girls. the trade is not, it will readily be perceived, one that demands great skill, practice or intelligence, and the majority of the workers are very young. still, a certain degree of experience is necessary, since the application of either too much or too little paste results in a "blister," and blistered work is spoiled. one investigator was shown a lot of cards, the estimated value of which was _d._ each, no less than of which had thus been spoiled and rendered quite useless. the workers stand at their work and report that it exhausts them. it used, till about twenty-eight years ago, to be done by men; but the trade was at that time a much smaller one. night work, when considered necessary, is still done by men. a little laying-on of gold is done in connection with card mounting. the process has been described already under bookbinding. the christmas card industry (which may be considered as a variety of show-card mounting) serves to exemplify one of the anomalies of the factory act. these cards may be sorted, packed, etc., to any hours of the night, because mere packing is not regarded as manufacture; but if a "bow of ribbon" is to be affixed to each card, the process becomes "preparation for sale," and the regulations of the act apply.[ ] [footnote : cf. pp. , .] _typefounding._--typefounding is a small, ancient and conservative trade into which women have only crept during the last few years. in london there are only about eight typefoundries proper, and in these labour is elaborately subdivided, every workman performing but one process. recently, however, some large printing houses have begun to cast their own type, and in these the few men employed perform all the processes, or, to use their own term, "do the work through," thus, curiously enough, reverting to an earlier stage in the development of the trade. women are employed in the large foundries, where they perform certain subsidiary parts of the work. each type when it comes from the machine wherein it has been cast has a little superfluous bit of thin metal, known as a "break" on its end or "foot." these bits are broken off by girls, the "foot" of the type being pressed against a table and the "break" snapped off. no great skill is required, but quickness only comes with practice. the type is also "set-up"--_i.e._, put in rows in a long stick or "galley"--by girls; here, again, nothing is needed beyond a certain manual dexterity. sometimes another stage, "rubbing," intervenes between the "breaking" and the "setting-up." rubbing is merely the smoothing off on a flat grindstone of any roughness that may be left by the machine round the "face" end of the type. in one case, in london, one or two women were once employed in rubbing, but none appear to be so engaged at present, and the newer appliances have made rubbing unnecessary. "dressing," the final process through which the type passes, is said to be in some places performed by women; but no such instances have been found in london in the course of this investigation. the dresser receives the lines or sticks of type, polishes the sides, measures their length and breadth with a delicate spanner, "nicks" the foot of each type, and finally "picks over" the type--that is, scans the row of "faces" through a magnifying glass, and rejects any on which the letters are not absolutely truly placed. one large london firm, employing many girls, has a different process. the types are cast in long lines and have to be divided, no breaking or setting-up being required. as one of the workers said, "this is not a trade; just any one can do it!" girls began to do "breaking" and "setting-up" in london about thirteen years ago. there were then but thirteen so employed. during the last few years their numbers have increased, and it is estimated that those now employed number from to . one firm is known to employ fifty and another forty. they have superseded boys, and were mainly introduced because boys were difficult to get. the chances of rising being small for boys, they were disinclined to enter the trade. the chances for girls are _nil_, but this consideration does not weigh much with girls belonging to the class that supplies workers to typefounding. the female workers are all young, and at present no married women seem to be employed, a fact which may perhaps be due to the comparatively recent entrance of women into the trade. the occupation has a special feature of unhealthiness--the danger of lead-poisoning; and the factory act, recognising this, prohibits women, young persons or children, from taking a meal upon the premises where typefounding is carried on. as in other lead industries, much depends on the care and cleanliness of the worker. to eat with hands lead-blackened by some hours of "breaking-off" is to run considerable risk of lead-poisoning. it is suggested that girls, being more fastidious than boys upon such points, may possibly suffer less frequently from the dangers involved in the industry of typefounding. chapter ii. _women in the trades._ [sidenote: census figures.] before the census occupation tables do not state the numbers employed in the detailed trades, and even in that year we find either that no separate return was made for some of the industries with which this volume deals, or that no women were employed at all. presumably, therefore, previous statistics would not have shown that women were employed in these industries to any appreciable extent. the following tables show the employment of women in england and wales and scotland in the printing and kindred trades according to the census returns from to . the figures must be used with caution, as they include employers as well as employed (an error, however, which is immaterial in the case of women workers). subsidiary helpers are also classified with those actually entitled to be regarded as members of the trade, and the tables do not discriminate sufficiently between the various subdivisions of occupations. these last two errors considerably affect the figures relating to women. in the bookbinding section, for instance,[ ] the figures are altogether misleading, since by far the greater number of women included as bookbinders are really paper and book-folders, and are no more entitled to the name bookbinder than a bricklayer's labourer is to that of bricklayer. [footnote : since in the scottish returns.] england and wales. males. females. _census . (employers and employed included.)_ booksellers, bookbinders, etc. , , printers , lithographers, etc. paper manufacture , , paper rulers paper stainers , type founders vellum binders _census ._ (_employers and employed included._) bookbinders , } , printers, etc , } lithographers (great britain) , paper manufacture , , paper stainers , not enumerated. _census ._ (_employers and employed included._) bookbinders , , printers , lithographers, etc. , -- paper manufacture , , machine rulers envelope makers paper stainers , type founders _census ._ (_employers and employed included._) bookbinders , , printers , lithographers, etc , not enumerated. paper manufacture , , envelope makers not enumerated. , paper stainers , _census ._ (_employers and employed included._) bookbinders , , printers , , lithographers, etc , paper manufacture , , envelope makers , paper stainers , type cutters and founders , +-----------+----------+---------+----------+--------+--------+ | _census | employ- | employ- | working | others | total. | | ._ | ers. | ed. | on | not | | | | | | own | speci- | | | | | | account. | fied. | | +-----------+----------+---------+----------+--------+--------+ | book- | m. | , | | | , | | binders | f. | , | | | , | +-----------+----------+---------+----------+--------+--------+ | printers | m. , | , | , | , | , | | | f. | , | | | , | +-----------+----------+---------+----------+--------+--------+ | litho- | m. | , | | | , | | graphers, | f. | | | | | | etc. | | | | | | +-----------+----------+---------+----------+--------+--------+ | paper | m. | , | | | , | | manu- | f. | , | | | , | | facture | | | | | | +-----------+----------+---------+----------+--------+--------+ | envelope | m. | | | | | | makers | f. | , | | | , | +-----------+----------+---------+----------+--------+--------+ | paper | m. | , | | | , | | stainers | f. | | | | | +-----------+----------+---------+----------+--------+--------+ | type | m. | , | | | , | | cutters | f. | | | | | | and | | | | | | | founders | | | | | | +-----------+----------+---------+----------+--------+--------+ | _census | employ- | employ- | working | others | total. | | ._ | ers. | ed. | on | not | | | | | | own | speci- | | | | | | account. | fied. | | +-----------+----------+---------+----------+--------+--------+ | book- | m. | , | | | , | | binders | f. | , | | | , | +-----------+----------+---------+----------+--------+--------+ | printers | m. , | , | , | | , | | | f. | , | | | , | +-----------+----------+---------+----------+--------+--------+ | litho- | m. | , | | | , | | graphers, | f. | , | | | , | | etc. | | | | | | +-----------+----------+---------+----------+--------+--------+ | paper | m. | , | | | , | | manu- | f. | , | | | , | | facture | | | | | | +-----------+----------+---------+----------+--------+--------+ | envelope | m. | | | | | | makers | f. | , | | | , | +-----------+----------+---------+----------+--------+--------+ | paper | m. | , | | | , | | stainers | f. | | | | | +-----------+----------+---------+----------+--------+--------+ | type | m. | , | | | , | | cutters | f. | | | | | | and | | | | | | | founders | | | | | | +-----------+----------+---------+----------+--------+--------+ | sta- | m. | , | | | , | | tionary | f. | , | | | , | | manu- | | | | | | | facture | | | | | | +-----------+----------+---------+----------+--------+--------+ scotland. males. females. _census . (employers and employed included.)_ booksellers, etc. , printers , lithographers, etc. paper manufacture paper rulers paper stainers type founders -- _census ._ (_employers and employed included._) bookbinders , } printers, etc. , } paper manufacture , , paper stainers not enumerated. _census ._ (_employers and employed included._) bookbinders , printers , lithographers, etc. , engravers bookfolders , machine rulers paper manufacture , , envelope makers paper stainers -- type founders -- _census ._ (_employers and employed included._) bookbinders , printers , lithographers, etc. , print and map colourers bookfolders -- , paper manufacture , , envelope makers paper rulers paper stainers type founders -- _census ._ (_employers and employed included._) bookbinders , , (a) printers , lithographers, etc. , map and print colourers and sellers paper rulers paper manufacture , , envelope makers paper stainers type cutters and founders (a) bookfolders are included here. +-----------+----------+---------+----------+--------+--------+ | _census | employ- | employ- | working | not | total. | | ._ | ers. | ed. | on | speci- | | | | | | own | fied. | | | | | | account. | | | +-----------+----------+---------+----------+--------+--------+ | book- |m. | , | | | , | | binders |f. | , | | | , | +-----------+----------+---------+----------+--------+--------+ | printers |m. | , | | | , | | |f. | , | | | , | +-----------+----------+---------+----------+--------+--------+ | litho |m. | , | | | , | | graphers, |f. -- | | | | | | etc. | | | | | | +-----------+----------+---------+----------+--------+--------+ | paper |m. | | | | | | rulers |f. | | -- | | | +-----------+----------+---------+----------+--------+--------+ | paper |m. | , | | | , | | manu- |f. | , | | | , | | facture | | | | | +-----------+----------+---------+----------+--------+--------+ | envelope |m. | | | -- | | | makers |f. -- | | | -- | | +-----------+----------+---------+----------+--------+--------+ | paper |m. | | | -- | | | stainers |f. -- | | -- | -- | | +-----------+----------+---------+----------+--------+--------+ | type |m. | | | | | | cutters |f. -- | | -- | -- | | | and | | | | | | | founders | | | | | | +-----------+----------+---------+----------+--------+--------+ | _census | employ- | employ- | working | not | total. | | ._ | ers. | ed. | on | speci- | | | | | | own | fied. | | | | | | account. | | | +-----------+----------+---------+----------+--------+--------+ | book | m. | , | | -- | , | | binders | f. | , | | -- | , | +-----------+----------+---------+----------+--------+--------+ | printers | m. | , | | | , | | | f. | , | | -- | , | +-----------+----------+---------+----------+--------+--------+ | litho | m. | , | | -- | , | | graphers, | f. | | | -- | | | etc. | | | | | | +-----------+----------+---------+----------+--------+--------+ | paper | m. | , | | | , | | manu- | f. | , | -- | -- | , | | facture | | | | | | +-----------+----------+---------+----------+--------+--------+ | envelope | m. | | -- | -- | | | makers | f. | | -- | -- | | +-----------+----------+---------+----------+--------+--------+ | paper | m. | | | -- | | | stainers | f. -- | | | -- | | +-----------+----------+---------+----------+--------+--------+ | type | m. | | | -- | | | cutters | f. -- | | -- | -- | | | and | | | | | | | founders | | | | | | +-----------+----------+---------+----------+--------+--------+ | sta- | m. | | | -- | | | tionery | f. | | | -- | | | manu- | | | | | | | facture | | | | | | +-----------+----------+---------+----------+--------+--------+ [sidenote: chief factory inspector's figures.] in the home office began to publish as an appendix to the chief factory inspector's report a series of figures of occupation which were exceedingly valuable for purposes of comparison, and in time would have been the best existing statistical index of industrial movements. unfortunately these figures have not been published since ; but for the years that they were issued, those relating to the printing trades were as follows:-- factory inspector's reports. _paper, printing, stationery, etc. (includes all the industries under this section.)_ total total male female male. female. over . over . factories , , , , workshops , , , , ------- ------ ------- ------ total , , , , factories , , , , workshops , , , , ------- ------ ------- ------ total , , , , factories , , , , workshops , , , , ------- ------ ------- ------ total , , , , - (a) , , , , some details of above. total total male female male. female. over . over . _paper-making._ factories , , , , " , , , , " , , , , - (a) " , , , , _bookbinding._ factories , , , , " , , , , " , , , , - (a) " , , , , _letter-press printing._ factories , , , , " , , , , " , , , , - (a) " , , , , _lithography, engraving and photography._ factories , , , , workshops , , , factories , , , , workshops , , , , factories , , , , workshops , , , , - (a) factories , , , , _machine ruling._ factories workshops factories workshops factories , , , workshops - (a) factories , , , _paper staining, colouring and enamelling._ factories , , workshops factories , , , workshops factories , , , workshops - (a) factories , , , _envelope making._ factories , , , workshops - (a) factories , , , , (a) factories only. these figures must not be compared with the census returns as they relate only to those establishments making reports to the factory inspectors under the factory and workshop law. chapter iii. _women's work and organisation._ [sidenote: women as compositors. historical.] the subdivision of labour which has broken up the original printing "profession" into a score or so of different trades, each minutely subdivided in turn, has been the chief cause of the employment of women in this industry in modern times, although it appears that nuns were engaged as compositors at the ripoli monastery press in florence towards the end of the fifteenth century,[ ] within half a century of the introduction of printing. only very exceptional women could obtain a footing in a profession which embraced typefounding, ink-making, press-carpentry, composing, folding, and bookbinding. the united states, where, in so many respects, women have stepped in advance of european conditions, boasts of jenny hirsch, who carried on a printer's business in boston about , and during the next two centuries women printers were common in the thirteen states. it was a woman, mary catherine goddard, who printed the first issue of the "declaration of independence." the years of the french revolution also seem to be marked by the number of women engaged in the printing trade, whether owing to the general emancipating impulses of the time or to the increased demand for compositors, is not quite clear. the amiable and eccentric thomas beddoes, moved by the interest he took in social affairs, and inspired by the emancipatory movement of his time, had been struck with the opening which the printing trades seemed to offer to women, and gave his "alexander's expedition"[ ] to a woman of his village, madely, to set up. "i know not," he wrote in the advertisement to the book, "if women be commonly engaged in printing, but their nimble and delicate fingers seem extremely well adapted to the office of compositor, and it will be readily granted that employment for females is amongst the greatest _desiderata_ of society." in england, however, the labour of women outside their homes continued to be extremely limited, and the printing trades were confined to men. during the eighteenth century women seem to have been employed in folding and sewing book and news sheets, but they did not come into the trade in any considerable numbers until the nineteenth century was half spent. this was very largely owing to the heavy nature of the work and the long apprenticeship necessary to master the varied details of the craft. the provincial typographical society's first constitution, issued in , shows that at so recent a date the typographical apprentice had to learn "printing and bookbinding" or "printing and stationery."[ ] the printing press used in was practically the same as that used by gutenberg in . [footnote : _printers' register_, august th, , quoting _journal für buchdruckerkunst_.] [footnote : published in .] [footnote : typographical association: "fifty years' record," p. .] the enormous advance in the printing trades owing to the abolition of the stamp duties and the paper tax, together with the spread of education and improvement in the facilities for publishing, with their resulting large demand for printed matter, speedily revolutionised these trades and led to the introduction of the great machines. pressmen became differentiated from compositors, "minders" from layers-on or takers-off, jobbers from book-hands, folders from makers-up; whilst bookbinding finally became a separate trade altogether. some of these separate processes, needing but little skill and requiring no apprenticeship, involving no heavy labour and no responsibility, offered openings for women. [sidenote: conflict between men and women.] one of the earliest references to women made by the typographical association occurs in , when the executive of the union mentioned them in its half-yearly report. printing houses were then closed to union members on account of the employment of women. the typographical society's _monthly circular_ for august, , for instance, states that a bacup newspaper office was closed to members of the typographical union, owing to the employment of female labour. the exact form of employment is not given. again, in the report for june, , the executive of the union refers to having trouble with an employer who tried to employ female labour, but who had failed "to get suitable applicants of the gentle sex." in it was agreed that women should be admitted to both the typographical association and the london society of compositors on the same terms as men, but only one woman has availed herself of this resolution.[ ] [footnote : she joined the london society of compositors on august th, , but she has now ceased to be a member.] [sidenote: printing trades and the women's movement.] at this point, the movement for the emancipation of women contributes an interesting chapter to the history of these trades. the printing trades were regarded by a few of the leading spirits in the agitation for "women's rights" as being well adapted to women's skill and _physique_, and in miss emily faithfull not only started the victoria press, in which women alone were to be employed, but directed the attention of women generally to the openings afforded them by this group of trades. "the compositor trades," the _englishwoman's journal_ (june, ) said, "should be in the hands of women only." miss faithfull's experiments produced some considerable flutter amongst men. at first, the men looked down upon them with the contempt of traditional superiority; women compositors were "to die off like birds in winter" (_cf._ _printers' journal_, august th, , where a correspondent stated that "the day is far distant when such labour can hope to supersede our own"); but some trepidation was speedily caused when it was found that women's shops were undercutting men's, and an alarmist article in the _printers' register_ of february th, , states that "the exertions of the advocates of female labour in the printing business have resulted in the establishment of a printing office where printing can be done on lower terms than those usually charged." that year miss faithfull was engaged in her libel action against mr. grant for calling her an atheist, and the _publishers' circular_ furiously attacked her work. by-and-by, however, the controversy died down. miss faithfull's several attempts[ ] to establish permanently a printing establishment bore fruit in the still existing women's printing society, started in . [footnote : , , ; in another women's printing office was started as a means of finding employment for educated ladies: _printers' register_, january th, .] as an industrial factor, however, the "women's movement" has been altogether secondary, and women have been induced to enter the trades under review mainly because the subdivision of labour and the application of mechanical power had created simple processes; because they were willing to accept low wages; and because, unlike the men, who were members of unions, they made no efforts to interfere in the management of the works. [sidenote: the london experience.] partly owing to the nature of the work done and partly to the power of the london society of compositors, no systematic attempt seems to have been made generally to introduce women compositors into london houses since , and it is of some significance to note that most of the london firms which employed women compositors between and --the period when the attempt was most actively made--have since disappeared, owing to bad equipment and the inferior character of their trade. but the opposition to women lingered on after the attempts to introduce them more generally had ceased. in the london society of compositors decided that none of their members should finish work set up by women, and the firm of messrs. smyth and yerworth was struck by the men's union.[ ] [footnote : it is interesting to note that in these days also the women only set up the type and the men "made it up."] commenting on this trouble, the _standard_, in a leading article (october th, ) cynically remarked: "what women ask is not to be allowed to compete with men, which the more sensible among them know to be impossible, but to be allowed the chance of a small livelihood by doing the work of men a little cheaper than men care to do it. this is underselling of course, but it is difficult to see why, when all is said and done, men should object to be undersold by their own wives and daughters." "_capital and labour_," as quoted by the _victoria magazine_,[ ] put the case for the women thus: "this work is much more remunerative, and far less toilsome and irritating than the occupation of the average nursery governess, and we anticipate that, with proper arrangements, there will be a large addition to the number of women compositors. the reasons assigned against their employment in this capacity seem to be the outcome of pedantry, prejudice, and jealousy; and no trade rules can be permitted to interpose obstacles to the attainment of such a desirable object as furnishing occupation to a number of females who are qualified by deftness of hand and mental capacity to earn in it an honourable livelihood. what would one of the men, who chose to leave messrs. smyth and yerworth at the behest of the union, say, if having a daughter of his own to assist him in his occupations, she were to be compelled to sit idle while he was made to employ a male assistant at high wages? yet these men, though intelligent, capable, and industrious, deliberately throw themselves out of work, and become for the time paupers of their union, because it will not permit them to assist in perfecting any processes which have been begun by women. this is the way in which men run their heads against a brick wall." [footnote : november, .] in december, , the _printers' register_ published the following notice: "in a west end office, objection having been made to the introduction of female labour, and an undue number of turnovers, a strike appeared imminent, but the committee of the society succeeded in settling the dispute to the satisfaction of both sides." the question does not appear to have troubled the london society again, but in , a conference of the typographical societies of the united kingdom and continent, held in london (october st- rd), resolved: "that while strongly of opinion that women are not physically capable of performing the duties of a compositor, this conference recommends their admission to membership of the various typographical unions, upon the same conditions as journeymen, provided always the females are paid strictly in accordance with scale." this resolution was subsequently adopted by the london society of compositors as noted above, and is at present in force, with the result that it is practically impossible for any woman to join the society.[ ] [footnote : a curious point in connection with the work being sent out of london is that except in the case of edinburgh the greater cheapness of the work outside london is not due so much to cheaper labour as to lower rent, etc. several firms out in the country in england where there is no question of a union preventing them, have tried to introduce women, but with very little success. this is put down as lack of intelligence in the women. no doubt a girl who has had only a village elementary education is not the best material out of which to make a good compositor, and the wages offered are not high enough to tempt town bred girls to undergo the tedium of country life.] [sidenote: provincial experience.] the scottish compositors are organised in the scottish typographical association, which has no women members. women, particularly in edinburgh and perth, and to a smaller extent in aberdeen, have been employed to defeat the ends of the society.[ ] [footnote : see p. .] the few attempts made to organise women in the printing trades have failed. women have been introduced into these trades at times of trouble with the men's unions, and are consequently not likely to form organisations of their own. their work has been so precarious and so largely confined to the mechanical and lower grades of labour,[ ] that they have had no incentive to aspire to high standards of wages or other industrial conditions. the women employed in the actual printing processes do not seem to have regarded their work as their permanent means of livelihood to the same extent as folders, for instance, have done, and have been less interested, consequently, in improving their trade conditions; and, finally, the men's societies, for various reasons, some well-founded and some groundless, have regarded women printers as a form of cheap labour--"undercutters"--and have looked upon them as dangerous intruders. [footnote : _cf._ pp. - .] when, however, we turn to the organisation of women in the trades dealing with printed matter, especially folding and bookbinding, we find much greater collective activity and closer co-operation both amongst themselves and with the men. their trade union record is still but scanty, nevertheless, the frequent and persistent efforts of women to act jointly, without establishing a permanent organisation, form one of the characteristic features of the trade. this apparently is almost entirely due to the fact that women's labour in bookbinding, _e.g._, in folding, was accepted by the men, and that in all workshop matters women were the fellow-workers and not the rivals of the men. this distinction between printing and bookbinding is most marked and requires to be emphasised. [sidenote: organisation amongst bookbinders.] the bookbinders' organisation sprang up in - , as most organisations then did, from friendly meetings in certain houses of call. it was at first known as "the friends." in , the working day was from a.m. to p.m., with certain breaks for meals, giving, perhaps, an actual working time of twelve and a half hours per day. but in march of that year, a conference of the sections decided to ask for a reduction of an hour per day, and their petition was followed by the discharge of workmen.[ ] the employers then went further, and in may, , indicted twenty-four of the ringleaders for conspiracy. in a manifesto to the public, the men complained that their wages were only from _s._ to _s._ per week, rising in a few cases to a guinea, and proceeded to charge the employers with having "with vindictive rage forced into the sweet retreats of domestic felicity" wives who were employed in the trade. this action on the part of the employers was not prompted, however, by an objection to women, for, according to the testimony of mr. w. m. hall,[ ] one of the men indicted, an attempt was made to supply the book market as a temporary makeshift during the dispute with the imperfect work of women. he says, "i cannot remember the exact time of striking the women. this i remember, it was on account of them and the apprentices doing books in boards, by the booksellers consenting to take them so for a time, i was appointed to strike black jock's[ ] women. i went at one o'clock to see maria, his forewoman, who used to dine in the shop, she being single. i told her she must inform the other women of the injury they were doing us by continuing at work. if they were willing to serve our interest and leave their work, they should receive their wages for doing nothing. if we gained our cause, they should be sure of employ, and the advantage of the hour also. coming downstairs, i met mr. mckinley. "'well, mr. hall, are you coming to work again directly?' "'sir, if you will grant the hour----' "'come in here,' he says, going into his dining-room, and setting down a large square bottle of hollands to give me a glass, taking one himself and pouring out another. pat, pat, pat! came our ladies downstairs. 'what is all this about?' i was glad to make my escape. the six or seven women were all subpoenaed against me on the trial." [footnote : in the report of the committee on trades' societies published in by the national association for the promotion of social science, mr. dunning tells the history of the london consolidated society of bookbinders. pp. - .] [footnote : _the finishers' friendly circular_, may, , no. .] [footnote : an employer named john mckinley.] the narrative of this famous struggle--one of the most important in the history of trade unionism, involving persecution, imprisonment, and death--contains no further records of the part played by women in it, but mr. hall's reminiscence indicates how they behaved. the men were successful, and in , the working day was again reduced, so that it lasted from a.m. to p.m. presumably the women shared in these advantages, and also in that of an afternoon tea half-hour, which was theirs exclusively until , when the men, during a period of active trade and overtime, demanded the same privilege. james watson, in his "recollections,"[ ] hints that the kind indulgence of the women to the men, permitted in some shops, made the afternoon tea half-hour a general demand. "their kind friends, the ladies, while preparing for their own comfort, neglected not those of their less fortunate companions, but contrived by making their tea to accommodate them as much as possible, and the men, if not immediately under the eye of their employer, would seat themselves on the end of their presses for ten minutes or so and thus partake of it." a strike to secure the half-hour was unsuccessful, but the men gradually won their point. mr. watson tells how, after the strike, it happened that he was being engaged by one of the opposing masters. the master, "being pressed upon the point, damned the half-hour, but said i might come in and do as i liked. i accordingly accepted the situation, and at tea-time, when i prepared to sit down, i expected to be supported by the men of the shop who were well aware of my intention, but not one of them would move. i was thus placed in an awkward position, and could only turn to my good friends, the ladies, to countenance my proceedings, who kindly invited me to their tea table." in about a month, mr. watson informs us, every man in the place was following his example.[ ] [footnote : _british bookmaker_, june, .] [footnote : the friendly conduct of "the ladies" was long remembered in the trade, and was celebrated as late as in a song:-- "what we enjoy we dearly bought, and nobly they the battle fought, who--though the ladies' aid they sought, would--right or wrong--have tea. _chorus_ "then let us all our voices raise, and loudly chant to-night in praise of those who gained in byegone days, the time we have for tea."] [sidenote: the bible society controversy.] the struggle which the bookbinders fought with most pertinacity was, however, that which they waged against the religious societies--particularly the british and foreign bible society--when attempting to cheapen the production of religious literature by means which, the bookbinders contended, involved unreasonably low rates of pay. in this struggle women played a prominent part. it broke out as early as when the society for promoting christian knowledge reduced its prices and the master bookbinders working for it reduced wages. the strike which followed collapsed for want of funds. in the contest was resumed with the british and foreign bible society. that year the five houses then employed by the society reduced wages, and it appears that when the dispute was about to be settled by both sides accepting a compromise, a representative of the bible society instructed the masters to hold out. the men appealed to the society, but were told that it could not intervene. no definite settlement was ever arrived at. the first petition which the men addressed to the society in made special reference to the condition of the women workers. "your memorialists beg leave to state," they wrote, "that there are a number of females (about ) employed in binding the books of your society, the whole of whose wages have been reduced in consequence of the late alteration in the prices of these books. their wages were before very low. your memorialists respectfully submit that the making it more difficult, and in some cases impossible, for females to earn an honest subsistence, by their labour, is in the same proportion to give potency to the seducers of female virtue." reply and counter-reply were made, and the society was heartily attacked by the union with texts from scripture and reflections on applied christianity. in the defence which the society issued in , it is stated that its binders informed it that "competent and industrious men in our employ earn on an average _d._ an hour or _s._ weekly when in constant work; and women in the same description from _s._ to _s._ and upwards." mr. dunning, the union secretary, replied that he could prove that the scale given was an "entire falsehood," and published a second "address to the religious public," in which the wages paid by the principal firm were given, the average for thirteen men working out at a small fraction over a guinea per week, and of twenty-four women at _s._ _d._ per week. in the dispute was allowed to end, when the five firms promised to pay the women on timework at rates between _s._ _d._ and _s._ per week, and to work them only ten hours per day. in the society decided to give all its binding to one firm, the proprietress of which was miss watkins, and four years later the most famous dispute of the series broke out. the "controversy," as it is called in the bookbinders' records, opened by an appeal addressed to the society on august th, , by the journeymen bookbinders of london and westminster, in which it was alleged that miss watkins had returned to piecework, and that the wages she was paying to women averaged only _s._ _d._ to _s._ per week for a longer day than ten hours. learners were taken on and were discharged so soon as they were entitled to increases in wages, and a rule was said to be in operation by which, so soon as a woman worker was qualified to be paid more than _s._ a week, she was discharged. "exorbitant" fines were also imposed. "females," remarks the appeal, "often have not the power to plead their own cause in such matters, and being helpless in many respects where their wages are concerned, they are trodden down until a state of things such as described in the 'song of the shirt' appals the mind with the enormity of their injuries, their suffering, and their moral condition." the appeal contained the following table, showing the difference in wages paid to women working for the bible society and those working for the society for promoting christian knowledge. bible society for promoting society. christian knowledge. _s._ _d._ _s._ _d._ pearl bibles, per vols. ½ ruby " " ½ large pica bibles, " small " " " one of the grievances specially mentioned in this appeal was that women were not allowed hot water, except between and . p.m., and were then charged _d._ per week for it. immediately (august nd, ) after the issue of the "appeal" the women employed by miss watkins were asked to sign a statement that they were perfectly satisfied with their pay and conditions. several signed, not knowing the purport of the paper; others refused. on the advice of the men's union a counter-statement was drawn up and signed, and sent in to the bible society, and on finding that the forewoman who had taken their part, together with the active promoters of the counter-petition, were to be discharged, the women left work, and demanded:-- . that prices should be raised to the standard paid by the society for promoting christian knowledge. . that fines should be abolished. . that they should have access to cold water as well as hot for tea. . that after the learners then employed had completed their apprenticeship, not more than twenty learners should be employed at one time. about a hundred women had come out, and the men's union organised a relief fund.[ ] [footnote : it may not be amiss to copy a few sentences from mr. dunning's obituary notice in the _bookbinder's trade circular_, january st, , of the women's leader, mary e. zugg, an early and humble worker in women's organisations. "nothing could exceed the temper, moderation and firmness she displayed. possessing great energy, strong sense and great acuteness of perception, detecting at a glance pretence from reality, she was not what was termed a strong-minded woman, commanding great respect and but little affection, for her goodness of heart and great regard for the feelings and welfare of others endeared her to all." she died at the age of thirty-three of consumption on november th, , and is buried in bow cemetery.] miss watkins replied, denying every charge made by mr. dunning, and giving _s._ as the earnings for a week of sixty hours. the union replied by asking that a deputation should be allowed to inspect the wages books of the firm. it claimed to be in possession of the rates of wages paid to ninety-seven folders and sewers for three weeks in august, and gave the average as _s._ ½_d._ for a sixty-hours' week, and in other respects it supported its original charges. the _times_ of january th, , contains in its advertisement columns the report of a committee of the southwark auxiliary of the bible society, which examined miss watkins' books, and it supported her statements. the women earned from _s._ to _s._ per week. but mr. dunning was not silenced, and on march th he issued a long pamphlet, the last of the "controversy" for the time. in it, it is stated that the committee of investigation had been deceived so as to mistake wages paid for ten days as though they were paid for a week, and a table of wages for three weeks in september and october, for the week ending july th, , and for the four weeks preceding the strike, was printed.[ ] the wage average of the periods was from _s._ ½_d._ to _s._ ½_d._ per week of sixty hours. [footnote : see p. .] the agitation failed. the women either found work elsewhere, or went back under the conditions against which they had struck. mr. dunning could only say that the dispute had arrested a downward tendency in prices and wages. the dispute cost the men's union £ . this was spent mostly in printing and postage, but it included grants amounting to £ given to the separate women's committee, which had collected an additional fund of £ to aid the strikers. the finishers had strongly opposed the support which the union had given to the women, and their section, to the number of , was finally expelled from the union. but whilst this unusual harmony existed between the men's union and the women workers, no serious attempt had been made to organise the women permanently, either as members of the men's society, or in one of their own. in , in an address to the london journeymen bookbinders, a mr. benjamin teasdale, of manchester, advised the formation of a women's society, but nothing appears to have been done. in they were allowed to borrow books from the men's library on the payment of _d._ a quarter. it is impossible to ascertain how far the agreement between men and masters for a nine hours' day in really affected women, as a considerable proportion of them had been working only for nine hours before the agreement was made. [sidenote: the society of women employed in bookbinding.] not till was there a determined and successful attempt made to organise women bookbinders into a union. on september th of that year "the first society formed for women," the society of women employed in bookbinding, was formed by mrs. emma paterson, the pioneer of women's trade unions in england,[ ] and in the following year mrs. paterson was sent as its delegate to the trade union congress meeting in glasgow. this was the first time that a woman had appeared at these parliaments of trade unionism, which had been held annually since . from the commencement the relations between the men's and the women's societies were most cordial, and at the first annual meeting of the latter mrs. paterson read a letter she had received "some years ago" from mr. dunning, in which he advised "the formation of trades' societies for women." the cordial greetings extended to the new society by its brother organisation did not meet it everywhere. a congratulatory resolution was moved at the london trades' council, and though it received the support of the veteran george odger, it was met with considerable opposition. women's labour was cheap labour, and many of the delegates to the trades' council could not get beyond that fact. [footnote : mrs. paterson was born in london on april th, , and was the daughter of h. smith, headmaster of st. george's, hanover square, parish school. in she became assistant secretary to the club and institute union, and in secretary to the women's suffrage association. next year she married thomas paterson, a cabinet-maker and wood carver. with him she visited america where she saw the female umbrella makers' union at work. on her return to london in she formed the women's protective and provident league, the membership of which was mainly middle class, though its object was to promote trade unionism amongst women. she died december st, , and was buried in the paddington cemetery. see art. _dictionary of national biography_.] it is unnecessary to detail the somewhat uneventful career of the union. mrs. paterson, at the end of eighteen months, was succeeded by miss eleanor whyte, who still occupies the position of secretary.[ ] the membership began at and reached --of whom only were financial members--at the end of the first year. from that time till now the membership has been exceedingly variable, and no full and reliable records seem to exist. but from the disconnected information which is at our disposal, it would appear that the two most successful years of the society were (when new members were enrolled), and (when were enrolled). in the membership was given at ; in at ; in at ; in at ; the period of depression from to seems to have tried the society very severely. [footnote : december, .] the objects of this society are stated to be: "to maintain and protect the rights and privileges of the trade and to grant relief to such members as may be out of work, or afflicted with illness." the subscription is _d._ per week, and an entrance fee of _s._ is imposed. it can hardly be expected that a society whose membership has probably never exceeded , could have much fighting force. but agitation has never been the policy of the society. it has refused to join with the men in making demands upon the employers; its representatives at trade union congresses and elsewhere have steadily resisted legal restrictions upon labour; it has not shown itself anxious to seize what the men regarded as opportunities to make itself felt.[ ] [footnote : in the women's society refused to support the men's in agitating for an eight-hours' day. in mrs. paterson said at the trade union congress that "the more they pressed for additional legislation the greater obstacles they threw in the way of working women. she should rather say let them suffer a little longer the evils of overwork and long hours." the union's representatives, however, have always pressed for women factory inspectors, and on this matter mrs. paterson was for a good many years a voice crying in the wilderness.] perhaps the union has been too willing to make requests to good employers for better conditions, and too timorous in helping to level up the general conditions of the trade. employers have not been hostile. mr. b. collins, the publisher, for instance, presided over the annual meeting for , and mr. longmans and other publishers have done the same in other years. "i know an employer," says a writer in the _british bookmaker_ of september, , "who will give £ to see a good women's union established. why? because if it could be done, its effect upon other employers would remove the gross inequalities of prices that at present exist to his detriment." but this union has never reached that point of strength when it could bring pressure to bear on the trade for the mutual advantage of the good employer and the woman worker. as a consequence, the good relations between the men and the women in the trade have not always been maintained, and there was considerable ill-feeling between the two sections during the eight hours' agitation from to .[ ] [footnote : it should be noted, however, that the sentiment amongst the women as a whole was friendly during the eight hours' agitation, although the society was taking no part in it officially. a writer in the _british bookmaker_ for december, , tells how all the women in the lacing department of messrs. waterlow's (hill street) struck on a certain job, and how "at another place as i stood with the pickets outside, about five o'clock one cold afternoon, i saw something descending from an upper storey and found it was a quart of hot tea for the benumbed men on duty below, lowered out by a string from the women's shop."] at the present moment this society is regarded by both men and women mainly as a benefit club. in this respect it has been most successful and has paid with excellent regularity. [sidenote: the book-folders' union.] an attempt was made in to start another union for women engaged in folding in printing houses. the sponsor of the new society was the printers' and stationers' warehousemen's and cutters' union. it is a significant fact, and one which throws a great deal of light upon the very little which one section of workers knows even of those working at their elbow, that the organisers of the new union were quite unaware of the existence of the women bookbinders' society. the new society, which called itself the book-folders' union, was started during the flood of trade union sentiment which followed the london dock strike in , and its membership grew rapidly. within five months of its formation it is said to have numbered ,[ ] and later on the figure of was quoted. a popular employer, mrs. bond, had been elected secretary, and an assistant was appointed at a wage of _s._ per week. this new union was determined to be as active as the older one had been inactive. it demanded a minimum wage of _s._, time-and-a-quarter pay for overtime, and "no apprentices." it also demanded exemption from the nightwork prohibition clauses of the factory and workshop acts. but the union was doomed to an early and ignominious end. during the absence of the secretary the finances became hopelessly involved, and a deficit in cash decided the members to close the whole matter.[ ] [footnote : _women's trade union journal_, january th, .] [footnote : the fact that all definite recollection of this union is passing away, and that for the above information we have had to rely upon the memory of two ladies who were indirectly interested in it, throws some light upon the carelessness in industrial matters of the woman worker. no minutes nor other documents can be found. "the person who had them, married," and that was taken to have settled the matter.] the society would not even formally amalgamate with the older society, partly owing to differences in method, and partly to its disgust with its failure and disgrace. [sidenote: national book-folders and kindred trades union.] one more attempt to found a fighting women's union was made in by the printing and kindred trades federation. all women employed in the printing and kindred trades were to be eligible for membership. the attempt arose out of two disputes. in one, the women employed by a certain firm had successfully struck for an increase of wages and against certain conditions of labour; in the second, women had come out to show their sympathy with some locked-out men.[ ] in recognition of the women's "courage and loyalty" the men promoted the union. in a month or two its membership stood at , and by march , members had joined. the membership at the end of was , mostly book-folders, and the following points are prominent in the union's demands:-- . to obtain and maintain the recognised minimum scale of pay for every member; . to reduce hours of labour; . to regulate the relations between employers and employed. [footnote : it is interesting to note that whilst the cheapness of women's work as compositors in edinburgh seems to have attracted a certain class of work from london, the men's success in keeping up wages in the london bookbinding trade does not seem to have driven bookbinding into the provinces. there are one or two bookbinding firms in the provinces and in scotland which employ girls, but mainly upon diary and account book work, the book trade being practically untouched. _cf._ f.n., - .] it had no sick benefits, but paid £ at death, and offered strike pay on condition that the strike was sanctioned by the committee. the reserve fund in was under £ . in the society approached the printers' and stationers' warehousemen praying to be recognised as a branch of that union. a ballot of the men was taken, when voted that the request be granted and that it be not. the women's society has therefore ceased to exist as a separate organisation. [sidenote: the manchester society.] a manchester society,[ ] "the manchester and salford society of women employed in the bookbinding and printing trades" has gained some definite success in increasing wages during its six years of existence. in its third annual report, , it is stated that in may, , the society began an attempt to increase wages to a _s._ minimum after a three or four years' apprenticeship, that as a consequence the wages of forty girls were raised in september from _s._ to _s._, and that subsequently thirty others received the shilling advance. in its next report, - , it states, without giving the number of girls affected, that "they now all receive _s._ and _s._ per week, where, prior to joining the union, they earned _s._ and _s._ per week." next year the membership was , and the last issued report, , whilst stating that "a slight increase of membership" had taken place during the year, gives no figures. "losses through marriage and other circumstances," the report says, "have been great," and the society is kept going mainly by the devotion of one or two persons.[ ] [footnote : the existing society is the second attempt to organise the women in these trades in manchester.] [footnote : the last balance sheet gives at a glance the position of this society, and indicates its activities:-- balance sheet for the year ending april th, .-- _income._ £ _s._ _d._ to balance from april th, ½ " contributions " bank interest ---------------- £ ½ ================ _expenditure._ £ _s._ _d._ by sick pay " out-of-work pay " printing " postages " secretary's salary " collector's commission " grant to women's trades council " grant to treasurer " auditing accounts " deputation expenses ---- -- ---- " cash in bank on april th, " cash in hands of secretary ½ ---------------- £ ½] ================ attempts have been made to organise women elsewhere as, for instance, in edinburgh, where a union of women compositors existed for a year; also in birmingham, where ten years ago a union was formed specially to include the machine-rulers who had been introduced about ten years previously. but the movements have failed. such is the record of the organisation of women in the trades with which we are dealing. it is almost exclusively confined to london and manchester, and in london, out of , women connected with bookbinding, most of whom are book and paper-folders, certainly not more than are organised. in , in the seven men's unions covering these trades there were , members, whilst the total membership of the women's unions was well under , . [sidenote: maintaining standards without organisation.] our enquiries have discovered, however, the existence of a kind of loose organisation of majority-rule and custom in some firms. standards of prices and conditions are thus kept up. it must not be forgotten that where men and women work together all concessions won by the men's unions are shared by women, as for instance, when the typographical association of scotland secured a fifty hours' week for aberdeen compositors. this is an interesting feature of feminine methods. in one house we came across two collating-rooms, one of which was staffed by older hands, who stood upon their dignity and would not accept inferior work or tolerate reductions in wages. the other room was conducted after the methods of the ordinary employer of cheap women's labour; the workpeople were careless and casual and the room had no traditions and no industrial "public opinion." this force of opinion, which assumes almost the nature of caste, is most strongly developed amongst job hands. these women manage to keep up a comparatively high standard of pay, and we have discovered the most unusual circumstance that in one or two instances the wages of job women have been cut down to the union rates. we have been told on most trustworthy authority that the unwritten laws of these job hands are sometimes enforced upon recalcitrant work-women by "a hiding." [sidenote: organisation in the miscellaneous trades.] as regards organisation in the more miscellaneous trades included in our investigation, little has to be said. a few card mounters once joined the women's printing and kindred trades union after a strike, but soon fell away, and a union started in , of which little information can now be obtained, included some envelope makers: but by it, too, seems to have died. no attempt has been made to organise women engaged in the preparation of materials for printing either in london or the provinces. [sidenote: the attitude of employers.] the attitude of employers and employed to trade unions at the present moment is most varied. naturally, a good many employers are in no mood to encourage unions, because they do not know what might happen if the women's organisations became as strong as the men's. but, on the other hand, a considerable number of employers working under fair conditions and doing a trade of good quality, would welcome combination. it would help them against their cutting competitors, and they do not object to meet the reasonable demands of their women. in thirty-four cases employers were not aware of the existence of a union at all. fourteen forewomen knew about a union, eleven denied its existence.[ ] in no instance in london was a non-union woman bookbinder discovered who knew of the existence of both the unions, though the majority of the women knew of the existence of one or the other. [footnote : it is important to note in connection with this point that the power of a forewoman over women is generally more unquestioned than that of a foreman over men.] [sidenote: the women's attitude.] we were anxious to find out why they did not join. some spoke with scorn of the older union because it was only a benefit society; others said, "no use in joining; you get nothing out of it;" others thought it dangerous; others suspected all unions; others frankly admitted that marriage was sure to come along, and then they would work in factories and workshops no longer. an eloquent commentary upon this sentiment is to be found in the figures extracted from the factory inspector's annual reports and printed in chapter ii. when one works out from these tables the proportion between the males of over years of age and the total number of males employed in the various trades and compares it with that of the females, it will be found that a comparatively excessive percentage of the latter are under years of age. the same point is brought out with more emphasis and detail in appendix vii. the women do not, in fact, feel it necessary to organise themselves, and a manager of a co-operative printing works, where membership of a union is compulsory upon women, informed us that they grumble when they are made to join and surrender their membership as soon as they can. the notes of some of the conversations reported are valuable indications of the mind of the woman wage-earner in this respect. we can only say in conclusion that, in the first place, women do not take that strenuous interest in their labour conditions which is essential to successful organisation. in the second place, it appears that, except at occasional times of dispute, their work is so well marked off from that of men, that the men's unions in these trades are coming more and more to the conclusion that it does not pay them to organise the women. in the third place, we have been surprised to find that the great majority of employers and of their women employées assume that wages are fixed and that any effort to alter them by organisation will be doomed to failure.[ ] our investigators have been given instance after instance of both increase and reduction in wages, but the general tenor of conversation is a pessimist and listless view that whatever _is_, is fixed. [footnote : _cf._ p. .] chapter iv. _men and women as workers._ [sidenote: do women displace men?] one of the most important questions relating to women as workers is the exact relationship between their work and that of men, _i.e._, how far they are rivals in competition and how far they are helpers in co-operation. in some of these trades, such as that of the lithographic artists, this question has never arisen, because women have rarely entered the trade. only five instances of women working as lithographic artists are known to the head of st. bride's institute. but that men and women have been rivals from time to time is placed beyond doubt, although it must always be remembered that the same work nominally is not always the same work actually.[ ] [footnote : men feeders, for instance, carry formes and do little things about the machine which women do not do. in one instance it was reported that a firm with a london and a country house, employed women in the latter to do binding done by men in the former. on enquiry it was found that the heavy work was done in london and the light work in the country. an interesting case in point is reported by a scottish investigator. "stated that in another workshop a man had been displaced at a paper-ruling machine and two girls taken on instead. i took special note of this case when visiting the workshop in question later. there were two girls employed at the machine, but they appeared to be working along with the manager of that department, who was supervising it." but there is work, such as the minding of platen machines which men do in london but which women do in edinburgh and aberdeen.] gold laying for cloth binding has, within the last quarter of a century, become the work of women who have taken the place of old "finishers" in some bookbinding firms,[ ] and at dunstable women are reported as doing binding throughout. women are employed as compositors much more frequently in the provinces than in london. in edinburgh and aberdeen, for instance, women are reported as being engaged in every process, except making-up and the heavy work of carrying type, in which men alone are employed. type-setting and distribution of type are often done by women in scotland. in some of the edinburgh printing establishments women do practically the same work as men. the extensive employment of women during the compositors' strike in edinburgh in to secure a fifty-one hours' working week[ ] was the result of the determination of the employers to defeat the typographical association, and at least one firm in london tried the same policy during the bookbinders' strike for an eight-hours' day in though apparently with no success. the enthusiasts for the introduction of women into the printing trades had for some time been trying to get a hold upon edinburgh printing offices, but had failed until the strike of . an enterprising employer then trained some girls from the merchant company's schools--a better class of girls whom we find described sometimes as "stickit teachers"--to compose. the results were satisfactory, and the example was speedily followed. the strike failed and the displacement of men continued. [footnote : reporting to their members in may, , the wages committee of the london society of journeymen bookbinders (third report) state regarding the award just given on certain points of dispute between the unions and the employers: "the right of employment of women in laying-on of gold has also been awarded against us, notwithstanding that no part of the proceedings evoked more strenuous opposition from your representatives. the hands of your delegates were weakened by the fact that the practice already existed: in some cases had crept in, and in others been extended unawares; yet they strove to preserve the right of the workman, whilst willing and anxious that the supercession of the workwoman, where she had been introduced, should be gradual and considerate.--the argument for the employers is that the employment of women on the class of gold laying-on indicated, will enable them fairly to compete in other fields, and will tend to increase men's work instead of to reduce it. this view, the arbitrator adopted."] [footnote : so also in aberdeen. "about a dozen years ago during a dispute about apprentices, seventeen men and three or five boys went out, and girls were then taken on."] [sidenote: the perth dispute.] something similar happened in perth, where twenty-five years ago four girls were taken into the newspaper department of the offices of the _perthshire advertiser_. about seven years ago they were introduced into a commercial printing office, and a year later the _perthshire constitutional_ began to employ them on general bookwork and setting-up newspaper copy, the proprietor claiming that he had the same right as the other offices to have cheap female labour. thus the practice threatened to spread throughout the other commercial printing offices, and the men's union thought it was time to bestir itself. it decided that the women must either be paid the same rates as the men or be got rid of altogether. this ultimatum was sent to the employers. the _constitutional_ complied with the demands of the union and dismissed its women workers. the _advertiser_ at first proposed gradually to replace the girls by men in the commercial department, but to continue to run the newspaper department by female labour. the proprietor contended that this would not give him an unfair advantage over the other firms, as they employed linotype machines. the union then decided to strike, and took thirty men out of the _advertiser_ office. four remained in, and some other non-union men were also engaged. the office continues to work under this system. [sidenote: value of women's work.] there has also been trouble in grimsby ( ), owing to the employment of women on a bi-weekly newspaper, at redhill ( - ), and at reading ( ). other places where the typographical association report women to be employed are, louth (lincolnshire), aylesbury, beccles, fakenham, warrington,[ ] etc.; whilst in birmingham the experiment was tried about , but has been abandoned. they are also employed at bungay, but in decreasing numbers, because their proofs require so much more correcting than the men's that the valuable time thus lost is not compensated for by the cheapness of their labour. the same is true of edinburgh, where their wages have fallen from a rate of _s._ _d._ to _s._ per average page. in leicester a firm tried to employ women in distributing type at low rates of pay, but a protest from the local executive of the typographical association led immediately to the experiment being discontinued. there is an almost unanimous chorus of opinion that women's work as compositors is so inferior to men's that it does not pay in the long run. from the days of miss faithfull's experiments, the men have been able to boast that women could not touch them at the case. in aberdeen the unwillingness of boys to submit to a long apprenticeship and the fear of parents that the linotype has spoiled the typographical trade, are said to be the main reasons necessitating the employment of women compositors. [footnote : women were introduced into warrington newspaper offices early in the decade beginning with . they have been found to be quicker than men in plain setting-up and simple straightforward work. they do not stay very long--the eldest girl compositor employed, when our investigator called, being only twenty-five. they are not employed in locking the formes; nor curiously enough are they employed in the machine-room to feed the printing presses, though they are so engaged in manchester. the women compositors are paid one-third of the men's rate. here it was definitely stated that the cheapness of women's labour made it unnecessary to introduce linotypes.] [sidenote: the men's view.] men in these trades have never looked upon women competitors with a friendly eye, the reason being that so many branches are just on the margin line of those occupations which are so light and easily picked up that women can supplant men in them altogether.[ ] the typographical association for over a quarter of a century has had to carry on a constant struggle with the employers in order to protect the journeymen printers against three forms of cheap labour--apprentices, unskilled men and women.[ ] employers in a small way of business, maintaining establishments on little capital, where efficiency is not high, employ women on work done in larger and better equipped establishments exclusively by men. here there is rivalry and competition, and women are preferred mainly because they accept lower wages, and because they are not members of unions;[ ] and their lack of technical skill is not found to be a sufficient counterpoise to these advantages. but in these places an inferior kind of work is done, and if men were employed they would either have to accept wages below the generally enforced scale, or the whole character of the work and organisation of the business would have to be changed. [footnote : it is interesting to note that an official of the lithographic printers' society, entitled to explain the attitude of the union, stated, "the lithographic society distinctly encourages girls; when boys feed the machines they are apt to pick up too much and want to become litho-printers before going through the apprenticeship. the women, not desiring to become litho-printers, are better from the society's point of view."] [footnote : this is the real opposition which the men offer to women. in perth and bungay, for instance, the women put in a bill at the end of each week, worked out on the men's scale of rates. the cashier then divides the total by two and pays the women accordingly. in edinburgh women's piece rates for composing average about two-thirds those of men. at warrington, women do machine-ruling for prices ranging from _s._ to _s._, whilst men are paid _s._ for the same work. a more definite statement is made by a manchester employer. he estimated that a woman was two-thirds as valuable in a printer's and stationer's warehouse as a man, and she was paid _s._ or _s._ to his _s._ a further example of this is given in connection with a scottish firm executing government work. "as the government insists upon the men's union price being paid, the work is being done by men, although in the ordinary way it would have been done by women." "but they would never allow the women," said our informant of her employers, "to make such big money as that."] [footnote : this is why the typographical association offers a steady resistance to the employment of women. it does not object to them as women, but as forms of cheap and unskilled labour.] [sidenote: apparent rivalry.] in the better equipped houses, where women are employed on work generally done by men, as in composing, only parts of a compositor's duty are performed by women, and the heavier or the more technical duties, such as carrying about the formes or imposing, are done as a rule by boys or men.[ ] so that here the rivalry is but partial, and, moreover, the employment of women does not always pay. it appears that in some cases, particularly in bookbinding, the application of machinery[ ] makes it possible for the less skilled and lower paid women to do work formerly done by men, so that men regard women _plus_ the machine as their competitor. on the other hand machines have displaced women and have made new openings for men, as in the case of one of the most recently introduced folding machines which feeds itself. but the re-organisation of the workshop which follows the introduction of the machine cannot be regarded merely as a substitution of men's labour by women's or the opposite, for what really happens is an all-round shifting of the distribution of labour-power and skill, and a re-arrangement of the subdivision of labour.[ ] men are transferred from one kind of work to another, owing mainly to a change in the volume of production; women are introduced not so much to take men's places as to fill places created by the re-organisation of work; youths also find a footing more often at the expense of women than of men. at certain points the machine simplifies processes and abolishes the need of paying for skill in the worker; at others it makes skill (sometimes, perhaps, a new kind of skill) more necessary; at one point it abolishes the need of paying for strength, at another it makes a new opening for strength. thus the displacement which occurs, and the competition set up are often more apparent than real. [footnote : as a type of the reports from firms employing women compositors, the following from edinburgh firms may be summarised: seven girls are employed on each machine (monotype), five on the keyboards and two correcting proofs. a man is kept for every ten or twelve girls, his work being to "make up" the girls' work. another firm employs a man to attend to every three monotype machines used, for the purpose of keeping things going. another says it employs two men compositors and one labourer for thirty-eight girls.] [footnote : machinery has also tended to increase the employment of women in stamping and embossing.] [footnote : an official of a bookbinders' union states: "in a works there was much gloom among the men when the rounding and backing machine came in; profitable work was taken away from the 'rounders' and 'backers,' but they had more 'lining-up' and other work to do in consequence, so nobody was turned off."] [sidenote: a miscellaneous survey.] in the more miscellaneous trades over which this enquiry ranged a considerable mass of evidence points to the displacement of men by women. general statements to this effect are common in the evidence of both employers and employed. in firm a. it is alleged that women do the same work in card mounting as used to be done by men, and are paid _s._ for work which used to be paid for at _s._ paging and numbering used to be men's work, but is now almost exclusively done by women. plain relief stamping and black bordering have also drifted into the hands of women, whilst in various directions, such as the making and binding of cases, wrappering, or feeding printing and particularly lithographic machines, women are beginning to encroach upon men. these displacements are very often only local. manchester has one experience; edinburgh another. leeds was agitated because women were displacing men on a french ruling machine, whilst elsewhere no similar move was taking place. but it must be emphasised again that in many of these instances careful enquiry shows that when men were employed they did something that the women do not now do,[ ] and that the employment of women was owing to an increased volume of trade, when new machinery or some other change had made a greater subdivision of labour possible and profitable. in some cases girls displace boys for no other reason than that boys cannot be found to do the work; this was the case in manchester some ten years ago, when girls took the place of boys in letterpress work. [footnote : an edinburgh employer put that in this way: "if women were paid the same rates as men they would have to pay for their overseers and assistants."] [sidenote: conclusions.] generally, the results of our investigations show the following summary of the advantages and disadvantages of women's labour to the employer, and their employment in preference to men depends upon how far in any given case or under any given circumstances the balance of these advantages and disadvantages is on the side of the women--or, it must also be said, how far the employer is bound by conservative use and wont so as to be protected against any impulse to employ the best organisation for the efficient conduct of his business. the advantages of the woman worker are:-- . that she will accept low wages; she usually works for about half the men's wages. . that she is not a member of a union, and is, therefore, more amenable to the will of the employer as the absolute rule of the workshop. . that she is a steady[ ] worker (much emphasis must not be placed upon this, as the contrary is also alleged), and nimble at mechanical processes, such as folding and collecting sheets. [footnote : "in mr. w----'s youth, men used to do all the card mounting. women were introduced for it about twenty-nine years ago. they were brought in because the men drank so and kept away." but later on the same informant said that he had to introduce a varnishing machine because women "kept away so."] . that she will do odd jobs which lead to nothing.[ ] [footnote : birmingham boys, for instance, would not feed printing machines, because it "leads to nothing," so girls were employed. _cf._ aberdeen, p. , etc.] her disadvantages are:-- . that she has less technical skill than a man, and is not so useful all round. . that she has less strength at work and has more broken time owing to bad health and, especially should she be married, domestic duties, and that her output is not so great as that of a man.[ ] [footnote : an employer with considerable experience both of men and women in the printing trade in scotland, says, "given a certain area of floor space for men and women, on the former would probably be produced half more than on the latter."] . that she is more liable to leave work just when she is getting most useful; or, expressing this in a general way, that there are more changes in a crowd of women workers than in a crowd of men workers. . that employers object to mixed departments.[ ] [footnote : , , and , together lead london employers to conclude that an extension of women's employment is impossible, because it would mean larger workshops in proportion to the numbers employed, and consequently ruinous rents.] one interesting point must be noted in connection with these conclusions. in london, where women mainly work on the more unskilled and irregular processes, it is often difficult to see what industrial influence they are exerting. in edinburgh or aberdeen that is not so much the case. and one thing which is observable in these places is that the employment of women of itself leads to those minute subdivisions of labour characteristic of machine industry. "there are more subdivisions of labour amongst women than amongst men in the printing trade. for example, one girl will set-up the type, another will "brass-out" (put in heads and finish it), or two may sometimes be employed in finishing it."[ ] [footnote : so in bookbinding. a dundee manager of a general binding establishment, says: "the subdivision of labour system has certainly favoured the increased employment of women in the trade."] cheap, mechanical and light work consequently tends to be done by women, whilst the men enjoy almost undisputed possession of the rest. the woman worker, for instance, competes with the man in binding the cheap light note-book, whilst she rarely interferes with him in binding heavy ledgers.[ ] on the other hand, in some of the more mechanical departments, such as examining sheets of paper by touch, she attains a wonderful dexterity. [footnote : the following report from aberdeen gives an interesting account of the subdivision of labour in a firm which has introduced women for cloth-case making: "the department where girls are beginning to encroach on men is in cloth-case work, that is, making the cases and putting them on. in the higher reaches of the trade the women do not show themselves to be so skilful. as yet the men's unions have not shown much active opposition to women's work in this branch, provided always that one man is set to work with every five girls employed on it. the making of a 'case' is divided into five sections and illustrates the modern development of the division of labour system. st girl glues. nd girl lays on boards. man cuts corners. rd girl turns in ends. th girl turns in fore-edge. th girl (young) puts it through rolling machine."] we have also to note how very effectively conservative notions about women's sphere and chivalrous prejudices about protecting them, influence certain employers in determining what work they _ought_ to do. [sidenote: technical training.] we have endeavoured to ascertain how far technical training would increase the pressure of competition between men and women, but in the present rudimentary state of such training there are few data to guide us to any very positive conclusion. it is difficult, however, to see how in these trades the technical training of women would threaten men, except perhaps in the artistic branches. the use of the various mechanical type-setting machines has already led to some displacement of labour, and though the _technique_ of setting and spacing might be taught to women in trade classes, the greater regularity of the male worker, and his remaining longer at the trade must always, in so skilled an industry as this, give him advantages over his female competitor. nor would classes for women in bookbinding injure men bookbinders. for in this as in other trades women are not handicapped only by a want of skill, and if they attended classes, presumably they would be taught chiefly the arts and crafts side of bookbinding, and thus be led into branches of the trade at present undeveloped. [sidenote: "use and wont."] moreover, a curious fact has to be kept in mind. women workers are so lethargic that they are largely governed by use and wont. no remark is more frequent in the investigators' reports, than one to this effect, "that is men's work. why? we do not know, but it _is_ men's work, and we do not think about it." in some instances this use and wont is based on experience; in others, as in the backwardness of london employers in putting women to feed lithographic machines, its rational explanation is not obvious.[ ] in this respect the women themselves are very "loyal." "once the employer wanted her," writes an investigator, "to varnish books, and offered her _s._ a book: she has a steady hand and could have done it quite well. it meant following a delicate zig-zag pattern with a paint brush. she refused indignantly, and said, 'i know my place and i'm not going to take men's work from them.'" and, again, a rigid sense of propriety, based on a certain amount of good reason, seems to determine many employers to separate male from female departments without further question.[ ] [footnote : except perhaps, as has been suggested, that the premises where lithographic work is done are generally so unsuitable for the employment of women.] [footnote : a similar division exists in women's work; certain kinds are done by women of an inferior social grade, _e.g._, machine-feeding, and these are strictly kept at arm's length by women working in different departments in the same factory.] [sidenote: girls _v._ women.] so much is heard of women as rivals of men that we forget that women themselves are often preyed upon by still cheaper rivals, and the real value of technical training for women seems to lie in the fact that such training might protect them against these. owing to the unskilled nature of their work, however, even technical education can afford to them only an unsatisfactory security against younger and cheaper persons. one of the investigators, for instance, reports:-- "it is the regular custom in a.'s now to have little girls at _s._ and _s._ a week doing work which women at _s._ and _s._ ought to do. they put a little girl beside a regular hand, and as soon as the little one masters the work [show-card mounting is being reported upon], they discharge the big one. when the little one asks for a rise, they give her _d._ or _s._ more, and when she wants still more, she goes." figures follow showing that just under one-ninth of the women employed in this department at a.'s are "old hands." then the report proceeds: "a. discharged about forty hands on the plea of slackness a little while ago, and then put up bills for learners." the investigators found that amongst the employées there was a very widespread opinion that "the learners always get all the best work," and that one of the regular features of the trade is, that it employs a large fluctuating number of learners, whilst a smaller number of skilled hands are kept in tolerably regular work.[ ] [footnote : this, however, is not a problem special to women's work, but is one of general industrial conditions, although it is marked with special distinctness in the case of women.] the old hands occasionally object to teach the young ones, but nothing comes of their opposition to a system by which they are compelled to train their own executioners. chapter v. _industrial training._ . the training. [sidenote: how girls are taught.] at the present moment such training as is given generally begins in the workshops so soon as the girl has left school.[ ] girls are, in the best houses, employed on the recommendation of workers already there. much of the work, such as folding, is merely a matter of mechanical quickness and accuracy, and after a few weeks' practice the girl is as useful as she is ever likely to have an opportunity to be. a great deal of the work women do in stationery factories (such as stamping, black bordering, numbering pages) is of a routine nature, and this work is generally paid by the piece. for such departments, no premium is asked as a rule.[ ] sometimes the beginner is paid a small wage-- _s._ _d._ or thereabouts--to encourage her at first. sometimes she works a few weeks for nothing.[ ] sometimes she has to pay a tuition fee to the woman under whose charge she is put. sometimes this woman gives her a small sum as a gift in respect of the help she renders. some firms make the training period fairly long, in order that it may be impossible for the lower class of girls to accept the conditions of employment. by-and-by the learner is paid half of what she earns, and finally she is put on regular piecework, her advancement depending on her nimbleness. if she is in a large house she is only taught one process, but if quick, and employed in a smaller house, she may be taught several. in almost every instance she is put upon piecework as soon as possible after she begins. in an overwhelming number of cases the beginners are simply placed beside a regular hand, and pick up their skill by watching the old hand and then turning and doing it themselves. the girl who "picked up vellum-sewing and wire-stitching" whilst engaged as a folder, and she who was transferred from tie-making to stitching and folding, are types. the phrase "serving her time" survives, but the apprenticeship which is indicated hardly now exists. [footnote : "a boy learns nothing after fifteen, a girl after fourteen," is the way one employer puts it.] [footnote : very few premiums are reported upon. in one case it was said that £ were asked as a premium in relief stamping, but the informant admitted that the sum varied; in another well-known stationery firm a premium of £ is asked for, but is returned with per cent. interest at the end of three years. the premiums of £ or £ charged by certain bookbinding teachers are of course quite special.] [footnote : leading london high-class stationery firm:--_paging department._--girls come for a few months for nothing, _i.e._ six months, no premium. they go on getting quicker. _lithographic department._ girls come in and pick it up: show one another how to do it. _vellum-binding department._ girls come for three years and are paid _s._ per week. leading educational supply firm: _copybook and similar work._ "has several little girls running about on errands for a few shillings a week, and if any of them seem promising they are helped on. training nothing like what it used to be; girls learn only one branch." large london printing firm:--_vellum-sewing department._ "regular apprenticeship still the system here." three years given as the period for training and during this time no wages are paid. girls come straight from school. _folding, etc., department._ "no regular apprenticeship. girls come in and pick it up; if quick they are taught other branches, like numbering, relief stamping, etc." london stationery firm: _envelope folding and hand-cementing department._ "girls are put under an experienced party to whom they pay _s._ for six weeks, they receive nothing. for next six weeks they receive half earnings, then they are put on piecework." _black bordering._ "a regular hand teaches and gets any benefit of the work during six months in return for the time she wastes in teaching." this practice is also adopted in some firms in envelope folding by hand. london publishing firm: _bookbinding department._ "system of indenture has just been revived because it was found that otherwise the firm had no hold over the girls, so that the quick ones as soon as they had learnt went off elsewhere as full earners." indenture for two years. an ex-forewoman in bookbinding, who knew the london trade well, stated that much less trouble is taken with learners now than formerly. in her own case she was apprenticed without indentures for two years, and learned "all the branches right through," old work included. another forewoman in work stated she was in training for four years: two years at bookbinding, one year at vellum work, and one year at stationery.] of the firms about which we have information for bookwork and printers' folding, seven require a three years' training; twenty, two years; thirty-three, one and a half years; nineteen, one year; two, fifteen months; and seven, periods under a year. eleven firms have no settled apprenticeship time, advancement depending entirely on the quickness of the learner. in places where gold laying-on is done the same time is usually served as for the other branches, _i.e._, from a few weeks to three years. in the case of vellum work, seven firms require three years; eight, two years; three, one and a half years; one, one and a half to two years; two, six months; and eight, no settled time. in some of these firms, however, a genuine attempt to teach apprentices is made;[ ] and in at least one large and well-known london house the system of indenture has been revived, owing to the difficulty which was experienced in retaining girls after they became competent. on the other hand, several well-known firms have ceased to employ learners because they are too troublesome, and depend upon women trained elsewhere. but we have found that in only a very few cases is the beginner, whether an apprentice or not, thoroughly taught every process of her trade. she is generally put to one process and kept at it, so that the mechanical dexterity she may acquire is in no sense genuine trade skill.[ ] this distinction between trade skill and mechanical dexterity in one process must be kept in mind as a fundamental consideration in every problem concerning the woman wage-earner. [footnote : apprenticeship is still common in vellum-sewing where skill and intelligence are required, and in places where women are doing more than supplementary work, _e.g._ edinburgh, a regular period of training varying from two to four years is agreed upon. apprenticeship seems to be most common in scotland. in london our investigation into vellum work, printers' folding, and bookwork only discovered seven indentured women apprentices, two of these being engaged in vellum work. curiously enough in paper-staining firms, although the processes are practically unskilled, indentures are signed for two years; the girl receives _s._ a week for the first year and a portion of her piece earnings for the second year. at the end of two years she is a full wage-earner and is paid by piece rates. what her earnings are it is difficult to discover; _s._ _d._ was given as an average, but this is probably too high. it is reported that she may make _d._ in less than an hour when the colours are mixed and she is finishing a job, whereas next day she will spend the whole morning before she earns her _d._] [footnote : _e.g._, one of the large stationery firms in london reports regarding machine ruling: "girls come in and feed the machinery, and afterwards rise to wet the flannel. they never mind the machines, _e.g._, arrange pens and so on." another interesting note is, "men nearly always do illuminating, _e.g._, stamping crests, etc., in more than one colour, on notepaper, as the process requires more skill than women possess. if the women did it, the ladies would not like their notepaper." an employer defended the employment of women on the grounds of his own experience of one woman who "had been working at a secret process for years, and there is no fear of the secret being betrayed as she is without understanding or interest for the machine."] the question of how much a girl learns during her time is a vital one. much depends on the forewoman. as one of the workers put it, "how much you learn depends on the forelady, and whether she takes a fancy to you; some girls will have a turn at everything, others only learn sewing or folding. dress makes a great difference; the poorer you are, the less chance you have of getting on." the obverse of this from the forewoman's point of view is that "girls if quick are taught all branches, but with some girls it is all you can do to teach them one." it seems the general opinion amongst all the older hands that the "training is not what it used to be;" and, certainly, the few instances we have come across of women who can do bookwork, vellum work, and also stationery work, are amongst the older hands. the complaint, however, that the trade was not properly taught, occurs in the evidence given to the commission of , when it seemed to be one of the principal grievances complained of. masters, it was said by one worker, often took girls, pretended to teach them, and discharged them at the end of their time, when they had to go elsewhere to learn. three girls gave evidence that they were tricked into serving from three to eight months for nothing, and came away no wiser. at another shop the employer expatiated on the thoroughness of the training offered by him; but seven of his journeywomen, aged nineteen, eighteen, seventeen, and sixteen, declared indignantly that they had not learnt their business thoroughly, and would never have gone to him if they had known his methods. the truth apparently is that in , as to-day, some firms are better for apprentices than others, and that a generation ago a good firm doing general work offered better opportunities for training than good firms conducted under up-to-date conditions can now give. the following table shows the changes that have been made in the conditions of apprenticeship by certain leading london firms. +----------------------------------------------------------------+ | table showing changes in period, etc., of training | | in particular firms in london.[ ] | +-------------------+---------+-------------+--------------------+ | | period | premium | wages (per week) | | | | and | during | | | | indentures. | apprenticeship. | +-------------------+---------+-------------+--------------------+ | . stationer's. | +-------------------+---------+-------------+--------------------+ | commission | years | -- | -- | +-------------------+---------+-------------+--------------------+ | years ago | years | no premium | months no pay. | +-------------------+---------+-------------+--------------------+ | years ago | ½ | no premium, | months no pay, | | | years | no | months half | | | | indentures | pay. | +-------------------+---------+ +--------------------+ | at present | ½ | | months _s._, | | time[ ] | years | | months half pay. | +-------------------+---------+-------------+--------------------+ | . stationer's. | +-------------------+---------+-------------+--------------------+ | years ago | years | no premium, | year no pay, | | | | no | year half pay. | +-------------------+---------+ indentures +--------------------+ | till recently | year | | months no pay, | | | | | months half pay. | +-------------------+---------+ +--------------------+ | at present time | | | months _s._, | | | months | | months half pay. | +-------------------+---------+-------------+--------------------+ | . publisher's. | +-------------------+---------+-------------+--------------------+ | till recently | years | no premium, | months _s._, | | | | no | months _s._ | | | | indentures | _d._, | | | | | months _s._, | | | | | months half pay. | +-------------------+---------+ +--------------------+ | at present time | ½ | | months _s._ | | | years | | _d._, | | | | | months _s._, | | | | | months half pay. | +-------------------+---------+-------------+--------------------+ | . bookbinder's. | +-------------------+---------+-------------+--------------------+ | years ago | years | no premium, | months _s._, | | | | no | months _s._, | | | | indentures | months _s._ | +-------------------+---------+ +--------------------+ | at present time | ½ | | months _s._, | | | years | | months _s._ | +-------------------+---------+-------------+--------------------+ | . printer's. | +-------------------+---------+-------------+--------------------+ | years ago | years | no premium, | months _s._, | | | | no | months half | | | | indentures | pay. | +-------------------+---------+ +--------------------+ | at present time | ½ | | month no pay, | | | years | | month _s._, | | | | | months half | | | | | pay. | +-------------------+---------+-------------+--------------------+ | . stationer's. | +-------------------+---------+-------------+--------------------+ | years ago | years | no premium, | months half | | | | no | pay, months | | | | indentures | three-quarter | | | | | pay. | +-------------------+---------+ +--------------------+ | at present time | ½ | | months half | | | years | | pay, months | | | | | three-quarter | | | | | pay. | +-------------------+---------+-------------+--------------------+ | . publisher's. | +-------------------+---------+-------------+--------------------+ | years ago | years | no premium, | no pay part, | | | | no | _s._ _d._ | | | | indentures | remainder. | +-------------------+---------+ +--------------------+ | at present time | years | | half pay. | +-------------------+---------+-------------+--------------------+ | . bookbinder's. | +-------------------+---------+-------------+--------------------+ | years ago | ½ | no | year _s._, | | | years | information | months half pay. | +-------------------+---------+-------------+--------------------+ | at present time | years | no premium; | months _s._, | | | | no | months _s._ | | | | indentures | | +-------------------+---------+-------------+--------------------+ | . publisher's. | +-------------------+---------+-------------+--------------------+ | years ago | year | no premium; | months no pay, | | | | no | months _s._ | +-------------------+---------+ indentures +--------------------+ | at present time | years | | months _s._, | | | | | months half | | | | | pay. | +-------------------+---------+-------------+--------------------+ | . printer's. | +-------------------+---------+-------------+--------------------+ | years ago | year | no premium; | year | | | | no | no pay. | +-------------------+---------+ indentures +--------------------+ | at present time | year | | months _s._, | | | | | months _s._ | | | | | or _s._ | +-------------------+---------+-------------+--------------------+ | . bookbinder's. | +-------------------+---------+-------------+--------------------+ | years ago | ½ | no premium; | months | | | years | no | no pay, | | | | indentures | year half pay. | +-------------------+---------+ +--------------------+ | at present time | ½ | | months _s._ | | | years | | _d._, | | | | | months _s._ | +-------------------+---------+-------------+--------------------+ [footnote : this information was procured in .] the important point, however, is not so much the nominal length of apprenticeship, but the fact that the work which an "apprentice" now does is less educative than it was, and that wage-earning considerations now enter at an earlier stage into the apprentice's thoughts. [sidenote: the learner as workwoman.] the low wages paid to learners offer great temptations to employers to set these extra cheap workgirls upon certain "fat" kinds of work. some kinds of work, _e.g._, gathering, have thus come to be regarded as learners' perquisites, and in one extreme instance a worker made as much money when a learner on half pay as she did subsequently on whole pay.[ ] [footnote : these figures from typical houses showing proportions of learners and journeywomen are interesting:-- workers. learners. a. b. c. d. e. f. these houses are engaged in various kinds of bookbinding and printing.] in several cases we have been able to trace the exact amount gained by the employer:-- . a. in the last sixteen weeks of her half-pay period made £ _s._ _d._, an average of _s._ ¾ _d._ per week. for the next sixteen weeks, when a full hand, her average was _s._ _d._ . b. in twenty-three weeks before she became a full hand made £ _s._ _d._, or an average of _s._ ¾ _d._ per week. during the next twenty-three weeks her average was _s._ ½_d._, a few pence less than double. . c. in fifty-one weeks made £ _s._ ½_d._, practically _s._ per week; if on full wage, her average would have been _s._ ½_d._ . d. in thirty-seven weeks made £ _s._ ½_d._, practically _s._ per week; if on full wage her average would have been _s._ ½_d._ . e. in forty-seven weeks made £ _s._ ½_d._, or _s._ _d._ per week; if on full pay her average would have been _s._ ¾ _d._ . f. in forty-three weeks made £ _s._ _d._, _s._ ½_d._ per week; if on full pay her earnings would have been _s._ ¾ _d._ it is obvious that when a worker is sufficiently expert to make an average of _s._ or _s._ on full pay, it is a great temptation to save on the bills by giving her as much work as possible at half-price. the employer looks upon this profit as the return made to him for teaching the girl, or, to speak more correctly, for allowing her to pick up the trade in his shop. it really means that a heavy premium is being paid in instalments. possibly, when small fixed wages are paid, the employer's profits are even higher, but in that case the learner has not that temptation to sacrifice quality to quantity, and to be content with "slapdash" work which is the inevitable consequence of a piecework system worked under such conditions, and which is specially injurious to the young hands. [sidenote: compositors.] the training given to women compositors varies very much. as is well known, boys are apprenticed to this trade for seven years at wages which usually begin at _s._ a week, and rise _s._ a year. in some cases, however, a proportion of their piece-rate earning is given in addition. when miss faithfull started the victoria press, girls were indentured for four years, and paid a premium of ten guineas. during the first six months they received nothing; for the remaining three and a half years they were given two-third piece rates. by , when mr. head was running the business, this system had been changed. in an article in the _printers' register_ for october th, , we read that at the victoria press, apprenticeship, "a relic of the ignorance and shortsightedness of our forefathers, which is maintained in our own day chiefly by the prejudices of trades unions, is entirely abolished. girls begin to earn at once," with the consequence that the work is much better. the women's printing society started with an apprenticeship of three or four years, the wages rising from _s._ _d._ to _s._ at the present time the training varies in different houses, from one where the girls are regularly indentured for four years, pay a premium of £ , and receive _s._ for the first year and _s._, _s._, _s._ a week in the ensuing years, to one where, with a premium of three guineas, the training lasts for three months only, and the worker is put on piecework after that period. two women compositors who had served for four years gave it as their opinion that two years were sufficient to learn; during the remaining years "you are expected to do as much as a full hand and get only half wages." it is obvious, however, that much depends on the amount of work taught, and the complaint is reiterated over and over again that girls will only learn the easy, plain work: "they want to make money at once." [sidenote: women and technical classes.] enquiries were addressed to the secretaries of technical education committees in every town in the kingdom where the printing and kindred trades are of any importance, asking-- " . whether, in connection with your technical and other schools, any provision is made for the training of women in the bookbinding or in any of the printing or stationery trades; " . whether the classes have been attended by any numbers of women; and " . whether you have received at any time from employers statements showing the effect of such classes upon these trades?" seventeen replied that no provisions were made, six that the matter was under consideration, but only in one case was it stated that classes had been opened, and then the women had not taken advantage of them. the london county council technical education board has had only one application (to which it could not accede [ ]) from a woman who desired to attend bookbinding classes. [footnote : the woman was an amateur who had no connection with the trade, and the board refused admission on that ground. see this board's special report on technical instruction of women.] this shows that in these trades the school, so far as women are concerned, has not yet been brought into contact with the workshop. nominally the classes are open to women actually engaged in the trade, but women do not attend. this seems to be partly owing to the attitude of the men, and partly owing to the lack of interest on the part of the woman worker in the few facilities afforded to her by technical education committees. the home arts and crafts association and kindred movements have taught women amateurs bookbinding and leather work in a good many centres, but this training has had no general industrial effect. the association for the employment of women has offered facilities for the training of women in working the linotype, but it has met with but scanty response. "it is work which needed more skill," said one employer, "than women possessed."[ ] [footnote : we have heard since this was written that women are employed on linotype machines in a prosperous provincial newspaper and general printing office.] here again we have had evidence of the most conclusive nature to show that the work of women is special in its simplicity, and that the craftswoman is hardly to be found anywhere. and they seem to have accepted the position, and make no attempt to move out of it.[ ] [footnote : this note is typical of a good many which occur in the reports of the investigators. "there are two girls now on the black-bordering machine whom the forewoman has offered to teach to place out by hand, but they won't learn it; it is too much trouble."] . why women do not train. some explanation is required for the fact that women have so little ambition to become skilled, especially seeing that their lack of technical knowledge and their willingness to remain at work which is merely mechanical, _i.e._, folding, etc., explain their low wages, casual employment, and careless organisation. [sidenote: marriage as an industrial influence.] the physiological differences between men and women have sociological results. these differences have no doubt been exaggerated and emphasised by traditions of propriety, and the change of opinion indicated generally by the expression, "the woman movement," has done a great deal to bring down those differences to their natural proportions and relations. if certain claims of equality, such as women's suffrage, were generally accepted, men and women might tend to occupy a much more equal industrial status. but when all false emphasis and exaggeration have been removed, a considerable residuum of difference must remain. the special status of the married woman will no doubt survive all readjustment of traditional modes of thought, and will tend to withdraw her mind from the steady pursuit of industrial efficiency, because she will never consider wage earning to be her special task in the world. that has tempted her hitherto to steer off from the currents in the mid-stream of industrial life, and float upon those that flow more sluggishly by the margin. hence she has entered industry, not with expectations of long employment, but with hopes of a speedy release, and she has therefore been in haste to earn money at once, and unwilling to sink capital (either in time or money) in making herself efficient. she is found in the more mechanical and more easily acquired branches of work, and also in those which provide no future for men,[ ] and her willingness to take low wages has been her great protection against competing machinery. she has preferred to remain incompetent. "out of twenty-six girls," is the report from the manager of a well-known firm for high-class artistic bookbinding, "not one could he trust as a forewoman." [footnote : an interesting illustration of this is afforded by the recent employment of women in typefounding in london. london has not been a place where women were much employed in this industry. for twenty or thirty years girls have been employed in edinburgh typefoundries, at certain processes through which the type, when cast, has to go, but they have been introduced only within the last year or two in london, to take the place of boys who could not be got because the work offers no very satisfactory prospects for them, and because the introduction of the linotype and mono-type threatens the future of the typefounding industry. _cf._ aberdeen, p. , manchester and birmingham, p. .] [sidenote: the lack of openings and ambition.] moreover, this enquiry has shown that there is but little chance for women in these trades to improve themselves. openings for responsible employment are few, and the ambition of the woman is not stirred by the possibility of material improvement as the reward of skill and industry. when responsible places become vacant, it is sometimes difficult to get women to consent to fill them. they seem to have little of that divine discontent which is the mainspring of progress. "they never ask for a rise as a man would, ... though after a time when they are useful, the firm would be quite willing to give one." "he finds that girls want to earn a certain wage. as a rule they will not take less, and they don't trouble to earn more." a manchester correspondent reports: "there is very little chance of rising, and no particular desire for it, on the part of the ordinary girl, whose main aspirations are otherwise directed." reporting generally on her enquiries, an investigator writes: "the progressive young woman, eager to show that she is man's equal and can do man's work, seems to be a product of the middle classes. i never met girls with ambitions of that sort among the employees i talked with. on the other hand, i have met with cutting reproofs from forewomen and others in the bookbinding houses when i tried, in my innocence, to find out why they did not turn their hands to simple and easy processes which were being done by men. 'why, that is man's work, and we shouldn't think of doing it!' is the usual answer given with a toss of the head and a tone insinuating that there is a certain indelicacy in the question." another investigator reports: "in a paper-staining department an attempt was once made to have a forewoman instead of a foreman over the girls, but she was not successful in watching the colours and had to be replaced by a man. the employer in consequence came to the conclusion that such a feat was beyond a woman's power, and the workers themselves are of the same opinion and scorn the idea of a forewoman." [sidenote: sex reputation.] women in slowly increasing numbers seem to be settling down to a thorough industrial training, but except when they start businesses of their own, the general reputation of woman as workers, especially their liability to marry and leave, must permanently handicap the most efficient in search of employment. even the woman who has paid a premium of £ or £ for thorough instruction in the art of bookbinding is warned that "a worker cannot be taken on anywhere, but has to set up on her own account," and even then she often does not enter the regular open competitive market, but attaches certain customers to herself, owing to her special work. the exceptional woman will always have to bear the burden of the average woman. the questions put to employers upon this point received very emphatic replies: "it does not pay us to train women," they said in some form or another; "we only want them for simple processes such as folding, and if we tried to make them skilled in more complicated work they would leave us before we got the same return for our trouble as we get from men." [sidenote: physique, hours, etc.] the low standard of women's living also diminishes their stamina and strength, and though in the course of this enquiry we have not discovered any very serious complaint that women were irregular at their work owing to ill-health (a common complaint against women in offices), yet the drawback has been mentioned. moreover, it must be noted that when a girl's work in the workshop is finished she has often to go home to commence a new round of domestic tasks from which a boy is exempted. this aggravates the seriousness of her long hours of mechanical work as a wage-earner, and increases the difficulties placed in her way should she desire to attend evening technical classes. the directors of several educational institutions and the teachers of technical classes for women have strongly urged this point upon us. we have to face the fact that, for various reasons, in modern industrial society there is of necessity a tendency to specialise the work of men and women and centre the one in the workshop and the other in the home, and to incline women to take a place in industry second to their male relations. hence, in the workshop women have hitherto been adjuncts to machines; they have taken up simple mechanical processes, and have shown little interest in complete series of industrial operations. they have picked up the arts, but have shunned the sciences. the factory and the workshop have been to them the scenes of "meanwhile" employment. [sidenote: gentility in trade.] in such circumstances one is not surprised to find such considerations as conventional gentility determining the branches of trade taken up by the women. the printing trades generally do not attract the most genteel girls, but there are grades within them. one informant says, "in manchester, up to , to be a folder was looked upon as being next door to being on the streets;" but now folders look down upon feeders. "folding and sewing girls look down on the machine girls tremendously, and would not sit at the same table with them for anything." perhaps the manager who said in a shocked tone of voice that "the women never care to talk of the sunday's sermon" was hypercritical, but undoubtedly certain sections of these trades are staffed by rather rough specimens of women. then again, a folder, despised herself by those above her, is reported to "look down upon the litho and bronzing girls. they are of the very lowest class (she says), with hardly a shoe on their feet. they are on quite a different floor and have nothing to do with the folders." or again, for reasons of gentility, girls prefer to become book-folders, where the hours are longer and the pay lower, rather than to become paper-bag makers. the distinction between these various sections is not similar to that between skilled and unskilled labour. the simple explanation is that amongst women engaged in industry convention is particularly potent in determining what trades are desirable and proper and what are not, so that when certain employments acquire a reputation for gentility, the others will be filled by a goodly proportion of unassorted girls, and will ultimately acquire characteristics which appear to justify the feminine prejudices against them. it has been suggested that these notions of gentility have, as a matter of fact, a deeper significance, and that the favoured trades are the lighter ones. to some extent this is true. the heavier employments are staffed by a rougher class of women. but, as in the case of the manchester folders cited above, fashions change, and we must recognise that reputation for gentility is a very important factor in determining the distribution of character amongst the trades. this appears to be the main reason why high wages do not always attract the better class of girls to certain kinds of employment, and also why there is a reluctance on the part of many self-respecting girls to enter a course of industrial training. chapter vi. _legislation._ . the law. the printing and allied trades were not brought within the scope of legislation until mr. walpole's factory acts' extension act of . [sidenote: conditions of employment, .] the commission on children's employment in [ ] first disclosed the fact that substantial abuses prevailed throughout the printing and kindred trades. long hours, frequent nightwork, sunday labour, irregularities regarding meal times, and insanitary conditions--such, roughly speaking, were the hardships which made it desirable to bring them under state supervision. mr. lord, who took an active part on these commissions, said that the general state of printing houses in london was very bad; not only were the composing rooms generally overcrowded and ill-ventilated, but even machine rooms were often extremely dirty, close and unhealthy. he cites the case of a machine room, where the roof was so low that a hole was cut in the ceiling for the head of the boy who was "laying-on" to go through. "the heat of steam printing," says he, "is very deleterious in close cellars, such as many places in this town are." [footnote : children's employment commission, - (report v.).] speaking of the factories of wholesale stationers, the same witness says, "many of the workrooms are ill-ventilated and overcrowded. the cubical contents of one large room measured by me were ft. per head; those of another only ft. per head." with regard to hours, the commissioners report: "these ordinary hours (viz., a.m. to p.m. for females, a.m. to p.m. for men and boys) are from time to time exceeded to the extent of one or two hours, and sometimes more. in the case of those who bind for publishing houses the four or five winter months are the busy season, and the six weeks immediately preceding christmas those of the greatest pressure; at one such place work often continued from a.m. to p.m. in those six weeks. the 'push' of 'magazine day' also affects this trade as it does the printer, keeping the workpeople for several days at the end of each month until or p.m., and on rare occasions till or a.m. the case of railway guides is even worse than that of magazines, for females sometimes have to work the whole night through till a.m., returning to work at on the same morning, and when the first of a month is on a monday, work the whole of the preceding sunday. on sunday, april th this year, at one place twenty females worked from a.m. to p.m., and after a rest of two hours went on again through the night. even girls of thirteen had worked in the same week once from a.m. to p.m., and twice from a.m. to p.m. another rather older (fourteen and a half) worked on one day from a.m. to p.m. and on the preceding day from a.m. to p.m. a boy aged fourteen had worked two or three times in a week from a.m. to or p.m. and three sundays through." "with paper-box makers," the commissioners say, "it is not uncommon to make two or even three hours overtime (this after a day of from a.m. to or p.m.). for two months in spring and six weeks in autumn fourteen hours is the usual length of a female's working day. at one place females over fifteen are said to work constantly in the busy time from a.m. to p.m., and in some places till or a.m., especially with 'little men' working at home with their family and two or three girls to help. these are instances of london work, but in manchester the hours are even longer. one girl worked, at sixteen years old, night after night in succession, from a.m. to p.m.; the younger ones there worked from a.m. to p.m.; at another place the same witness had frequently worked from a.m. to p.m. another, at nine years old, worked from a.m. to p.m. generally; she said that the older ones worked a good deal later than that. some young women had worked on three or four occasions all the night through." "boys of fourteen and fifteen employed at making cardboard, have in some cases worked from a.m. till or p.m. twice a week for four or five weeks running, but that is not general in the trade. girls of that age have worked at making paper bags nearly every night for a similar period, till or p.m. from a.m., and were very much tired by it. as paper-box making is all handwork and paid for by the piece, it is not uncommon for work to go on in the meal hours--'they please themselves.'" the following was the experience of one girl which she gave before the commissioners. "i am thirteen; i have been here twelve months. some of the girls worked all night last month for two nights together. i call 'till in the morning' all night. we generally work one night till a.m., and three or four nights till . my mother thought all night hurt me and so would not let me go on, but i work till . last month i worked five times in the night till . it is only in that week; we get very tired towards the end of it." with regard to the moral conditions of the workers the commissioners reported: "the indiscriminate mixing of the sexes which still prevails in many workrooms is generally condemned. the evil of such a practice is especially conspicuous where they are late and irregular in their hours. the bad language and conduct of the boys is made the subject of very strong comment by two witnesses, who go so far as to say that there is a marked deterioration in this respect during the last ten years." again, "the younger children were in many cases unable to read. the evil of late and irregular work in letting women loose on the streets at all hours of the night is justly censured by an employer as necessarily leading to great immorality." [sidenote: legislation, .] in consequence of the report of the commissioners, the factory act extension act, , was passed. it applied specifically to any premises where paper manufacture, letter-press printing and bookbinding were carried on; and generally to any premises where fifty or more people were employed in any manufacturing process. the hours allowed for women and young persons were from a.m. to p.m., or from a.m. to p.m., with intervals amounting to one and a half hours for meals; on saturday, work had to cease at p.m. by way of exception, women employed in bookbinding could work fourteen hours a day, provided that their total hours did not exceed sixty per week. to those trades, such as litho-printing, that did not come under the above act, was applied the workshops regulation act of the same year, the provisions of which resembled, though they did not coincide with those of the foregoing enactment. the same aggregate number of hours per day and week was established, but more elasticity was permitted in workshops, women and young persons being allowed to work in them for the hours specified at any time between a.m. and p.m., and until p.m. on saturdays. [sidenote: factory and workshop act, .] the discrepancies in the regulations applying to different classes of work were productive of a good deal of inconvenience, and after the commission of came the factory and workshop act, , having as its object the consolidation and amendment of the existing statutes with a view to rendering their administration more even and secure. the main provisions of the law as it now affects the printing and kindred trades were laid down, although since that date there have been various additions and amendments. by this act a distinction was drawn between factories and workshops, the chief difference being that, in the former, machinery propelled by steam, water, or other mechanical power must be in use; while in the latter, no such agency must be employed. certain classes of works, however, apart from all question of mechanical power, were defined as factories and not workshops. under these came paper-staining works, foundries (including typefoundries), except premises in which such process was carried on by not more than five persons, and as subsidiary to the repair or completion of some other work--paper mills, letter-press printing works, and bookbinding establishments. [sidenote: factory and workshop act, .] as regards hours of work and overtime, slight modifications have been effected by legislation subsequent to the year , and the present state of the law as laid down in the factory and workshop act, , is as follows:--the regular hours for women and young persons except saturday, are a.m. to p.m., a.m. to p.m., or a.m. to p.m., with an allowance of one and a half hours for meals, one hour of such meal-time being before p.m. on saturday the period of employment may be a.m. to p.m., a.m. to p.m., or a.m. to p.m., with not less than half-an-hour for meals. but where a woman or young person has not been actually employed for more than eight hours on any day in a week, and notice of this has been affixed in the factory or workshop and served on the inspector, she may be at work on saturday from a.m. to p.m., with an interval of not less than two hours for meals. there are various special restrictions and exceptions applying to different classes of work. no protected person may take a meal or remain during meal-time in any part of a factory or workshop where typefounding is carried on, or where dry powder or dust is used in litho-printing, playing-card making, paper-staining, almanac-making, paper-colouring and enamelling. in certain industries, including printing, bookbinding, machine ruling and envelope making, women may work three days a week, and for thirty days during the year, two hours overtime, provided that such employment ceases at p.m., and that they have two hours for meals. but this limit of overtime applies to the factory or workshop as a whole, and not to the overtime of individual workers. . economic and industrial effects of legislation. the foregoing brief summary of the law has naturally preceded the question as to how far legislation has affected women in these particular trades. when restrictions are imposed upon the labour of any class of wage-earners, their economic position must be altered for good or evil, unless the trade can so adjust itself as to meet exactly the requirements of these restrictions. if the worker is of great importance, an effort will be made to adapt the trade to the novel conditions; if another class of workers or machinery, free from all restrictions, can be as easily used, it is probable that the labour affected will be ousted. [sidenote: has legislation displaced women?] is there, then, evidence to show that any material displacement of women or girls in these trades followed the enforcement of factory legislation? instances of dismissal must obviously be sought for soon after the act of , as the employer then knew on what terms he engaged his staff, and, except in a few cases where deliberate evasions of the law might be attempted, the effect of legislation would be to deter him from employing women, rather than lead him to dismiss them. owing to the lapse of time, it is difficult to find out from those in the trade the immediate consequences of this act, nor does the commission of give much assistance. of employers questioned by us, not half a dozen remembered dismissing women in consequence of the new enactment. one employer turned off ten or twelve women "folders" and introduced machinery, alleging as his reason the want of elasticity in the factory act. his ordinary hours were from a.m. to p.m., but on certain days in the week it was necessary to begin work at a.m. he made arrangements that the total number of hours should not exceed those sanctioned by the act, but the variation was not allowed. if his women began work at a.m. on any day, his hours had to be regularly a.m. to p.m., except in the case of thirty nights in the year when overtime was permitted. as this did not suit his business, he dismissed the women and had recourse to folding machines. personally he gained, as the machinery proved an economy, but it told hardly on the women, whom otherwise he would have kept on as they were old hands. another employer told a similar tale regarding the introduction of folding machinery, but stated that he had been obliged to dispense with female operatives by reason of the strict enforcement of the regulations regarding overtime only. in both these cases it is clear that the state of the trade was such that it required only a very slight disability on the part of the worker to make it worth while for the employer to use machinery. quite apart from any effect of legislation the machine was destined to supplant manual labour; its advent was merely accelerated by the act. its first introduction caused isolated cases of hardship, but its ultimate results were beneficial. thus at the present day women and girls are largely employed upon the very machines which once seemed to threaten their industrial existence. [sidenote: the case of women compositors.] in the _economic journal_ of an interesting paper by miss bradby and miss a. black discusses the position of women compositors in edinburgh, and deals with the subject of legislation. after an exhaustive investigation, no single instance was discovered of the displacement of a woman by a man owing to the factory acts. the chief contention of those who oppose special factory legislation on the ground that it limits the usefulness of women compositors is, that women are not employed on newspaper work, and they give the legal prohibition of nightwork for women as the reason. careful enquiry has shown that reason to be purely imaginary. women are not employed on evening papers, though the factory law does not stand in their way. in the provinces women set-up one or two weekly or bi-weekly journals, the firms employing them preferring them solely on the ground of cheapness. experience shows that women are not suited for newspaper work, unless the paper does not appear more frequently than, say, twice a week, and if the factory code disappeared to-morrow, morning daily newspapers would afford to women compositors no fresh openings. [sidenote: have their opportunities been limited?] as regards the further point whether more women would be employed if they were unprotected by law, the views of representative employers and managers of labour are here set forth. out of thirty-five,[ ] twenty-eight were emphatic in their assurance that the factory acts did not affect the question. seven, on the other hand, were inclined to think otherwise. of these, five were unable to say that they really would employ more women if freed from restrictions, but two of them thought that "there might be something in it," though the point had "never occurred to them before." only three of them were of the opinion emphatically that legislation was certainly one amongst the obstacles to the employment of women. [footnote : these are the firms interviewed by miss bradby and miss a. black as above.] when, on the other hand, we turn to the opinions of those acquainted with the conditions of the trade, either as workers (chiefly women) or trade union officials, we find practical unanimity. the eighteen persons[ ] of this description questioned were strong in their declarations that the employment of women was not affected by the factory acts. to most of them, indeed, the idea of any harmful connection between the two was novel and ridiculous. this of course proves nothing; but if legislation had, to any considerable extent, hampered the work of women, the women themselves would doubtless have become aware of it. [footnote : compositors only.] the evidence available leads to the conclusion that, except in a few small houses, the employment of women as compositors has not been affected by the factory acts. [sidenote: legislation and home work.] the earlier stages during which the protection conferred by the legislature was enforced, were marked by attempts on the part of certain employers to evade the spirit of the law by means of home work.[ ] [footnote : see pp. - .] one example of this practice was given by the rev. h. w. blunt in his evidence before the commission of . he says that much work was sent to be completed after factory hours. for instance, in one book-folding firm which had occasional rushes of work, a girl was employed till p.m. on the monday before christmas. she was then told with the other girls that they must take home , quarto sheets to fold by the morning. several did so, but she refused, because her mother was on the point of death, and the doctor said there must not be a light in the room. she was consequently dismissed at once. mr. blunt says further that religious "weeklies," the sheets of which came off the press at o'clock at night, were sent out to be folded by a.m. they were taken away in perambulators, children being employed to do this every week. [sidenote: work sent to "folding houses."] another immediate result of legislation was the expedient of sending out work to "folding houses" which did not come within the definition of a factory or workshop. such places may be premises belonging to a factory and yet separate from it. mr. henderson, of the factory department, in giving evidence before the commission of , says: "some years ago i came across messrs. x., where newspapers were folded wholesale by steam machinery, and i thought it was a factory. messrs. x. resisted the idea. boys were employed at irregular hours, but the crown officers decided that it was not a factory." christmas card packing and sorting are in the same position. miss deane, a lady factory inspector, who made a special investigation into the conditions of the christmas card industry as recently as , points out that many of the workplaces are outside the operation of the act. in the report on factories and workshops for , she says: "a large number of christmas cards, almanacs, etc., are made in germany and are sent to england, where girls are employed in sorting and repacking and arranging them, for the purpose of being sold wholesale. such places, unless attached to some factory or workshop, being unregulated by the act, the girls are without the protection afforded by the law regarding length of hours, meal-times, etc. it was impossible not to be struck by the difference between the conditions found in one such place and those found in the large airy sorting rooms of a publishing factory close by--yet the girls in the stuffy workroom of the former were without the protection given by the law in the latter workplace. a curious instance arose in connection with one such place where about forty girls had been employed in packing and sorting for illegal hours. the occupier took to employing some of them in affixing a minute bow of ribbon to the cards, and during this temporary employment all the girls could claim and were accorded the protection of the factory acts. excessive hours in hitherto unsuspected workrooms were also found to be worked in the processes of adapting and preparing bonbons for sale. in some cases, baskets, boxes and bags, were trimmed for the reception of these articles, in others they were merely selected and arranged in patterns in fancy boxes subsequently tied up with ribbon. in the first case clearly, and in the last also probably, the definition of workshop under the act applies. instructions were given and better conditions have gained the day." speaking of these unregulated workplaces, in the same report, miss deane remarks: "in the course of some inspections after midnight last winter near the city, i came across several of these workplaces where women, girls and children, were then at work under deplorable conditions--dirty rooms, foul, gassy air, and overcrowding. in one of them i was met by the observation that 'i might come in if i liked, but i could do nothing there.'" the experience of two of our investigators corroborates the above statement. one of them says: "at about . a.m. we went to see newspapers folded by women in the city. it was done in an old tumble-down room opposite a printing shop. we peeped in through a chink in the shutters--it was a boiling night, and the shutters were closed--and we could see a man carrying in a load of paper from time to time. when we entered we found four women streaming with perspiration in the foul hot atmosphere, folding away at the ... _news_. they were quite friendly and communicative, and told us they came every thursday night about p.m. and stayed till they had done. they were paid three times as much as day-workers and did no regular work in the daytime. before beginning work they had a cup of tea. they said they liked the work and were glad that the factory act could not stop them; the police had been round to them and also two young ladies, but nothing had happened; and they considered that they were quite old enough to do nightwork if they liked." folding houses are growing fewer in number owing, no doubt, to the fact that rent is so high in the city and space so valuable, that it is not worth while to erect them separate from a factory. viewed also with dislike by factory inspectors as a means of evading the law, their tenure of life is not likely to be long. [sidenote: nightwork.] employers admit that the effect of the factory acts has been to make them reduce nightwork. in criticising the act before the commission of , mr. bell, of the firm of darton, bell and thomas, bookbinders, says: "the factory act of has been a boon to employers and employed, because it has enabled us to put pressure on customers. now we can say to the public 'we can't go beyond certain hours,' and, therefore, work not new has to be sent in earlier." mr. darton, of the same firm, adds: "we have persuaded booksellers to give out stock work in june and july instead of september or october, and so begin the work earlier and avoid nightwork." this stimulus is undoubtedly good, and these views are echoed by other employers. the whole question of how far the practical prohibition of overtime for women has limited the volume of work available for them, and thus diminished their aggregate wages, needs very careful consideration, as mistaken conclusions may easily be formed. the matter was carefully considered by a committee of the economic section of the british association, appointed in , to enquire into the effect of special legislation on women, and the following extracts from its final report[ ] are of some interest:-- "a very important, perhaps from the economic point of view the most important, effect of legislation has been to spread the period of work more uniformly through the week, month, and year than had been the case before regulation" (p. ). "the tendency to put off giving orders to the last moment is easily checked when the customer can be met with a universal legal prohibition" (p. ). "restriction is met by adaptation of manufacture or rearrangement of numbers employed and time at which work is done, women being still employed at the work" (p. ). "except for a few complaints as to the abolition of the possibility of payment for overtime, which, as has been pointed out, by no means prove any loss of earnings ... the committee have no record ... of any loss of wages or earnings traceable to the [factory] acts" (p. ). [footnote : presented at southport in .] thus, it will be seen that the loss of overtime is not necessarily a loss of work, but a re-distribution (and an economical one, too) of the times at which work is done, and does not therefore mean a loss in income, but a steadying and regulation of income. nevertheless, before the re-organisation which has been consequent on factory legislation, overtime and nightwork were necessary in order to turn out a certain volume of trade by a certain number of workpeople, and the influence of restrictive legislation has been shown in the following directions:-- st. an increase in the class of workers called "job hands"; nd. an enlargement of the permanent staff; rd. a rearrangement of the employment of male and female labour. the third of these changes we have found to be practically imperceptible, whilst the second has affected women most beneficially. [sidenote: the job hand.] on the margin of casual and regular labour the job hand stands--the reserve battalion of this section of the labour army. she is generally a married woman, and commonly the wife of a faulty husband. she does not want regular work, and only desires to earn a certain limited wage. when she goes to a factory in search of work, she has to wait idle for hour upon hour, but she generally stays at home until summoned by her forewoman. certain kinds of cheap seasonal work as, for instance, penny almanacs, are almost exclusively done by her,[ ] and she is commonly employed either periodically, _e.g._, for weekly papers and monthly magazines, or casually, _e.g._, prospectus work, for rushes. a notice in certain public-houses, or information supplied to certain known agents, brings her to the place where she is wanted. [footnote : "the majority of the almanac makers are married women who stay at home from february to july": leeds.] job hands existed before , but at that time they did not hold quite the same position in the trade as they do now. they were the _hands_ who went to different firms for two or three nights a month to help in a recognised rush of work which occurred regularly. in the commissioners' report for , mention is made several times of job hands who were employed quite regularly for definite pieces of work at definite times during the month. firms publishing certain weekly papers were in the habit of employing women in folding during the early hours of the morning before distributing the papers to the newsagents. firms which printed monthly magazines needed women to fold all night for two or three nights or more at the end of each month. such employment naturally came to an end as soon as the act of came into operation; but the job hand only changed her hours. it became necessary during rushes of work to call in extra hands, in order to comply with the clauses of the act, and many firms solved the difficulty by employing job hands during the day instead of at night, for a few days to meet the emergency.[ ] this work was generally taken up by married women who had served in the trade before marriage, and who were glad to get a few days' employment from time to time. [footnote : but this is not the invariable rule. a manager of a firm dealing largely in magazines and periodical issues says: "the effect of legal restrictions on our business is to make women work hard for two weeks and slacken off for two weeks. there is no thought of giving the work to men, or of sending it home, or of employing job hands."] [sidenote: increase of permanent staff.] the second method of solving the difficulty--by employing a larger permanent staff--involves the erection of more extensive premises, and can only be adopted by firms whose financial position enables them to meet a considerable outlay. it is probably the best means for ensuring that work shall be done efficiently for the employer, and conducted under the most favourable conditions for the employed. [sidenote: nightwork and overtime.] but there still remains a slight residuum of nightwork which has to be done by men. to this extent, and to this extent only, can restriction be said to have hindered the employment of women. we have tried to ascertain how much this really means to the women workers. thirty-three firms stated that work of the same character as that performed by women in the daytime was sometimes given out to men at night. we cannot, however, assume that the work is always given to men on account of legal restrictions, and it does not follow that the abolition of such restrictions would induce all masters to introduce women for nightwork. several of them, indeed, emphatically deny that they would adopt this practice; and in some instances we have been told that it was not observed in the best firms before the law prohibited it, _e.g._, "mr. a. remembers the time before the act of (he has been in the trade since ). he could have worked women at night, but never would because of questions of morality." these statements are, however, only part of the case, because nightwork is generally overtime, and we must consider how far employers care to practise it. there seems to be an almost unanimous opinion against overtime, and any mention of factory legislation appears to suggest overtime at once to both employers and employed. experience has driven it home to them that overtime is a most uneconomical method of work;[ ] and as there does not appear to be any demand for women's labour at night except occasionally as overtime, the factory law in this respect is only a protection to the employée engaged by the employer who is still experimenting with this unproductive use of labour. [footnote : "when the factory (now a large provincial lithographer's, almanac maker's, etc.), was a small one, and it employed only a few hands, they used to work a great deal of overtime. they used all the time they were allowed by the factory acts and sometimes tried to get in more. but now they do not find it pays to work overtime."--it is of some importance to note that a responsible spokesman for the men engaged in london houses informed one of our investigators that when men are put on at night to fold "they take it easy, and six men do in two hours what two women do in two hours. they don't bother to walk up and down gathering, but sit at it in a row, and hand sheets on from one to the other."] [sidenote: testimony of employers.] some employers, like mr. bell,[ ] admit candidly enough that legislation enables them to be more humane (and humanity in this respect pays) than they could otherwise afford to be. the act is "a great relief," such an employer has said. "legislation is an excellent thing; existing hours are quite long enough. if a person has not done her work by the time they are up, she never will do it." "the factory acts are a very good thing," another has said. "long hours diminish the output"; or again: "factory legislation is a capital thing; i only wish it could be extended to men." "women are not so strong as men, and therefore the law rightly steps in." "i think it would be very inadvisable to employ women at night. i think legislation a very good thing. overtime is not really worth it." "legislation is a very good thing. i don't believe in long hours. employers are often shortsighted and think that workers are like machines--the longer you work them the more they do, but this is not really the case; if they work from to they have done as much as they are good for." "the good done by the factory acts has quite outweighed any evils or hardships." another employer remarked: "i shouldn't like my own daughter to do it, and i don't see why other women should do so. i should think it a very bad thing for women to go home in the early hours of the morning." on hearing that restrictions were objected to on the score that they hindered the employment of women, he replied scathingly that it was rubbish, but that "ladies must have something to talk about." [footnote : _cf._ p. .] from this it is evident that protection is viewed favourably by many employers, on the specific ground that it prevents systematic overtime. on the whole, they are of the opinion that nightwork is harmful to women, and that after overtime the next day's work suffers. some are doubtful whether they would employ women at night even if the law permitted it. nightwork, they assert, is unfit for women, not merely on account of the harm to health, but because of the insult and temptation to which they are exposed in going home. whether these views would have been held so generally before the passing of the factory acts it is not possible to say; probably the results have justified the act, and experience has provided moral reasons for legal limitations. * * * * * such in the main is the attitude of employers towards legislation. of who expressed an opinion, twenty-six stated that legislation had not affected women's labour at all, sixty considered it to have been beneficial, and seventeen looked on all legislation as grandmotherly and ridiculous--one among these thinking that legislation was all very well, and much needed in the city, but that southwark should be free from interference. the attitude of those employers who objected to interference was expressed generally in some such way as that it was "unnecessary" for their trade at least, even if desirable for others. pressed to explain what "unnecessary" meant, they said that women could take care of themselves; that protection was all very well for young girls, but when women arrived at the age of forty or fifty they could do what they liked; that it was hard on women that they should not be allowed to work day and night as well; that women could stand overtime just as well as men; and, finally, that legislation pressed very severely on the employer, who had to use the more expensive medium for doing nightwork, viz., men. such is the attitude of these employers, and it is fairly well expressed in the following quotation from _the stationery trades' journal_, september, :-- "we report in another column a case in which messrs. pardon & co. were summoned for an offence under the factory acts. four women were employed during the night to fold a periodical which is printed by messrs. p. the youngest of the four women was a married woman of thirty-five, whose husband is unable to work, and she, like the rest, prized the job because it afforded the means of earning a little extra money for the support of her family. under the pretence of protecting these women, the law steps in and says: 'your families may starve or go to the workhouse, but you shall not work overtime or go beyond the limits prescribed by the act. you cannot be trusted with the care of your own health. you may fast as much as you like; it will do you good and help your children to grow up stalwart men and women--but you shall not endanger your health by working too many hours at a time.' this in substance is what the law does for women. as regards the employment of children and young persons, the act is no doubt beneficial, but surely women of thirty-five and forty do not need the same legislative protection as children. a great deal of sentimental nonsense is written and spoken by benevolent busybodies without practical knowledge of the subjects with which they meddle; and one of the results is the application of the factory acts to women who are old enough to judge for themselves. in the case alluded to there was more real benevolence in providing work for women than in limiting their hours of employment." as a contrast to these opinions, the views on overtime expressed in the factory inspector's report for are worth noting:-- "the prohibition of overtime for young persons imposed by section of the factory act of has, in my opinion, proved to be the most beneficial clause of that act. it has, moreover, been carried out without any serious interference with trade and without causing much difficulty to the inspectors. "the further restriction in the same clause of the overtime employment of women by reducing the number of times on which it may be worked in any twelve months from forty-eight to thirty was also a step in the right direction. if overtime were abolished altogether except for preserving perishable articles, the season trades would soon accommodate themselves to doing without overtime in the same way that the cotton, woollen, linen and silk manufacturing trades have done, for they also are season trades." [sidenote: opinion of employées.] among the older workers in the trade are men and women who remember conditions before the passing of the act, and the experience of some of them and the comparison they make between work done before and after the act is worthy of note. a. used to work till every night when she first entered the trade. she was glad when the act was passed to get home early, and never liked working late. b. used to work from a.m. to p.m. regularly, including saturdays. frequently she had to work till or and sometimes to begin at a.m. the "young governor" used to take her and some of the other girls home at night as they were afraid to go alone. she disliked overtime, was tired out at the end of a day's work, and thought the other women were too, and she had often noticed how badly the work was done after eight or nine hours at it. later on, as a forewoman, she noticed that the girls after overtime always loafed about the next day and did not work well. some women liked overtime, but she noticed it was always those who spent the extra money earned on drink. she did not think that work had gone from the women in consequence of factory legislation, but thought that married women were employed for a little while during a rush of work where before the regular hands were kept working late. she remembered how tiresome it was for the married women to get home in time to fetch their babies from the _crêches_ when the hours were from to . c. has often heard her mother-in-law say that as a girl she constantly worked all night and then had to work just the same the next day. she used to consider that to get home at on saturday was early, and now every young lady looks forward to her saturday afternoon. workpeople have a much better time than they used to. there were no proper meal hours. she used to get "just a snack between her work." d. remembers that when they were busy they had to work all night and all the day before and the next day too. they used to work on sundays and were given a glass of gin. she never knew anyone who wanted to do nightwork, and thinks eight and a half hours quite long enough for anyone to work, especially when there is housework, too, when one gets home. e. remembers the time when he was a boy and women were kept at work all night; he remembers shops where they worked regularly all night after working all day, for two or three times a week. f. a bookbinder, remembers women who worked all night frequently. they were very poor, very rough, and of very low moral standing. "some of the women who worked could hardly be said to belong to their sex." respectable girls would not come for such low wages, and also because they had to go home alone through the streets. after the factory acts the moral tone and respectability increased greatly; wages were no lower and there were fewer hours of work.[ ] [footnote : this is an interesting comment on the relation between low wages and long hours on the one hand and character on the other.] g. says, "we used to have to come in at in the morning and work till or at night, and then be told to come back again at next day. i often used to faint; it took all my strength away." she considers the factory act an unmixed blessing. h., before the factory act, has worked from to , , , or . often as a learner she stayed till or , and once till several nights running. once she remembers being turned out in a thunderstorm at midnight, and how frightened she was. occasionally she worked all night; they used to be given coffee at a.m. once or twice she worked from a.m. one day to p.m. next day; "excitement keeps you up." they were allowed to sing at their work and be as merry as they could; "we didn't count it much of a hardship." some women after leaving the factory would go and work all night in printing houses; one woman would leave at tea-time and go to spend the night at the "athenæum" until a.m. after the factory act no one might stay beyond without special permission. once she did work all night; they put out the lights in the front and worked at the back. the only result of the factory acts that she could see was that employers had to have larger premises and employ more hands, instead of working a small staff hard. j. says "i entered the trade in when i was thirteen. boys and porters came at a.m.; journeymen at a.m. (sixty hours a week); women at or a.m. all had to stay as long as they were wanted, _i.e._, till or . boys were frequently kept till p.m. i was never kept all night. conditions have improved for both sexes, men's owing to trade unionism, women's to factory laws." [sidenote: the opinions of forewomen.] the testimony of the forewomen is to the same effect. a. a forewoman, used to work often till , , or at night, sometimes all night. sometimes she was obliged to keep her girls all night when there was work that had to be finished, but usually she gave them a rest the next day. she thinks it a very good thing that they should not be allowed to work all night; the work is piecework and long hours don't do any good, for they mean that you work less next day: if you work all night, then you are so tired that you have to take a day off; you have gained nothing. she used to find that so herself. b. a forewoman, thought the factory acts a very good thing. girls grumbled if they had to stop till , and she never heard of any of them wanting to stay longer. "if you work till for many weeks you get used up; there is no change in your life, and as soon as you get home you have to go to bed, you are so tired." c. is a forewoman. as a girl she used to work from . a.m. to or at night every day from september to christmas. she had to stay till a.m. one night and come again just the same next day; she had to work from a.m. one good friday morning and sometimes had to come to work at on sunday mornings. this nightwork was only occasional, but she thinks it a very good thing that it has been stopped; she never found it pay; the girls were so tired the next day. another forewoman gave it as her deliberate opinion that when overtime is worked the piece workers do not make more as a rule, for they get so tired that if they stay late one night, they work less the next day. this is the unanimous view held by the forewomen, and it comes with considerable force from them, as it is they who have to arrange to get work done somehow within a certain time. they are the people who have to put on the pressure, and are in such a position as to see how any particular system of getting work done answers. [sidenote: exceptions.] among the younger women--the girls who have had no experience of conditions before , the opinion about overtime is not so unanimous. some few like what little overtime is allowed to them and say they would not mind more. one such worker was met, just arrived home from her factory late one saturday afternoon. she had been working overtime as a consequence of the queen's death--the envelope makers and black borderers were all working late just then. it was a bleak and wet afternoon, and she came in in high spirits, evidently regarding all life as a joke, and frankly confessing that factory life especially was a joke, particularly when they had overtime. "it is 'larks' working late, and the governor he up and spoke to us so nice. he says, 'girls, you won't mind doing a bit of overtime for the sake of our dear queen?' and we says 'no.' _i_ shouldn't mind doing overtime every day of the week. i like the factory and should hate to be out of it." a few such girls there are who are in excellent health, like the work and don't find it monotonous, and, above all, enjoy the larger life that they meet in a factory just as girls in another social scale enjoy public school or college life. it is these who revel in their day's work and are not tired at the end of it, but how in actual fact they would like longer hours or systematic overtime it is impossible to say. it is probably the rarity of it, the stimulus and excitement of working against time for once in a way, the being put on their mettle by the "governor" himself, that make the enjoyment. we must also remember that the younger hands are those who take the most anti-social views of work and care least about industrial conditions. but even by these few, when the idea of all night work is suggested, it is scouted with horror. on the whole, the view adopted is that when you have done your day's work, you have done enough. a worker in the stationers' trade assured us that overtime means a doctor's bill, so you don't really make anything by it. the experience of two women who had tried nightwork illegally was also instructive. [sidenote: overtime experience.] a. an apparently strong woman was once offered a night job when she was hard up, and thought that it would be a "lark" to take it. she went in about a.m. on friday and worked on with intervals for meals till p.m. on saturday, being paid piece rates for the day hours and _s._ for the work between p.m. and a.m. she was utterly done up in consequence of this work and lost more money next week than she made by the whole job. b. once worked all night in a city shop for _s._ and got no good out of it, for she was so done up that she could not work at all next day, and very little the day after. three girls working at the same factory, and speaking of conditions there, said that when they were busy after . p.m. men were put on to do the card mounting. these girls ridiculed the idea that they disliked this or wanted to stay. "you feel quite done for by o'clock. girls sometimes cry, they get so tired in the evening." none of the three had ever heard of any girls who objected to the factory acts. "the little ones do not mind overtime so much because they get _d._ an hour the same as the full hands, but the full hands do mind. overtime, _i.e._, till p.m., on saturdays is not so bad because you ain't so worn out." c. thinks it a very good thing that women may not work at night--"hours are quite long enough as it is--you feel quite done up after working from a.m. to . p.m." d. is very much opposed to the idea of women working at night; she hears that in some places they work till p.m. and thinks that dreadful. she has never heard anyone grumble that they cannot work longer, and scoffed at the idea. she herself hates overtime. e.'s views are that if you've had work from to that is quite as much as you can do properly. she never likes her daughters to work overtime, because it only tires them out. it is sometimes rather provoking when a job comes in late after you've been sitting idle and you have to leave it, but thinks that it is better on the whole. some women wouldn't mind working "all the hours that god gives," but it is very selfish of them. most can't stand it. if she had to be at the factory by a.m. instead of a.m., she never did any more work, because she was so tired. so the instances could be multiplied. there is no mistaking the note of relief that runs through the experiences of the workers who have worked both before and after . forewomen, employers and factory inspectors, who are in the position of the "lookers-on at the game," from different standpoints are nearly unanimous in agreeing that protective legislation is beneficial. the thirty-three firms, the authorities of which are returned as having stated that they give men at night work done by women during the day, consist for the most part of printing houses, and the work done by women was folding. the result produced by legislation is that men do the folding at night and on saturday afternoons, when there is a press of business, but in one or two cases, a regular staff of night workers is employed. as the men are slower workers than the women, and charge a far higher price for their labour, it is to the employer's interest to reduce nightwork to a minimum. prospectuses, however, and weekly newspapers have to be folded during the night, and this must fall to the men's lot. in two firms, men occasionally do relief stamping for christmas cards when there is a great press of work, and in one firm they do card mounting. in none of the above firms is there any question of employing men instead of women in the daytime. in one of the remaining two--a printing house--the manager said that perhaps he might have more women for folding; and in another the employer distinctly said that he would employ women for feeding his printing machines were it not for the limitations on their hours, which renders it impossible to keep them when a press of work comes in. these few cases can scarcely claim to constitute a serious hindrance to women's employment; nor, in view of the chorus of gratitude for factory legislation, can they be regarded as a serious indictment against that legislation. * * * * * [sidenote: has legislation affected wages?] on the question as to whether the restrictions of the factory acts have affected wages, it is almost impossible to obtain any trustworthy information. in briefly touching on it, we must be careful to distinguish between the rate of wages and the sum total earned. there seems an entire lack of evidence that the _rate_ of wages has been affected, although the sum total of women's earnings collectively and individually is obviously lowered, when some of their work is given to men. but even then the mere deprivation of the chance of working unlimited overtime is an altogether exaggerated measure of the loss in wages. a human being differs from a machine, for, even when the work done is mechanical, an interval of leisure and rest is essential, after a certain point, before the output can be continued. experience has abundantly proved that for the regular worker overtime does not pay, and is also a wasteful expedient from the point of view of the employer. the factory commission of published evidence that may be accepted as reliable regarding the wages paid in the trade before legislation intervened. mention is made in the report of one firm of printers who employed four girls for folding and stitching, three of whom, under thirteen years of age, earned from _s._ to _s._ _d._; the fourth, a sort of overlooker, earned _s._ another firm of printers paid the younger girls _s._ to _s._ a week; the older ones _s._ and _s._ the women employed by a third firm earned at least _s._ a week and _d._ an hour overtime. in a fourth a young girl earned _s._ ½_d._ for fifty-three hours, another _s._ ¾ _d._ for forty-eight hours, another _s._ for fifty-seven hours, and the journeywoman _s._ _d._ for sixty hours. in a firm where women made envelopes, one girl working from a.m. to p.m. every day, and till p.m. on saturdays, said she could earn _s._ _d._, and a journeywoman earned from _s._ to _s._ women making envelopes for another firm earned _s._ or _s._ a week. paper-box makers earned, on an average, _s._ or _s._, some made _s._ or more. in another firm they earned _s._ or _s._ up to _s._ on piecework. timeworkers earned _s._ or _s._; young girls earned _s._ _d._ these wages are very much the same as those paid to-day, and the hours then were undoubtedly longer.[ ] nor must it be assumed that wages would have risen more satisfactorily had there been no factory acts. had there been any tendency for wages to rise which the factory law was retarding, that tendency would have shown itself in a marked way during the intervals between each act, but no such thing is observable, as mr. wood's figures in the footnote indicate. moreover, taken all together, the evidence gathered by this investigation proves that neither the demand for improvement nor the organisation to make that demand effective exists in the case of the woman worker. on the other hand, there is no evidence to show that legislation has improved wages, except in so far as it has reduced hours without apparently having lowered rates. [footnote : _cf._ "the course of women's wages during the nineteenth century," by mr. g. h. wood, printed as an appendix to "a history of factory legislation," by b. l. hutchins and a. harrison, where the following figures are given as the estimated average weekly earnings of women and girls in the printing trade: , _s._ _d._; , _s._ _d._; , _s._ _d._; , _s._ _d._; , _s._ _d._; , _s._ _d._; , _s._ _d._; , _s._ _d._; , _s._ _d._; , _s._ _d._] on the whole there seems to be no ground for considering that special legislation for women in this trade has materially injured the value of their labour. there is nothing to show that their wages have decreased, that legislation has acted as a drag upon their income, or that they have lost employment to any appreciable extent. * * * * * [sidenote: want of elasticity in the law.] a lack of elasticity in the law seems to be the greatest complaint of the employers. on the face of it, it looks like a piece of senseless red-tape that, because it is usually preferable to an employer to open his factory between the hours of to , he may not when it is more convenient to him, open it between and or . and . . it seems absurd that it was an illegal act of an employer to allow two young women to begin work at a.m. and work till p.m., whereas it would have been quite legal if they had begun work at a.m. and worked till p.m., due notice having been given to the home office.[ ] [footnote : _stationery trades' journal_, .] mr. henderson, as above quoted, gives it as his opinion that "a wide limit of law is necessary for printing offices where women may not work after p.m. or before a.m. hours for adult women other than at present should be allowed by the secretary of state, as for instance the folders of weeklies." again, it is felt that a greater freedom is needed with regard to overtime. mr. vaughan, the factory inspector for north london, in the factories and workshops report for says: "i find in some trades, _e.g._, christmas cards, great dissatisfaction at the curtailment of overtime from five to three nights a week, when the busy season lasts only for a month or so; the allowance of thirty nights a year is not required, but an allowance of more nights during these few weeks would be an enormous assistance. the temptation in such cases to work more nights a week than are allowed is universally great." it appears to be a great hardship that women who have not been working by day may not upon occasions work by night, and both employers and employées are unanimous in demanding that the law should recognise this distinction. there is a great difference between retaining an ordinary worker through the night, or for more than a certain number of hours per week, and drafting in a fresh set of workers to do work by night at stated periods in the month or at times of emergency. whether or not the law can be made sufficiently elastic to allow of greater freedom with regard to period of employment, overtime, and nightwork, raises difficult questions. no doubt it would be an advantage both to employées and employers, if the law could be made so elastic, but the difficulty of effective inspection would be so great as to outweigh any possible advantage. the early history of factory legislation and its working shows clearly that the intention of the act was defeated because employers could so easily evade its clauses. at present it is known to a factory inspector that a factory that opens at always opens at and closes at , unless notice has been given that overtime is being worked; if, however, an employer were free to open his factory at or or , as occasion demanded, and close accordingly, the difficulty of administration would obviously be greatly increased. the same point arises with regard to nightworkers. it is quite impossible to know among a staff of nightworkers, who has been working all day and who are _bonâ fide_ job hands. such cases as the following, which was the cause of a prosecution, would occur far more frequently. "twenty-four girls who were employed at a neighbouring printing and bookbinding firm, worked for twelve hours at that firm on friday, november th. they then went straight to the carlyle press, and worked all night, going back to their regular work at the other firm at the next morning. the forewoman employed by the latter firm said that she did not know these girls had been working all day, or she would not have admitted them."[ ] [footnote : _printers' register_, january th, .] it must be remembered that so far as the class of job hands is concerned, they owe their present position in a large measure to factory legislation. by utilising them, the employer has been able to meet a sudden press of work, and yet to comply with the provisions of the law, so that, without the legislation of which they now complain, many of them would not have found employment. moreover, job hands are not numerous when compared with regular workers, and the provisions in the factory acts which seem to bear hardly on casual labour have rightly been passed in the interest of the permanent staff. to accede to the demand for greater elasticity is to suppose a higher code of morals on the part both of employers and of employed than experience justifies, and it would also render necessary a far more elaborate and irritating system of inspection than at present exists. the efficiency of modern factory industry depends very greatly upon automatic working--upon its standardisation of conditions, and the existing factory law with its inelastic provisions is, in reality, a great aid in maintaining those conditions of efficiency. now and again an employer complains of some hard experience, and forgets that a departure from rigid rule would destroy the certainty which he feels that the law is treating him exactly as it is his competitors. such a feeling of security is essential to business enterprise. chapter vii. _women and machinery._ there is a general opinion amongst the women workers themselves that the introduction of machinery has ruined these trades for them. but we have found that certain opinions prevail, not because they have stood the test of investigation, but because they are passed round, and have never been subjected to enquiry. we have already referred to the question in a general way.[ ] [footnote : p. .] [sidenote: effect of machinery.] the impression of workers that machinery is displacing them, must be received with a great deal of reserve as they rarely take long or broad views. mechanical aid is very imperfect in most of these trades, and in book folding, envelope making, black bordering, etc., its use has hitherto been greatly restricted owing to the nature of the work. the census figures, moreover, seem to be pretty conclusive that, taking the trade as a whole, machinery cannot have had such a very destructive influence upon women's employment.[ ] [footnote : an old-established publisher commits himself to the statement that machinery has increased women's work by per cent. the manager of a leading scottish paper and stationery firm stated, with reference to envelope making: "the use of machinery is always extending; but only in the direction of increasing the output; there has been no displacing of workers; the result has been rather to increase their employment."] the following statement by a trade union official is at once the most emphatic and most detailed of a considerable mass of information on this subject:-- "folding and stitching machines have largely superseded female labour and men's labour too. _e.g._, a. (a certain weekly paper), if folded, etc., by hand, would employ thirty hands--now it is all done by machinery. b. (another similar paper) by hand would employ girls and, say, twenty or thirty men--now no girl touches it except just to insert 'things,' _e.g._, advertisements, and men merely pack it; machinery does the rest. even wrapping is done by machinery--one machine with one man does the work of eight men. at x. (a well-known london firm) ten folding machines do the work of girls." as a matter of fact the papers referred to have been created by the cheap work of machines, and no labour has been displaced by their employment. they have rather increased the demand for labour. but the statement shows the efficiency of machinery worked under the best conditions. another statement by a woman worker, typical of many others, is as follows: "machinery is ruining the trade, and workers are being turned off; thirty were turned off a few months ago, and twenty more will have to go soon." this applies to a certain well-known london firm of bookbinders, and it is curiously corroborated by other investigators who found in other firms traces of the women discharged from this one. the firm's own statement, however, was that they had to turn away "ten hands (young ones), the other day, because of the introduction of folding machines"; but this information was received five months before the woman employed quoted above was seen.[ ] [footnote : an edinburgh firm states that one folding machine can be managed by two girls and it does the work of eight women hand-folders. the firm does not state if it turned away hands, but it considered that there is too great a strain placed upon girls in watching this machine constantly, so their work is varied.] [sidenote: displacement.] that there is some displacement, either directly or by the substitution of younger workpeople, cannot be gainsaid with reference to particular processes. the class most affected is the sewers. the evidence in support of their displacement places it beyond dispute, and though the increased facility for sewing has created an extra demand for folding, and some sewers have turned to folding in consequence, this class as a whole has suffered by machinery. folders have been less affected. the way in which the displacement is brought about is of some interest. we have, to begin with, the general apparent inability of women to manage machines, and we find that the folding machine has tended to reintroduce men to aid in work which for many years has been exclusively women's.[ ] here we have a case of men and machinery doing women's work. on the other hand, the sewing machine does not appear to have had that tendency, the only explanation apparently being that convention determines that in these trades sewing machines and women go together. sewing machines are domestic implements in men's eyes. it is very curious that it should be so, but we are driven to that as the only possible explanation of well-observed facts. in this instance machines alone displace women. [footnote : the manager of a firm with an extensive business in popular periodical literature says: "folding, which was all hand work and women's work, is now largely done by machines managed by men. wrapping, of which the same was true, is also largely done by machines which are managed by men.... if the machine is large and complicated, men will replace women, if it is small and simple, women will replace men."] no process--excepting the few rare instances in the typographical trade--seems to have been opened up to women in consequence of the introduction of machinery; and, on the other hand, the instances where young persons, either boys or girls, have been put to women's work owing to the introduction of machinery are very rare. so all that has happened has been that machines have somewhat changed the character of women's work, and their chief effect, beyond the displacement of sewers, has been to prevent the taking on of some learners who otherwise might have been employed in certain branches of these trades. conclusions can be arrived at with more accuracy in respect of the paper-colouring and enamelling processes. paper colouring and enamelling hardly exists as a separate trade now. paper is coloured or enamelled, as a rule, in the mill where it is made, and the processes are carried out by machinery. this trade, then, affords a definite instance of the replacement of women's work by machinery, handwork being now a rare survival. in one firm where forty-five women were formerly employed twelve now work. the process of colouring by hand is very simple. the sheet of paper to be coloured is placed in front of the woman who wets it over with the required colour by means of a long thin brush like a whitewash brush, which she dips into a bowl. she then takes another round brush, about ins. in diameter, and brushes over the whole surface, so that the colour shall lie quite evenly. the process is now complete, and the sheet of paper is taken up and hung on a line to dry. enamelling is done in precisely the same way, enamel, instead of colour, being applied. these hand processes apparently survive in the case of small quantities of paper which it is not worth while to colour or enamel by machine. those who have seen the process cannot regret the abolition of hand labour. the work is rough and dirty; the workers and the walls are all splashed over with the colour, the result being picturesque, but not healthy. when dry powder or dust is used in the process, meals may not be taken on the premises. the work does not attract a high grade of workers; they are of the job-hand type, friendly, rough and ready, and by no means tidy or "genteel." paper colouring and enamelling was once a man's trade but women replaced men for the same reason that machinery has now replaced women, _i.e._, cheapness. machine ruling has also been slightly affected. one of the investigators reports of an edinburgh factory: "in this factory i was shown a ruling machine which was provided with an automatic feeder, in the form of two indiarubber wheels, which drew each sheet of paper into the machine with great exactness. the machine, after ruling one side, turned the paper and ruled the other without any adjustment by hand being necessary. after being set, this machine required only the occasional supervision of one man operative. it was estimated that its output equalled that of twelve persons on the old machines, whilst on some work of a simple kind which was merely to be run through, it might replace the work of thirty." [sidenote: cheap labour and mechanical appliances.] in these circumstances it is hardly to be expected that much evidence could have been collected leading to very definite conclusions regarding how far the cheapness of women's labour retarded the introduction of machinery, and the efficient organisation of these industries. with the large up-to-date employers, the fact that women's labour is cheap counts for little in face of the fact that machinery is rapid, and enables them on a small area and with a productive capital charge, to turn out large volumes of produce. "when we see a good machine," said one of these employers, "we try it, and we do not think of the cheapness or dearness of the labour it may displace." but with small employers, and with those producing for a lower class or special market, considerations of wages do enter greatly into calculations of the utility of a new machine, and to some slight extent the cheapness of women's labour has retarded the application of machinery in these trades. one investigator states of a large west end stationer:--"undoubtedly he would put up steam folding and stamping machines if women's labour were not so cheap." a printer who prints some of the best-known weekly papers and reviews is reported to have said:--"taking it broadly, the cheapness of men's or women's work undoubtedly tends to retard the introduction of machinery." but the most striking proof of the connection between cheap labour and handwork is given by one investigator who, whilst being taken over certain large printing works was shown women folding one of the illustrated weekly papers. folding machines were standing idle in the department, and she was told that these were used by the men when folding had to be done at times when the factory law prohibited women's labour.[ ] another employer stated that he had introduced folding machines as a consequence of the legal restrictions placed upon women's labour, whilst another well-known bookbinder said:--"if women would take a fair price for work done it would not be necessary to employ machinery." [footnote : _cf._ pp , , etc.] a large printer of magazines reports: "the saving in cost, and therefore the inducement to put in machinery, is much less if higher wages are paid for men doing the work." the scarcity of women's labour, we are told, induced a manchester printing firm to adopt folding machines; whilst, on the other hand, the cheapness of women's labour has kept linotypes out of warrington composing rooms. chapter viii. _home work._ [sidenote: census figures.] the table of occupations compiled from the census of for the first time indicates the number of home workers. for these trades the figures for women are as follows: +----------------+----------------------------------+-----------+ | _census | england and wales. | | | ._ +------------+------------+--------+-----------+ | | unmarried. | married or | total. | total for | | | | widowed. | | scotland. | +----------------+------------+------------+--------+-----------+ | paper | | | | | | manufacture | | | | | +----------------+------------+------------+--------+-----------+ | paper | | | | | | stainers | | | | | +----------------+------------+------------+--------+-----------+ | stationery | | | | | | manufacture | | | | | +----------------+------------+------------+--------+-----------+ | envelope | | | | | | makers | | | | | +----------------+------------+------------+--------+-----------+ | paper box (a) | | , | , | | | and paper bag | | | | | | makers | | | | | +----------------+------------+------------+--------+-----------+ | other workers | | | | | | in paper, | | | | | | etc. | | | | | +----------------+------------+------------+--------+-----------+ | printers | | | | | | [? folders] | | | | | +----------------+------------+------------+--------+-----------+ | lithographers, | | | | | | copper | | | | | | and steel | | | | | | plate | | | | | | printers | | | | | +----------------+------------+------------+--------+-----------+ | bookbinders | | | | | +----------------+------------+------------+--------+-----------+ | typecutter | | | | | +----------------+------------+------------+--------+-----------+ (a) paper box making was not investigated. it is always difficult to trace out the home worker, and the information we obtained was collected through communication with school board officers, charity organisation society secretaries, district nurses, sanitary inspectors, and workpeople. the groups of trades investigated are mainly factory and workshop trades, and are becoming more so. home work is not so prevalent in them as it used to be, and it is now somewhat difficult to trace its effects in its present decayed importance. [sidenote: home work drawbacks.] there used to be a good deal of home work in these trades, but the growth of large firms and the introduction of machinery[ ] have discouraged it.[ ] the material is very heavy and sometimes costly, and has to be carefully handled. it is therefore difficult to move from workshop to dwelling-place; and when handled in kitchens or other living rooms it runs a great risk of being stained and spoiled. the home workers find some of their own material, _e.g._, paste and brushes for bag making, and they save light and rent for employers; but, on the other hand, they are apt "to send back their work with the mark of teacups upon it," or spoiled in some other way, and it is difficult to get them to return it punctually. so in these trades, home work really does not pay. [footnote : this seems to be specially the case in the provinces.] [footnote : one of the home workers (also workshop worker) visited said, "home work is given less and less and is difficult to get now. only three work at it--old hands--and they are going to stop it altogether, perhaps." another investigator reports of machine-ruling in scotland: "two elderly women who worked a paper-ruling machine in their kitchen. they had been at the work for thirty years, having been taught by their father, and have carried on the business since his death. the father had a good business, and they can make their living by it, but say the work has sadly fallen off. they get enough orders to keep them going, and when very busy employ a girl occasionally to help them. 'it is useless to try to compete with the new machines they have nowadays. what used to be given to us at _s._ _d._, can now be turned out by the machines for _s._ _d._ we couldn't afford to do it at those rates.'" _cf._ appendix v.] the trade unions prohibit home work when they are able to detect it. there is, generally, a healthy feeling opposed to this method of employment, and firms deny practising it. [sidenote: home work processes.] home work is now mainly confined to book and paper folding, sewing printed matter, black bordering and folding envelopes, making paper bags, and designing and painting christmas cards which is done at home not so much because employers encourage it, but because it is undertaken by a class of women indisposed to enter a workshop. the folding is mostly of cheap printed matter like popular almanacs and other street literature. also, a good deal of folding thin paper bibles and prayer books is done at home. some paper staining is also done in living rooms by workpeople, but the practice is less common than it was. "one paper colourer, a married woman, whom we saw, told us that her mother worked at the trade before her at home, and when she herself was a baby her cradle was rocked on the colouring board. 'many was the night' that she sat up as a child helping her mother to do the work. she certainly throve on it and seemed immensely proud of her industrial career." [sidenote: the home worker.] what home work is still done is given mainly to women employed in the workshop during the day, and is therefore illegal.[ ] in addition, women who have married whilst working in certain firms, or widows of men who have been workmen in these trades, keep up old connections by occasional--if not systematic--home work. but as it hardly pays the employer to avail himself regularly of domestic workers, the work now done at home is chiefly given out to meet a temporary pressure of demand, and would practically disappear if these exceptional pressures did not take place. [footnote : the wording of the section ( ( )) of the act, however, makes it difficult to enforce.] [sidenote: paper-bag making.] the making of paper bags is, of this group of trades, most extensively and systematically practised as a home industry. this is particularly the case in the neighbourhood of busy street markets, such as are found in south london. the work is mostly done by married women of a rough class, as a supplement to their husbands' wages.[ ] reporting upon one such worker an investigator says: "mrs. ---- is one of nine daughters, and seven are paper-bag makers. all her cousins, aunts and relations-in-law have taken it up.... a niece of hers was consumptive and could not earn her living, but she was fond of dress. mrs. ---- taught her paper-bag making and she soon earned _s._ or _s._ a week." the profit which yielded this income is stated to be _d._ or _d._ per thousand bags. many women who occasionally work at paper-bag making only do so to earn a particular sum of money of which they are in need--say _s._ when that is earned they cease work. such is the casual nature of the employment and the disorganised state of the labour employed in it. [footnote : "in nearly all the cases that mrs. ---- (an employing bag maker in the borough) knows there are bad husbands. mrs. ---- is in the trade herself to supplement her husband's earnings because she has nine children and he cannot earn enough to keep them in comfort."] [sidenote: the homes.] the practically unanimous report of the investigators is that these home workers' home conditions are of the very worst. "a very squalid and evil-smelling slum:" "very poor and miserable house shared by others," are typical descriptions of the dwellings to which the home work investigations led us. chapter ix. _the married and the unmarried._ the investigators tried to obtain information bearing upon the interesting and important question of the influence of the married and the unmarried woman worker on industry, on the home, and on the family income. but the difficulty of following up statements and testing their accuracy has been so great and some of the factors in the problem so elusive under the conditions of the trades investigated, that conclusions are stated with considerable reserve. the custom in the trades under review undoubtedly is that married women should not work in them; and, as a rule, only widowhood, or a bad or sickly husband, or a slack time, brings a woman back to them after marriage.[ ] sometimes, however, she comes back, because it is too dull at home.[ ] this is more generally the case in the provinces than in london, where certain job departments, especially certain kinds of folding, are filled by rather a rough class of women, amongst whom the proportion of married is exceptionally high. throughout the reports sent in, it is most interesting to note how strongly the sense of feminine respectability opposes their fellow workwomen working after marriage, "unless they have been unfortunate in their husbands."[ ] [footnote : for statistics see appendix vii.] [footnote : a woman worker says, "they come back after they have married, because a girl who has been accustomed to make _s._ for herself is not comfortable when she marries a man on £ a week who is accustomed to have that for himself, so she comes back to make extra money."] [footnote : so also it is interesting to note the lingering shadow of chivalry in this connection. "mr. ----," said one of the girls, "never will take married women, but then he is always _such_ a gentleman."] the average age of the women regularly employed is low,[ ] because as a rule girls leave at marriage. the investigators generally report that the age in workrooms appears to be mainly between eighteen and twenty-three. the report that "four girls here out of thirty or forty are over eighteen" (leeds bookbinder's), is typical of many others. this fact alone has an enormous influence on women's wages and makes it necessary to be very careful in drawing conclusions under the headings dealt with in this chapter. [footnote : a manager of a provincial printing establishment estimated that twelve years was the maximum workshop life of average girls.] [sidenote: wages and expenditure.] an attempt has been made to discover how far the earnings of women workers in these trades are only supplementary to family income, and how far the family worker is entirely dependent upon them for her livelihood. on the whole (but with important exceptions) they appear to be supplementary. in cases, certain fixed weekly payments are made for board and lodging to the relatives who are heads of the households, but these payments are not enforced in times of unemployment and are reduced when work is slack. even when being made in full they do not always represent the actual cost of accommodation and living. it is becoming less and less common, it seems, for the wives of idle and improvident husbands to eke out their household income by casual or seasonal work, but the practice is still followed and in london prevails to a relatively considerable extent. in such cases the women do not work for mere pocket-money, nor again, do their wages cover the full cost of their living. "miss ---- lives at home and her parents are evidently in comfortable circumstances," runs one report of a book-folder. "i went into the best parlour, where there was a piano--also a high hat in the corner!" the following gives a somewhat fuller picture of these workers:--"mrs. ---- is a widow and has no children. she looks about sixty and is probably about fifty. she lives on the top floor in model dwellings (three rooms, for which she pays _s._ _d._) her husband died in of consumption, and she does not know what she would have done had she not been made forewoman (in a book-folding room). she does not see how a pieceworker can support herself. she must live at home. most of the girls working under her live at home and give their mothers _s._ a week, keeping the rest for themselves. she was doing some washing and mangling when i called. a little girl comes to help clean, but otherwise she does everything for herself." a fairly large employer in london stated that his "girls are living with their parents and work for pocket-money." another "would think that about half lived at home." one woman stated, "a bit of extra money comes in handy. it is nice for a woman to put a little by--you cannot expect her to save out of her husband's money"; another said: "a woman ought never to let her husband know what she earns--if she is foolish enough to do that, he at once becomes lazy and extravagant. a woman should only work after marriage either to save a little money, or to help a sick or delicate husband." a well-known london general stationery dealer reports: "some of the women employed are the wives of the porters and packers, but in the majority of cases the husbands are worthless, and the earnings of the women are the chief support of the household." in one case reported upon, a girl, working in a bible and prayer-book house, having to support herself, could not do it, and began pilfering prayer-books to make both ends meet. she was turned away as a thief. for the purpose of throwing light upon the problems with which this chapter deals, particulars have been obtained from one firm in london where eighty-six women are employed. the married women are described as follows:-- . a widow. . has a husband, a bookbinder in good work, but they are extravagant. . has a husband in work. . a widow. . a widow with a daughter to support. . a widow. . has a husband in work. has been summoned for boys not attending school. . has a husband who drinks. looks after her children and goes home at dinner time. . a widow with recalcitrant boy. . has a husband in work. . has a husband irregularly employed. very poor and slatternly. . has a husband who drinks. of the unmarried workers, one learned the trade when on in years because, owing to a misfortune, she had to bring up her brothers and sisters. she was very slow and her earnings only averaged about _s._ per week. two support themselves. the others live at home and pay _s._ or _s._ per week, or hand over everything they make, and receive back small sums for pocket-money. a report from another well-known firm of bookbinders in london states that in a room of ten women, five support themselves. in some instances it is noted that married women have to receive charitable aid in looking after their children when they themselves go to work. of a large printing firm it is said, "most of the girls at ... don't seem to mind if they make money or not. they couldn't possibly keep themselves on what they earned." this was the statement of a girl working with the firm and erred in being too absolute; but an examination of the wage returns showed that, somewhat modified and limited, it was true. a manager of a co-operative bookbinding establishment estimated that, from his experience, not more than per cent. of the girls working in that trade, regarded their wages as the only means by which they supported themselves. the forewoman of a large stationery department stated that only three out of twenty girls under her had to depend on their own wages. the conclusion of a report submitted by an official of the typographical association in coventry may be taken as being true of the provinces generally. "the females for the most part are young girls, with a sprinkling of experienced and older hands who leave when about entering married life." evidently it is a very common thing for such workers to pay so much into a common purse from which general family expenses are drawn, and into which the individual contributions vary with the state of trade. the industrial effect of these conditions is obvious. the women keep no vigilant eye upon wages which are fixed rather by use and wont than by competitive pressure. employers have rarely[ ] to offer high pay as an inducement to women to enter these trades, and, consequently, there is always a downward drag upon wages, and although the women spasmodically interest themselves in their conditions, they feel so little dependence on wages that they can never be taught to make that steady upward pressure which would improve the organisation of these trades and yield more return for labour. hence, the low rate of wages obtainable by those who have to maintain themselves is kept down almost solely by the circumstance that such a large proportion of the women employed remain part of families and share in general family income. it should be noted that it is often the policy of employers to be "careful only to take respectable young girls who live with their parents." the economic influence of this "respectable" standard is obvious. [footnote : the establishment of a laundry in the vicinity of a well-known provincial firm of printers resulted in an increase of wages in the shape of a guarantee that no wages should be paid under _s._ per week.] [sidenote: influence on family income.] on the question whether an extensive prevalence of "supplementary earnings" tends to reduce the wages paid to other members of the family, our investigations in these trades threw no light. only in one case, where a husband and wife were questioned, was the opinion stated that, "now that women go into trades so much, a man and a woman together only make as much as a man used to." the question is one which can be answered only by investigation in other trades, the circumstances of which are more favourable for its elucidation. [sidenote: wages rates and married women.] what little influence the married woman has upon wages seems to be to raise and not to lower them. that is the unanimous opinion of the forewomen in london, and they know best.[ ] [footnote : the following are extracts from the opinions of forewomen on this point:-- "they don't lower rates; they want more." "they don't lower rates of pay; it is rather the reverse, for they are most troublesome about the price; _e.g._, the other day a married woman, a new hand, made four or five girls refuse to do some sewing at the price quoted, so they and she sat idle and wasted their time till the forewoman saw what she could do for them. she (the forewoman) pointed out to the girls how foolish it was to waste their time like that, and they said that they wouldn't have done it by themselves." "so far from working for less if they don't get enough, they say--'thank you' and walk off." "they are the first to grumble; they don't think it worth coming unless they can make something good." "married women are more trouble than the unmarried; they are at the bottom of any agitation, and won't come if you are slack, for they wouldn't get enough to pay for washing." "they are more independent than single workers, and teach the others to stand out." "they think it a favour to do your work." "they won't work for less, for they generally have more than themselves to keep." a forewoman of a book-folding department in a large firm said that though not employing married women on her regular staff, she had had some experience of them as job hands, and found that they would not do ordinary work at ordinary rates, it not being worth their while. "they have not got to earn money, as they have husbands to fall back upon." to this should be added the testimony of one thoughtful observer, who has considered the question during a long experience in the trade. he has never come across a case where married women have lowered the rate of pay; on the other hand, the elder women often complain that the young girls who are living at home don't mind having ¼_d._ or ½_d._ cut off. see also the report on home work, published by the women's industrial council, , buckingham street, strand, _d._, for further details confirming this view.] in a good many instances, the married women complained that the unmarried ones accepted reductions, and at a conference held at manchester in connection with this investigation, the opinion was unanimously expressed that married women do not lower wages, but, "on the contrary, the casuals grumble most and get most."[ ] "i know of a case," writes a plymouth correspondent, "where a married woman would not work for less than _s._, which she obtained and retained for a year or two." out of a batch of ninety employers who had definite opinions upon the influence of married women upon the standard of wages, seventy-seven said they did not lower it, and thirteen that they did. the married woman is more able than the unmarried girl to appreciate the relation between wages and living expenses, and when she returns to the workshop, it is as a worker who accepts the life of the wage earner as a final fact and not as a mere interval between school and marriage. [footnote : the casually employed sometimes give trouble owing to unpunctuality, and several employers have complained against married women on this ground. but the investigation as a whole does not show the complaint to be at all general.] the married woman is more independent and disinclined to accept low rates when offered, and she is generally chosen to go on deputations making complaints to employers. a trade union official said that theoretically the married woman ought to reduce wages, but that he was bound to say that his experience in the trade taught him that she did not. she has acquired the right to grumble, and she is put down in a considerable proportion of the reports as the centre from which general discontent in the workrooms emanates. many employers object to her in consequence. she seems to regard herself as a permanent worker when she is a widow, and generally remains for a considerable time--twenty or thirty years--with her employers without thinking of changing. she is not so "particular" as her unmarried co-worker, and does not give herself so many "airs." she cleans litho-rollers without "turning up her nose." she is, in short, part and parcel of the fellowship of wage earners; her unmarried sister is not. she is more rarely found in the provinces than in london in these trades. leeds and bradford, and bristol and the surrounding district may be taken as typical, and the reports of the investigators who visited these towns are quoted in full below on this point. [sidenote: the employment of married women. (a) london.] in london, several firms refuse to employ married women as regular hands. in some cases this is a policy of the forewoman only, and not a rule of the firm. in others the head of the firm is responsible for the order. the motives vary. some refuse on principle, holding that husbands should support their wives; _e.g._, "she won't countenance husbands living on their wives' earnings and idling themselves"; or, again, that it is "hard on single girls," or undesirable to have married women working amongst unmarried girls, because, "they spoil a shop by talking about all sorts of things." other employers refuse to have them because they are too irregular--"you can't get them in in time"; others because "one has no hold over them," or because "they are tiresome, being so cocky." "out of seventy-five girls," runs one of our reports, "he had none married till recently, when he failed to get enough unmarried. dislikes having them because influence bad."[ ] [footnote : reasons given for not employing married women, taken from a batch of london reports:-- ( ) irregular. ( ) principle. ( ) principle. ( ) principle. ( ) no hold. ( ) chance. ( ) principle. ( ) chance. ( ) irregular. ( ) irregular. ( ) principle. ( ) moral principle. ( ) moral principle. ( ) principle (?). ( ) principle (?). ( ) expediency. ( ) principle. ( ) principle. ( ) principle. ( ) principle. ( ) principle. ( ) rule. ( ) rule. ( ) rule. ( ) expediency. ( ) principle. ( ) principle. ( ) principle. ( ) principle. ( ) principle. ( ) irregular.] as a rule, however, there is a certain number of married women on the staff, and all houses who have recourse to job hands in busy seasons must, on occasions, have married women on their premises, though they may object to employ them as regular workers. the exact proportion of married to unmarried women in these trades is impossible to judge. accuracy could only be obtained by taking a census of each shop. estimates vary. a forewoman of experience calculated that more than half were married. a trade union secretary and an experienced worker estimated that about half were married, whilst of the job hands taken separately, more than three-fourths were married women. another union official, however, reckoned that, taking the trades as a whole, there were four unmarried to one married; taking job hands separately, two were married to one unmarried. most of those conversant with the trade are careful to give no figures, "a large proportion" are married, or a "good few," and so on, are the common expressions. all, however, agree that the largest proportion of married to unmarried is found amongst the job hands; that, in fact, the majority of that class of workers have husbands. a few instances of the proportion amongst the regular staff in houses taken at random are given below. in most cases, it was impossible to obtain any figures, but the following may be taken to be types:-- a. _printing._-- married out of . b. _printing and magazine binding._--half the staff. c. _printing._-- regular hands unmarried, married taken on when busy. d. _envelopes, etc._-- girls, married. e. _binding._-- married out of . f. _card mounting, etc._-- married out of . g. _binding._-- married in machine room out of ; in perforating department. h. _stationery._-- married out of . j. _printing._-- married out of . k. _binding._-- married out of . l. _printing and magazine work._-- married out of . m. _printing._-- or out of . n. _printing._-- out of . (in most departments won't take them.) these houses show a much lower percentage of married workers than anyone hazarded at a guess. [sidenote: (b) bristol and district.] "seventeen houses in bristol, employing about , women, have no married hands. in three of these, it is the rule that girls must leave on marriage, because the employer or the forewoman dislikes having married women, either 'because they are not such good workers after they have got the breakfast for their husbands and children, and seen to the house, and are not then much good for work in a factory,' or else because of a feeling that it is wrong to take married women from home duties. "in eight houses, employing about , women, there is no rule against employing married women, and a few are employed. the exact proportions were impossible to ascertain, but mostly box-makers. employed. married. a. most leave when married, but a few good workers kept on. b. two. c. one or two. d. a very few kept on. e. both married. f. one married. g. generally leave; a few kept on. h. , a good many married. "so few married women are employed in these trades in bristol that it is impossible to find any evidence of their influence on rates of pay, and the generalisations as to the quality of married women's work are made on very little information. one employer (b.) declared that married women are better workers because they do not go out unless they have good-for-nothing husbands and _have_ to be the breadwinners, a remark corroborated by g., who assigned the same reason for their superiority, adding that married women make _s._ or _s._ a week more at piecework than the unmarried, and seem more anxious to get on. c. regards them as steadier than girls: "they take life more seriously." "in two houses in gloucester with twenty-two and fifty-five girls, there are no married women. 'they don't want to stay.' "in frome, a leading printing establishment employs girls, but none are married. there is a rule against employing married women. it is regarded as immoral to do so--'it means that the husband spends the extra money in beer.' "in stroud, amongst thirty girls, none were married. "in bath, in a firm employing forty girls, a few were married, but none whose husbands were in work. 'that would be considered _infra dig_.' [sidenote: (c) leeds and bradford.] "married women are rarely employed in these trades in leeds. out of seventeen houses visited, only three had married women as regular workers. one of these is an account-book maker's, where a few out of the thirty hands are married; another is a wallpaper manufacturer's, where no difference is made when girls marry, and the third is a paper-bag house, where a few out of the thirty women employed are married. in the remaining fourteen houses, comprising about girls, no married women work. it is a custom recognised by masters and workers alike that women leave on marriage, so that the industrial career of these workers stops usually at twenty-two or twenty-three. in two houses old hands who have married are taken on for occasional rushes of work. "this dearth of married women in these trades seems strange in a town where married women's work is such a common feature in the mills, but is accounted for by the fact that the girls employed in the printing trades belong to a comparatively comfortable class, marry in their own class, and are not expected to be breadwinners. one employer suggests that the work requires more regularity than can be expected from a married woman, but this does not seem to be a serious difficulty in london. "bradford conditions are practically the same. seven firms have no married women, one has one married out of workers, and this is an exception, married women not being employed as a rule. as in leeds, the hands who have married come in to help when there is a rush of work. one manager remarked that, if the girls think they are not going to marry they leave for the mills, where pay is higher." * * * * * [sidenote: the moral influence of the married worker.] there seems to be a pretty widespread objection to the moral influence of married women in the workshop. "mr. ---- objects to the employment of married women. he dislikes the way they talk to the unmarried girls.... lately he has been obliged to employ them as he could not get enough unmarried women." [sidenote: family health.] as regards the effect of work in these trades on family life, again the evidence is sparse, but so far as it is clear it tends to show that the employment of women makes little difference to the ordinary state of things. the work is not unhealthy, and the woman worker does not do much of the heavy tasks, such as lifting formes, using presses, and so on. the instances where she does this are rare, and the men have always, in this respect, turned their chivalrous instincts to industrial purpose and to protect their own interests. one investigator reports that a girl suffers from weak knees on account of long spells of standing at a machine for making envelopes, and that a vellum-folder complains of having to lift heavy weights. another reports against "powdering" in book-binding; and employment in typefoundries, where girls handle type, is dangerous, since it may lead to lead-poisoning. another says that bronzing, even when the bronzing machine is used and the precautions specified by the factory act are taken, is unhealthy. a case is given of a woman permanently injured by the excessive strain of working a guillotine cutting machine. the bookbinders have always been ready to point out that certain parts of their work are too heavy for women, and the compositors have done the same. the latter also show that consumption is a trade disease amongst them, and recently have defended their attempts to exclude women from working the linotype on the ground that the fumes and gases which are generated by its typefounding arrangement are injurious to health. they also maintain that standing for long periods at a stretch is injurious to women, but in at least one large printing firm in the provinces women were seen by our investigators setting type whilst sitting on stools in front of the case. the conditions of some wallpaper factories seem to be unhealthy, partly owing to the hot air, the smell, and some of the material used, especially the arsenic. some reports state that the constant "standing about" necessary in these trades gives headaches and produces anæmia. what valid objection there is against married women leaving their homes and children for long periods at a time during the day, must of course be added to this, in common with all other kinds of continuous work in which married women engage, but there is no special danger to life or health in these industries from which the coming generation may suffer. chapter x. _wages._ we have succeeded in getting the authentic records of wages from about eighteen firms in london, representing every branch of work in connection with printing, binding, and despatch, and employing together , hands--more in busy, less in slack weeks. we have also less detailed information about some half-dozen other firms. these studied together and apart will no doubt give a correct general impression of the amount and variability of wages paid, but circumstances have made it very difficult to group them so as to give a simple bird's-eye view of the whole. these circumstances are partly due to the very great differences between the class of work done by the various firms, and the difficulty of tabulating the workers under a few definite heads; partly to the difficulty of collecting records. our investigators were recommended:-- i. to get complete wage sheets for as many weeks as their time and the courtesy of the manager allowed, making the record as complete as possible for , and extending their researches back as far as the books existed, choosing the wage sheets of one week in every month. ii. to trace individual workers through as long a period as possible, choosing workers who would best illustrate all the various conditions of employment. iii. to note any other information. as regards i., we have the wage sheets for some separate weeks, in addition to the complete lists of two very small firms for one and four years respectively; ii., the complete earnings of about hands for periods varying from one to fourteen years. owing to the fact that it was impossible to get the complete lists through for many firms, and that the periods of slackness and full work were not the same in different places, it proved very difficult to handle the wage lists. at last the plan was adopted of getting complete lists of one busy week, one typical week, and one slack week in , leaving the employers to choose the weeks, unless our investigators could make a complete record. in the following analysis we have endeavoured to bring out the salient features of the statistics of each firm separately, and we have then grouped together all the typical weeks, either chosen by the employer or selected by us from the series; and it is believed that this grouping gives an adequate idea of the wages at a time which the trade regards as ordinary. the earnings of the individual hands is a very valuable and, it may be, almost unique record. many interesting facts are brought out by their study, and the records should have a place in sociological literature apart from their interest in the present connection. it has been necessary to make a technical use of averages in collating and tabulating the material, and we offer the following explanations. where the word "average" is used without qualification, it is the ordinary arithmetic average, obtained by dividing the total by the number of payees. this is the best for general quantitative measurements. in most cases the median and quartiles and sometimes the dispersions have been calculated. they may be explained as follows. suppose the wages of, say, sixty persons to be arranged in ascending order, _e.g._, _s._, _s._ _d._, _s._, _s._ _d._ ... _s._ _d._, _s._, _s._ _d._, then the wage _halfway_ up the list is the _median_ wage; thus, there are as many individuals above the median as below it. the wages halfway from the ends to the median (_i.e._, fifteenth and forty-fifth from bottom), are the _quartiles_, so that between the quartiles half the wages are grouped. thus, if the median and quartiles in the above list were _s._ _d._, _s._ _d._, _s._ _d._, there would be fifteen earning less than _s._ _d._, fifteen more than _s._ _d._, thirty between _s._ _d._ and _s._ _d._, thirty below and thirty above _s._ _d._ for a single measurement of the grouping of the wages about their median, the distance between it and the quartiles is significant: in this example _s._ and _s._ are these distances. the more convenient way of stating this is to express half the distance between the quartiles ( _s._ _d._) as a fraction of their average _s._, which is generally very nearly the median. this fraction (¼ or · ) we call the _dispersion_, and it enables us to study the changing character of a group in a very simple and efficient manner. i.--statistical view of the various firms. firm a. _information obtained._--wages of thirty-six hands tabulated week by week through . total amount paid in wages and total number employed each week, - . the whole wages sheet for one week in july and one week in november for each of these fifteen years. a. is a firm employing from fifty to one hundred and ten women and girls as folders, stitchers and sewers. the number employed has changed gradually; in - there were about a hundred: from to the number continually diminished to sixty, and after a brief spurt in the autumn of to one hundred and fifteen and a rapid fall, has from to gradually risen from fifty to ninety. through the fifteen years which the statistics cover, - , the _annual_ average (roughly calculated) has fluctuated within the narrow limits of _s._ _d._ and _s._ _d._; it was above _s._ in , , , , ; below _s._ in and . this average includes the learners. but when examined more minutely it is seen that the fluctuations week by week and month by month are very rapid. briefly, there is a change of about _s._ in four-weekly cycles. thus in november, , the averages for the five weeks were _s._, _s._ _d._, _s._ _d._, _s._ _d._, _s._ in november the wages are much higher than in july, and evidently more regular in character; the number earning near the average is also greater. thus the "dispersion" in november is generally about · (the quartiles and median being, for example, _s._, _s._, _s._); while in july it is generally about · (_e.g._, _s._ _d._, _s._ _d._, _s._ _d._). again, it seems quite doubtful each year whether there will be any july wages worth the name; the median in four weeks selected each year in july changes from _s._ _d._ to _s._ _d._; while that for selected weeks in november is from _s._ _d._ to _s._ _d._, a smaller proportionate variation. the majority are piece workers. the following table shows the wages in two weeks (slack and busy) in . the figures are probably typical of similar weeks in previous years. +-------------------+------------+------------+ | firm a. | july th, | nov. th, | | | . | . | | from to | numbers | numbers | | _s.__d._ _s.__d._ | earning. | earning. | +-------------------+------------+------------+ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | -- -- | | | +-------------------+------------+------------+ july th, : median, _s._; quartiles, _s._ _d._, _s._ _d._; dispersion, · . nov. th, : median, _s._ _d._; quartiles, _s._ _d._, _s._; dispersion, · . +-------+-----------------------------------+ | firm | average | | a. | wage. | | +-----------+-----------+-----------+ | | st | nd | year. | | | six | six | | | | months. | months. | | +-------+-----------+-----------+-----------+ | | _s._ _d._ | _s._ _d._ | _s._ _d._ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | +-------+-----------+-----------+-----------+ +-------+-----------+-----------+ | firm | median | | a. | wage. | | +-----------+-----------+ | | week | week | | | in | in | | | july. | nov. | +-------+-----------+-----------+ | | _s._ _d._ | _s._ _d._ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | +-------+-----------+-----------+ for the years: st six months, _s._; nd six months, _s._; year, _s._ _d._ firm b. _information obtained._--wages of five hands tabulated week by week, for years - , - , - , - , , respectively. monthly earnings and half-yearly bonus for all regular hands, - . weekly wages of all hands throughout eighteen months in the years - and , three weeks in and two in . this firm employs folders, stitchers, and sewers.--the number of permanent hands employed increased with slight variations from two in to twelve in . jobbers are occasionally employed, sometimes as many as there are permanent hands. considering the regular hands and choosing each year a wage earner near the median for that year, we have the following table. +--------+-----------+-----------+------------------+ | firm | total | bonus. | average earnings | | b. | wages | | per week, | | | in year. | | including bonus. | +--------+-----------+-----------+------------------+ | | £ _s._ | _s._ _d._ | _s._ _d._ | | | (a) | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | (b) | | | +--------+-----------------------+------------------+ (a) half-year (b) months in a typical week, january th- th, , the wages were: full workers, average, _s._ _d._ at _s._ between _s._ and _s._ " _s._ and _s._ at _s._ _d._ " _s._ _d._ learners in their third year, at _s._ _d._ " " second " " _s._ jobbers, average _s._ _d._ at _s._ _d._ between _s._ and _s._ less than _s._ average, for all except learners, _s._ _d._ firm c. _information obtained._--complete list of wages for first week in every month, from january, , to february, . full lists in five weeks described as "slack," "busy," or "typical." the wages of fifteen hands tabulated, most of them throughout - . the work is divided into four departments:-- binders, from twenty-nine to thirty-eight hands. the median wage fluctuated in the three years between _s._ and _s._, excluding holiday weeks; _s._ is the general average. about six are on time wages. in the warehouse, where government folding is done, five hands are employed. the median wage of this group fluctuated in between _s._ and _s._, being low at the end of . in and it was a little steadier, averaging about _s._ (piece rates). in the envelope room, where folding and relief stamping is done, seven to thirteen hands are employed. the median wage is very variable, fluctuating from _s._ to _s._, and averaging about _s._, chiefly time wages. machine ruling is done by from four to eleven girls. their median wage was nearly steady at _s._ in and , and rose regularly to _s._ in . nominally these were time wages. the following table shows detailed wages in five selected weeks (learners excluded). +------------------+--------------------------+-------+---------+ | firm c. | typical weeks. | busy | slack | | | | week. | week. | | +--------+--------+--------+-------+---------+ | | nov., | feb., | nov., | dec., | march, | | | . | . | . | . | . | +------------------+--------+--------+--------+-------+---------+ | binders-- | no. | no. | no. | no. | no. | | above _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ to _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | +------------------+--------+--------+--------+-------+---------+ | envelope room-- | | | | | | | _s._ to _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | +------------------+--------+--------+--------+-------+---------+ | machine ruling-- | | | | | | | _s._ to _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | +------------------+--------+--------+--------+-------+---------+ | warehouse | s. d. | s. d. | s. d. | s. d. | s. d. | | earnings. | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | +------------------+--------+--------+--------+--------+--------+ firm d. _information obtained._--complete lists of wages in all weeks in . wages of thirty-one hands tabulated week by week through . the lists are made up in five divisions. . sixty-five to seventy-eight employed in sewing, folding and collating (of whom eleven to seventeen are learners). excluding bank holiday weeks and learners, the average wage fluctuates only between _s._ and _s._ _d._ average for st half, _s._; nd half, _s._ _d._; year, _s._ _d._ . eighty to ninety (including sixteen to twenty-three learners), collating and sewing. average from _s._ _d._ to _s._ _d._ average for st half, _s._ _d._; nd half, _s._ _d._; year, _s._ _d._ . eighty-three to ninety-two (including thirteen to thirty learners), folding. average from _s._ _d._ to _s._ _d._ average for st half, _s._; nd half, _s._; year, _s._ . layers-on, about six. average fluctuates from _s._ to _s._ _d._; st half, _s._ _d._; nd half, _s._ _d._; year, _s._ _d._ . lookers-over, four or six. fluctuates from _s._ _d._ to _s._ _d._ average for year, _s._ _d._ the following table shows detailed wages in five selected weeks. +------------------+-----------------+-----------------+--------+ | firm d. | slack weeks. | typical weeks. | busy. | | +--------+--------+--------+--------+--------+ | | feb. | feb. | june | oct. | dec. | | | th, | rd, | th, | th, | th, | | | . | . | . | . | . | +------------------+--------+--------+--------+--------+--------+ | above _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ to _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | +------------------+--------+--------+--------+--------+--------+ | | s. d. | s. d. | s. d. | s. d. | s. d. | | median | | | | | | +------------------+--------+--------+--------+--------+--------+ | quartiles | | | | | | | | | | | | | +------------------+--------+--------+--------+--------+--------+ | dispersion | · | · | · | · | · | +------------------+--------+--------+--------+--------+--------+ firm e. _information obtained._--complete wage list for one week each month from august, , to december, . wages of eight hands tabulated, five through the whole period. folding, stitching and sewing are done. number employed was nearly regular, but increased from forty to sixty, and fell back to fifty. the median fluctuates rapidly and greatly, but shows a gradual rise from _s._ (with fluctuations down to _s._ and up to _s._) to _s._ (with fluctuations down to _s._ and up to _s._). the "dispersion" has changed little, and was about · . the following weeks (table p. ) show the general run of wages. +------------------+---------+---------+---------+---------+ | firm e. | feb. | july, | nov. | feb. | | | . | . | . | . | +------------------+---------+---------+---------+---------+ | above _s._ | | | | | | _s._ to _s._ | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | +------------------+---------+---------+---------+---------+ | | s. d. | s. d. | s. d. | s. d. | | median | | | | | +------------------+---------+---------+---------+---------+ | quartiles | | | | | | | | | | | +------------------+---------+---------+---------+---------+ | dispersion | · | · | · | · | +------------------+---------+---------+---------+---------+ | firm e. | july, | nov. | dec. | a slack | | | . | . | . | week, | | | | | | . | +------------------+---------+---------+---------+---------+ | above _s._ | | | | | | _s._ to _s._ | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | +------------------+---------+---------+---------+---------+ | | s. d. | s. d. | s. d. | s. d. | | median | | | | | +------------------+---------+---------+---------+---------+ | quartiles | | | | | | | | | | | +------------------+---------+---------+---------+---------+ | dispersion | · | · | · | · | +------------------+---------+---------+---------+---------+ firm f. _information obtained._--wages for all hands each week in , and until march, . so few are employed that no average can be given, and the wages are treated later under individual hands. also a small bookbinding firm. . a quick folder; wages generally from _s._ to _s._, but fluctuations down to _s._ and up to _s._ . a quick sewer; very fluctuating, about _s._ . a collator at ¼_d._ per hour; _s._, with fluctuations. firm g. _information obtained._--list of wages paid in nd week in each month, , february, , and four other weeks. wages of fourteen hands; six throughout the period. all departments. _weeks selected at beginning and end of data._ +------------------+--------------+--------------+--------------+ | firm g. | . | | +--------------+--------------+--------------+ | | feb. | july | nov. | | | th. | th. | th. | | +----+---------+----+---------+----+---------+ | | -- | machine | -- | machine | -- | machine | | | | rulers. | | rulers. | | rulers. | +------------------+----+---------+----+---------+----+---------+ | above _s._ | | | | | | | | _s._ to _s._ | | | | | | | | _s._ to _s._ | | | | | | | | _s._ to _s._ | | | | | | | | _s._ to _s._ | | | | | | | | _s._ to _s._ | | | | | | | | _s._ to _s._ | | | | | | | | _s._ to _s._ | | | | | | | | _s._ to _s._ | | | | | | | | _s._ to _s._ | | | | | | | | _s._ to _s._ | | | | | | | | _s._ to _s._ | | | | | | | +------------------+----+---------+----+---------+----+---------+ | (apprentices excluded.) | +------------------+------+-------+------+-------+------+-------+ | median (without | s. | -- | s. | -- | s. | -- | | rulers). | d. | | | | d. | | +------------------+------+-------+------+-------+------+-------+ | firm g. | . | | +--------------+--------------+--------------+ | | july | nov. | dec. | | | th. | th. | th. | | +--------------+----+---------+----+---------+ | | -- | machine | -- | machine | -- | machine | | | | rulers. | | rulers. | | rulers. | +------------------+----+---------+----+---------+----+---------+ | above _s._ | | | | | | | | _s._ to _s._ | | | | | | | | _s._ to _s._ | | | | | | | | _s._ to _s._ | | | | | | | | _s._ to _s._ | | | | | | | | _s._ to _s._ | | | | | | | | _s._ to _s._ | | | | | | | | _s._ to _s._ | | | | | | | | _s._ to _s._ | | | | | | | | _s._ to _s._ | | | | | | | | _s._ to _s._ | | | | | | | | _s._ to _s._ | | | | | | | +------------------+----+---------+----+---------+----+---------+ | (apprentices excluded.) | +------------------+------+-------+-------+------+------+-------+ | median (without | s. | -- | s. | -- | s. | | | rulers). | | | d. | | d. | | +------------------+------+-------+-------+------+------+-------+ _machine ruling._--four to nine hands, generally seven to nine. time wages. median moves slowly and steadily from _s._ to _s._ during - . _stamping._--four, increasing to twelve hands, sometimes sixteen. the low wages are time (presumably learners); the rest piece. time hands are excluded in the medians here, and in binding and despatch. median is sometimes fluctuating, but not far from _s._ or _s._ for long. _s._ _d._ _s._ _d._ st half-year nd half-year " " " " " " " " " " " " " " (two months) _binding room_, including despatch, till middle of , when numbers fell from forty to twenty. the despatch room, beginning with twenty, increased to thirty hands. binding--median varies from _s._ to _s._ _s._ _d._ _s._ _d._ st half-year nd half-year " " " " " " " " " " " " " " (two months) despatch--median steadier and rising. _s._ _d._ _s._ _d._ st half-year -- -- nd half-year " " " " " " " " " " (two months) firm h. _information obtained._--wage list, rd week in every month, - . every week in , and eight special weeks. wages of three hands tabulated throughout period. work done.--printers' folding, sewing, magazines. no bookbinding. twenty-four to thirty-eight hands. median very variable; _e.g._, july, , _s._ _d._, _s._ _d._, _s._ _d._, _s._ _d._ _s._ _d._ _s._ _d._ st half-year nd half-year " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " general trend to _s._ +------+------+------+------+-------+------+------+-------+------+ | firm | feb. | aug. | jan. | march | oct. | aug. | sept. | apr. | | h. | th | th | th | th | th | th | th | th | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | (a) | (b) | (c) | (a) | (c) | (b) | +------+------+------+------+-------+------+------+-------+------+ | s. | | | | | | | | | | s. | | | | | | | | | | s. | | | | | | | | | | s. | | | | | | | | | +------+------+------+------+-------+------+------+-------+------+ | s. | | | | | | | | | | s. | | | | | | | | | | s. | | | | | | | | | | s. | | | | | | | | | | s. | | | | | | | | | +------+------+------+------+-------+------+------+-------+------+ | s. | | | | | | | | | | s. | | | | | | | | | | s. | | | | | | | | | | s. | | | | | | | | | | s. | | | | | | | | | +------+------+------+------+-------+------+------+-------+------+ | s. | | | | | | | | | | s. | | | | | | | | | | s. | | | | | | | | | | s. | | | | | | | | | | s. | | | | | | | | | | | | | | (d) | | | | | +------+------+------+------+-------+------+------+-------+------+ | s. | | | | | | | | | | s. | | | | | | | | | +------+------+------+------+-------+------+------+-------+------+ | me- | s. | s. | s. | s. | s. | s. | s. | s. | | dian | | d. | d. | d. | | d. | d. | d. | +------+------+------+------+-------+------+------+-------+------+ (a) slack. (b) typical. (c) busy. (d) learners firm i. publishers and bookbinders. no printers' folding. _information obtained._--wage lists: nd week in each month, october, , to march, . total wages every week to march, . wages of nine hands tabulated throughout. +----+-------------+------+-----------------------------+------+ | firm | + i. +-------------+------+-----------------------------+------+ | | median | quarterly averages | | | varies | (excluding bank holiday). | | | from +------+-----------------------------+------+ | | _s._ _d._ | | | | +----+-------------+------+-------+-------+------+------+------+ | c. | - | | | | | | | +----+-------------+------+-------+-------+------+------+------+ | s. | - | | | | | | | +----+-------------+------+-------+-------+------+------+------+ | f. | - | | | | | | | +----+-------------+------+-------+-------+------+------+------+ | t. | - | | | | | | | +----+-------------+------+-------+-------+------+------+------+ hours: no record of overtime. c. = collators ( to ) s. = sewers ( to ) f. = folders ( to ) t. = time workers putting in plates ( to ) +------------------+------+-------+------+------+------+ | firm i. | nov. | march | july | nov. | feb. | | | th | th | th | th | th | | | | | | | | +------------------+------+-------+------+------+------+ | _s._ to _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | +------------------+------+-------+------+------+------+ the total wage bill was:-- . £ . £ . £ . £ oct. jan. july jan. nov. feb. aug. feb. dec. march (a) sept. (a) march (a) -- april oct. -- -- may nov. -- -- june (a) dec. (a) -- (a) five weeks. £ total in th quarter, " st " " nd " " " rd " " " th " " " st " firm j. a firm undertaking magazine work. _information obtained._--general statement of ordinary wages. wages in three selected weeks. bookfolding, stitching, wrapping, etc. (magazine work). work is regular for three weeks; none in the fourth. +------------------+-------+---------+------------------+--------+ | firm j. | wages of all employed. | + +-------+---------+------------------+--------+ | | slack | typical | -- | busy | | | (a) | (b) | | (c) | +------------------+-------+---------+--+---------------+--------+ | _s._ to _s._ | | | _s._ to _s._ | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | _s._ " _s._ | | +------------------+-------+---------+------------------+--------+ | | s. d. | s. d. | | s. d. | | median | | | -- | | | average | | | -- | | +------------------+-------+---------+------------------+--------+ (a) slack week, feb. th, . (b) typical week, feb. th, . (c) busy week, march st, . firm k. a publisher's bookbinder. _information obtained._--wage sheet for three selected weeks in - . a week as slack as the slack week here given, was only experienced two or three times. +------------+---------------+---------------+---------------+ | firm k. | typical. | busy. | slack. | +------------+---------------+---------------+---------------+ | | av. | av. | av. | | | no. _s._ _d._ | no. _s._ _d._ | no. _s._ _d._ | +------------+---------------+---------------+---------------+ | folders | | | | | (piece) | | | | +------------+---------------+---------------+---------------+ | sewing | | | | | machinists | | | | | (piece) | | | | +------------+---------------+---------------+---------------+ | collators | | | | | (time) | | | | +------------+---------------+---------------+---------------+ | layers-on | | | | | (piece) | | | | +------------+---------------+---------------+---------------+ | learners | ½ | | | +------------+---------------+---------------+---------------+ +-------------------+-----------+---------------+-----------+ | firm k. | typical. | busy. | slack. | +-------------------+-----------+---------------+-----------+ | _s._ to _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | +-------------------+-----------+---------------+-----------+ | _s._ to _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | +-------------------+-----------+---------------+-----------+ | _s._ to _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | +-------------------+-----------+---------------+-----------+ | | _s._ _d._ | _s._ _d._ | _s._ _d._ | | median | | | | +-------------------+-----------+---------------+-----------+ | quartiles | | ½ | | | | | ½ | | +-------------------+-----------+---------------+-----------+ firm l. compositors. _information obtained_: complete wages of the six hands employed through . no. has been in the trade two and a half years. in she was away seven weeks (three, slack trade; two, holidays; two, ill); in the remaining forty-five weeks her wages fluctuated between _s._ and _s._ _d._, reached a total of £ _s._ _d._, making an average of _s._ _d._ weekly through the year, or _s._ _d._ per week employed. no. lost four weeks in through slack trade. in the remaining forty-eight weeks her wages fluctuated between _s._ _d._ and _s._; reached a total of £ _s._ _d._, making an average of _s._ _d._ weekly through the year. no. made £ _s._, working fifty-one weeks at £ per week, making _s._ overtime, and taking one week's holiday; average, _s._ _d._ weekly for the year. no. made £ _s._ in forty-four weeks, lost five weeks through slack trade, and took three weeks' holiday; average, _s._ _d._ weekly for the year. no. made £ _s._ _d._ in forty-six weeks, lost four weeks through slack trade, was ill one week and took one week's holiday; average, _s._ weekly for the year. no. made £ _s._ _d._ in forty-eight weeks, lost three weeks through slack trade, was ill for one week. she was unsuccessful in her work, and only averaged _s._ _d._ a week through the year. firm m. a press warehouse. _information obtained._--wage list in three selected weeks. +-----------------+-------------+-------------+-------------+ | firm m. | week | week | week | | | ending | ending | ending | | | feb. | nov. | july | | | th, | th, | st, | | | . | . | . | | | average | average | average | | | wage. | wage. | wage. | +-----------------+-------------+-------------+-------------+ | | no. s. d. | no. s. d. | no. s. d. | | time workers | | | | | folders (piece) | | | | | sewers " | | | | | apprentices | | | | +-----------------+-------------+-------------+-------------+ +------------------+-----------+-----------+------------+ | firm m. | feb. | nov. | july | | | th, | th, | st, | | | . | . | . | +------------------+-----------+-----------+------------+ | above _s._ | | | | | _s._ to _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | +------------------+-----------+-----------+------------+ | | _s._ _d._ | _s._ _d._ | _s._ _d._ | +------------------+-----------+-----------+------------+ | median | | | | +------------------+-----------+-----------+------------+ | quartiles | | | | | | | | | +------------------+-----------+-----------+------------+ | dispersion | · | · | · | +------------------+-----------+-----------+------------+ (excluding apprentices.) firm n. bookbinders. _information obtained._--complete wage sheets for three selected weeks. folders, piece; collators, time. +-----------+--------------+--------------+--------------+ | firm n. | dec. | oct. | aug. | | | th, | th, | th, | | | . | . | . | | | busy | typical | slack | | | week. | week. | week. | | | average | average | average | | | wage. | wage. | wage. | +-----------+--------------+--------------+--------------+ | | no. s. d. | no. s. d. | no. s. d. | | collators | | | | | folders | | | | | learners | | | | +-----------+--------------+--------------+--------------+ sewing machinist, _s._ _d._ +------------------+-----------+-----------+-----------+ | firm n. | dec. | oct. | aug. | | | th, | th, | th, | | | . | . | . | | | busy | typical | slack | | | week. | week. | week. | +------------------+-----------+-----------+-----------+ | _s._ to _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | +------------------+-----------+-----------+-----------+ | | _s._ _d._ | _s._ _d._ | _s._ _d._ | | median | | | | +------------------+-----------+-----------+-----------+ | quartiles | | | | | | | | | +------------------+-----------+-----------+-----------+ | dispersion | · | · | · | +------------------+-----------+-----------+-----------+ (excluding learners.) firm o. _information obtained._--wage lists in three selected weeks, probably in first half of . five hands. +-----------+---------------+--------------+--------------+ | firm o. | typical week. | busy. | slack. | +-----------+---------------+--------------+--------------+ | | _s._ _d._ | _s._ _d._ | _s._ _d._ | | folder | | | | | stitcher | | | | | sewer | | | | | laying-on | | | | | learner | | | | +-----------+---------------+--------------+--------------+ firm p. _information obtained._--wage lists in three selected weeks. wages of twelve selected workers in these weeks. +------------------+-----------+-----------+-----------+ | firm p. | aug. | dec. | dec. | | | th, | th, | nd, | | | . | . | . | +------------------+-----------+-----------+-----------+ | | at | at | at | | | _s._ | _s._ | _s._ | | | _d._ | _d._ | _d._ | | | | | | | above _s._ | | | | | _s._ to _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | | -- | --- | --- | | | | | | +------------------+-----------+-----------+-----------+ | | _s._ _d._ | _s._ _d._ | _s._ _d._ | | median | | | | +------------------+-----------+-----------+-----------+ | quartiles | | | | | | | | | +------------------+-----------+-----------+-----------+ | dispersion | · | · | · | +------------------+-----------+-----------+-----------+ firm q. _information obtained._--wage lists in eleven selected weeks. work done--machine ruling in its higher branches, usually done by men; also paging and numbering (see table, p. ). +------------------+------------+-----------+------------+ | firm q. | . | . | . | +------------------+------------+-----------+------------+ | | nov. th. | may th. | may th. | +------------------+------------+-----------+------------+ | _s._ to _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | +------------------+------------+-----------+------------+ | | | | | +------------------+------------+-----------+------------+ | | _s._ _d._ | _s._ _d._ | _s._ _d._ | +------------------+------------+-----------+------------+ | median | | | | +------------------+------------+-----------+------------+ | quartiles | | | | | | | | | +------------------+------------+-----------+------------+ | dispersion | · | · | · | +------------------+------------+-----------+------------+ | firm q. | . | . | +------------------+------------+-----------+------------+ | | nov. th. | may th. | nov. th. | +------------------+------------+-----------+------------+ | _s._ to _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | +------------------+------------+-----------+------------+ | | | | | +------------------+------------+-----------+------------+ | | _s._ _d._ | _s._ _d._ | _s._ _d._ | +------------------+------------+-----------+------------+ | | | | | | median | | | | +------------------+------------+-----------+------------+ | quartiles | | | | | | | | | +------------------+------------+-----------+------------+ | dispersion | · | · | · | +------------------+------------+-----------+------------+ | firm q. | . | +------------------+------------+-----------+------------+ | | feb. th. | may th. | aug. th. | +------------------+------------+-----------+------------+ | _s._ to _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | +------------------+------------+-----------+------------+ | | | | | +------------------+------------+-----------+------------+ | | _s._ _d._ | _s._ _d._ | _s._ _d._ | +------------------+------------+-----------+------------+ | median | | | | +------------------+------------+-----------+------------+ | quartiles | | | | | | | | | +------------------+------------+-----------+------------+ | dispersion | · | · | · | +------------------+------------+-----------+------------+ | firm q. | . | +------------------+------------+-----------+ | | nov. th. | dec. th. | +------------------+------------+-----------+ | _s._ to _s._ | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | | _s._ " _s._ | | | +------------------+------------+-----------+ | | | | +------------------+------------+-----------+ | | _s._ _d._ | _s._ _d._ | +------------------+------------+-----------+ | median | | | +------------------+------------+-----------+ | quartiles | | | | | | | +------------------+------------+-----------+ | dispersion | · | · | +------------------+------------+-----------+ * * * * * additional information from other firms, - :-- firm r. bookbinders. folders and sewers, _s._, _s._; head banders, _s._; forty-eight hours weekly all the year. firm s. eleven numberers; median, _s._ _d._ firm t. printing works. piece workers make _d._ an hour; time workers, ½_d._ four compositors: average, busy week, _s._ _d._; typical, _s._ _d._; slack, _s._ _d._ firm u. vellum sewers, _s._ to _s._ all the year round; numerical printers, average week, _s._ to _s._; slack week, _s._ firm v. no. median. quartiles. folders (piece work): _s._ _d._ _s._ _d._ _s._ _d._ slack week typical week busy week counters (time workers). stitchers. packer. no. median. no. median. _s._ _d._ _s._ _d._ _s._ _d._ slack week typical week busy week in this case there is very little to choose between the weeks entered as "typical" and "busy" by the employer. firm w. two compositors make, at ½_d._ an hour, _s._ or _s._ nearly every week in the year. * * * * * the inclusion of the eighty-four workers, of whom we have sufficient details in firms r. to w., would affect the figures on p. below very slightly, raising the median and upper quartile _d._, and increasing the proportion between _s._ and _s._ to ½ per cent. of the whole instead of ¼ per cent. ii.--general grouping of wages. the material is not sufficiently complete or homogeneous to allow any complete account of wages at any date; but the tables now given (supplemented occasionally by the raw material) allow us to offer an estimate of the grouping in a typical week of , supposing each firm to be paying typical wages in one and the same week. this method is rough, and will not support any fine calculations to be based on it; but at the same time it affords a view, sufficiently accurate for most purposes, of the general trend and distribution of wages. all classes of workers, except apprentices and learners, are included. an estimate of wages in a typical week in of , workers in all branches. less _s._ _s._ _s._ _s._ _s._ than to to to to to _s._ _s._ _s._ _s._ _s._ _s._ _s._ _s._ _s._ _s._ _s._ _s._ above to to to to to to _s._ _s._ _s._ _s._ _s._ _s._ _s._ of those above _s._: _s._ _s._ _s._ _s._ _s._ _s._ to to to to to to _s._ _s._ _s._ _s._ _s._ _s._ these figures are so similar in many respects to those which generally arise when a large group of trades are massed together, that they afford strong evidence that they make a fair sample. remembering the roughness of the hypothesis, and not assuming that these wages multiplied by fifty-two give annual earnings, we find, in a week which the employers regard as typical, the following: average, _s._ _d._; median, _s._ _d._; quartiles, _s._ _d._, _s._ _d._; dispersion . . thus, half the wage earners obtain between _s._ _d._ and _s._ _d._; and per cent. obtain from _s._ _d._ to _s._ there is some doubt as to who are and who should properly be included at both ends of the series. at the lower end, no doubt, some learners have been included, and some piece workers excluded, for in a typical week there would certainly be some cases where the wages were abnormally low. on the other hand, in the large number above _s._, no doubt many above the status of the ordinary worker are included, and some are definitely stated to be forewomen. if we omit all above _s._, we have: average, _s._ _d._; median, _s._ _d._; quartiles, _s._ _d._, _s._ _d._ the difference in these averages is not significant. the table is best written in percentage. _s._ _s._ _s._ _s._ _s._ _s._ to to to to to to _s._ _s._ _s._ _s._ _s._ _s._ _s._ _s._ _s._ _s._ _s._ to to to to to above _s._ _s._ _s._ _s._ _s._ _s._ ½ ½ per cent. earning. note, that if these wages were repeated week by week through the year the average worker would make about £ . iii.--change of wages between and . where wages are continually fluctuating week by week and month by month, while, in addition, there are depressions and inflations affecting various groups of workers for one or two years, it is a matter of very great statistical difficulty to determine whether wages have on the whole been stationary, rising, or falling. even if we had a complete account year by year these difficulties would remain; but as it is we are dependent on the records of only seven firms--good, bad, or indifferent--since , , , , , , and , respectively. no amount of further research would make such records more than very insufficient, for it is very rarely that the figures are preserved for any length of time. what changes there are may very likely be due to peculiarities of a particular firm, to its success, or to changes in character of work, and only in case of agreement in all the figures could we generalise. our conclusions, then, will be chiefly negative. there is no sufficient evidence that wages in are above or below wages about , or ; the only difference appears to be due to individual busy or slack years. in the two cases (c. and g.) where machine rulers are separated their wages have risen from _s._ to _s._ in - . as regards the years - , there is no general agreement as to any two years, but the figures are consistent with a slight general improvement from to . there is nothing in the figures to show that the course of wages in firm a. given above is different from that in the trade in general, while there is just a little evidence that it is the same. we therefore repeat the annual average wage in that firm:-- . . . . . _s._ _d._ _s._ _d._ _s._ _s._ _d._ _s._ _d._ . - . - . . . _s._ _d._ _s._ _d._ _s._ _s._ _d._ _s._ _d._ . - . . _s._ _d._ _s._ _d._ _s._ _d._ iv.--wages in different occupations. the occupations are so involved, and the arrangements differ so much from firm to firm, that it is impracticable to state a definite wage for any occupation, and the wages are so diverse that it is useless to speak of an average wage. the table on p. gives a general view of the wages of those hands who can be labelled with some exactness, and it is seen that the facts are so complex that they cannot be summarised in a few words. the wages included are the actual weekly averages (total annual receipts divided by fifty-two) in , except where they are otherwise distinguished. +--------------+-------------------------------------------------+ | wages in | numbers whose average weekly wages were | | different | _s._ | | occupations. +---+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+-----+ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | > | to | to | to | to | to | to | to | to |above| | | | | | | | | | | | | +--------------+---+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+-----+ | bookbinding | | | | | | | | | | | | houses | | | | | | | | | | | +--------------+---+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+-----+ | handfolders | | | | | | | | | | | +--------------+---+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+-----+ | folders | | | | | | | | | | | | who were | | | | | | | | | | | | also sewing | | | | | | | | | | | | machinists, | | | | | | | | | | | | gatherers, | | | | | | | | | | | | placers, | | | | | | | | | | | | or sewers | | | | | | | | | | | +--------------+---+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+-----+ | handsewers, | | | | | | | | | | | | or collators | | | | | | | | | | | | and | | | | | | | | | | | | gatherers | | | | | | | | | | | +--------------+---+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+-----+ > = under +--------------+-----------+ | wages in | median. | | different | | | occupations. | | +--------------+-----------+ | bookbinding | _s._ _d._ | | houses | | +--------------+-----------+ | handfolders | | +--------------+-----------+ | folders | | | who were | | | also sewing | | | machinists, | | | gatherers, | | | placers, | | | or sewers | | +--------------+-----------+ | handsewers, | | | or | | | collators | | | and | | | gatherers | | +--------------+-----------+ +--------------+-------------------------------------------+-----+ | wages in | numbers whose average weekly wages were | | | different | _s._ | | | occupations. +---+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+-----+ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | - | to | to | to | to | to | to | to | to |above| | | | | | | | | | | | | +--------------+---+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+-----+ | printing | | | | | | | | | | | | houses: | | | | | | | | | | | +--------------+---+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+-----+ | folders who | | | | | | | | | | | | were also | | | | | | | | | | | | sewers | | | | | | | | | | | | or stitchers | | | | | | | | | | | +--------------+---+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+-----+ | folders in | | | | | | | | | | | | typical | | | | | | | | | | | | week, | | | | | | | | | | | +--------------+---+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+-----+ | gatherers | | | | | | | | | | | +--------------+---+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+-----+ | inserters | | | | | | | | | | | +--------------+---+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+-----+ | numberers | | | | | | | | | | | +--------------+---+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+-----+ | counters in | | | | | | | | | | | | typical | | | | | | | | | | | | week, | | | | | | | | | | | +--------------+---+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+-----+ | stitchers | | | | | | | | | | | +--------------+---+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+-----+ | compositors | | | | | | | | | | | +--------------+---+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+-----+ +--------------+----------+ | wages in | median. | | different | | | occupations. | | +--------------+----------+ | printing | _s._ _d._| | houses: | | +--------------+----------+ | folders | | | who were | | | also sewers | maximum | | or stitchers | | +--------------+----------+ | folders in | | | typical | | | week, | | +--------------+----------+ | gatherers | | +--------------+----------+ | inserters | -- | +--------------+----------+ | numberers | | +--------------+----------+ | counters in | | | typical | | | week, | | +--------------+----------+ | stitchers | | +--------------+----------+ | compositors | | +--------------+----------+ [illustration: firm d.--wages week by week in . . _looker-over_ (_time_, _s._ _d._). . _folder and sewer (piece)._ firm g.-- . _dispatch (piece)._] v.--earnings of individuals. out of the lists we have, showing the actual earnings week by week of individuals for periods of one to fifteen years, thirty-nine have been selected, twenty-six of which are tabulated on the following pages (appendix vi.), and twelve of which are represented in the following diagrams. these have been selected as illustrating the various classes of workers and of work. the most noticeable characteristic of the diagrams is the frequency and violence of the fluctuations, and the same is found in a study of the original figures throughout. a few time hands (appendix vi.; diagram c), are nearly regular; only one shows perfectly regular earnings; many fluctuate as rapidly as the piece workers (appendix vi.; diagram d. ), and on the sheets we have several actual records of lost time and overtime, showing how these changes arise; others show a steady increase with slight movements (appendix vi.; diagram a. ). the four bank holiday seasons are marked on most of the diagrams and wage lists. the most interesting, novel, and important feature of these lists is the light thrown on the very obscure relation (obscure in all branches of industry) between "nominal," "average," or "typical" wages and actual annual earnings; there are in existence very few actual records of individuals' earnings over a series of years for any workers in the united kingdom. the workers included in the list are among the more regular ones, who succeed in keeping their place month after month. though the wages vary so greatly week by week, yet when we come to take the average over any period greater than, say, two months, we find there is but little variation. thus, in the example from firm b. in diagram, the quarterly average is between _s._ and _s._ for nine years, except for absence in two quarters, and the annual average is still more regular. the great bulk of the regular workers (folders and the like) make a sum between £ and £ every year, and between £ and £ every quarter. in view of this result, periodic pressure becomes relatively unimportant for the regular hands. there is no season in the industry as a whole shown in the wage lists. the different firms and different workers have in many cases their regular times of pressure like bank clerks and schoolmasters; these times are sometimes monthly, sometimes quarterly. in other cases no rule is to be discovered. the most important effect of this irregular pressure is in the number of jobbers employed. vi.--jobbers. jobbers usually come in at the busy season and make good money. as they go from house to house, it is impossible to get a full account of any particular jobber's earnings. jobbers are frequently employed in firm b, and in many cases the highest wage earned is by a jobber. thus in the last week of april, , out of thirty workers, fifteen were jobbers; the eleven highest sums were earned by them, five being over £ . vii.--time and piece rates. the distinction between time rates and piece rates is not vital; the method of payment seems to be accidental, and the custom varies from house to house. machine rulers seem generally to have time rates, and these are among the lowest earners, while some of the best paid permanent hands are also time. on looking through the lists of individuals' earnings, it is seen that time earnings are sometimes quite as variable as piece earnings, for hours worked fluctuate continually. in other cases the time payment is much more regular, showing fluctuations only at holidays. appendix i.--points upon which enquiries were made. .--training. (_a_) method, indentures or not. (_b_) length. (_c_) age when it begins. (_d_) premiums. (_e_) wages during training. comparison between length of training in vogue now and formerly, to be obtained where possible. .--wages (_forms appended_). wages throughout the factory or workshop for two or three slack and two or three busy weeks to be obtained where possible, and for a few ordinary hands throughout the year. .--conditions of work. (_a_) describe the nature of the work, and subdivisions. (_b_) is it a season trade? (_c_) is it healthy? is there a special trade disease? (_d_) is much strength or intelligence needed? (_e_) is dangerous machinery used? (_f_) average hours per week; meal hours. (_g_) is there a chance of rising? if so, to what position? .--organisation. what attempts have been made to organise women, and with what success? attitude towards, and knowledge about, women's unions? .--married and unmarried workers. how long do women remain in the trade? proportion of married to unmarried. are there signs of married women lowering rates of pay? comparison between married and unmarried as workers. .--separate factory legislation. (a.) economic effects:-- (_a_) instances of women being turned off owing to factory legislation. (_b_) do the restrictions imposed by the factory acts hinder the employment of women? (_c_) how far do these restrictions influence wages? (_d_) how far has legislation diverted the industry from or to, factory, workshop, or home? (b.) contrast between conditions of work before and after act of . .--men and women. instances where either sex replaces the other, and the reasons for it in each case. relative wages when men and women do the same work. if women's wage is lower, why is it? attitude of men's unions towards female labour. .--women and machinery. how far has machinery increased or diminished women's work? how far does the cheapness of women's work tend to retard the introduction of machinery? .--home work. in which branches is this done, and to what extent? plant required. rates of pay compared with work done inside. why, from the point of view of the home worker in each case, is home work done? .--influence of women's wages on the family income. occupation of husband. amount contributed towards home expenses. appendix ii.--description of certain typical firms. . a.,[ ] _a well-known printing firm in london. employée's information._ [footnote : index letters by which reference is made to the firm in the body of the volume, except in the chapter on wages.] work.--folding, sewing, numbering, etc. regularity.--the work is not seasonal, at any rate at a. health.--numbering is very bad for a weak chest and makes one's head ache as well. girls with weak chests cannot stand it. folding, however, is not unhealthy unless the hours are too long. hours.--at b. they are per week; but at a. they are ½, distributed as follows:--monday, tuesday and wednesday, a.m. to . p.m.; thursday, a.m. to p.m.; friday, a.m. to p.m.; saturday, a.m. to p.m.; one hour for dinner and half an hour for tea being allowed each full working day. general.--the sanitary arrangements are very bad at a., and lavatories open straight out of workrooms, and are in very bad condition. one does not use them unless she wants to get a fever. the company is very mixed. "you can tell that it is rather a low place, because the girls wear curlers and nothing is said. when one works at b. she has to take out curlers before she comes. you can always tell the sort of place when the girls wear curlers." . _a well-known printing firm in london. forewoman's information._ work.-- or girls are employed at machine ruling, and a few at vellum sewing and folding. regularity.--the girls are kept on all the year round. hours.--the hours are from a.m. to . p.m., with one hour for dinner and half an hour for tea. prospects.--might rise to forewomen, but that not common. general.--work girls have nothing to complain of now; they are always very well looked after. . s., _small printing firm in london. employée's evidence._ work.-- girls and man (who is an engineer) are employed, s. helping himself. upstairs there are men "blocking," and girls powdering for them. the girls do all the printing, _e.g._, the informant can set up the type, lock it into the frame, make ready, and then feed the platen machine--which alone is used in this firm. informant can also clean the machine. she also does "bronzing," _i.e._, dusting-on bronze with a pad. the girls powdering upstairs do nothing else. a few younger girls fold circulars. regularity.--work is steady, and they are always busy. health.--bronzing is most unhealthy. ----'s colour has all gone since she was put on to it a few weeks ago. "you are supposed to have milk to drink, but you never get more than half a cupful at the end of the day, when it is too late. the inspector has been round and has asked about the milk, but of course the manager said that milk was always given." (informant looked very ill.) she had to stay away from work all the previous thursday, and lost a shilling in consequence. her father and mother say she must leave the work or she will die. "you see, they lost a brother of mine at twenty-three and a sister at thirteen, and they don't want me to go off too." the powdering done by the girls in the blocking room is very unhealthy. none of them can stand it long. they get ill and go off elsewhere. it brings on consumption. feeding machines is very tiring. one girl works the cutting machine, which is unfit for a woman and very dangerous. a girl who worked it lost her finger and was six weeks in hospital, but the firm paid her well not to tell. the printing machines are dangerous, for you often get your fingers caught; it comes back quicker than you expect. hours.--the hours are from a.m. to p.m., with one hour for dinner and a quarter of an hour for tea; on saturdays, from a.m. to p.m., with half an hour for a meal. they never get away at though, not till . or later, for there are the machines to be cleaned and things to be cleared up. general.--mr. s. sometimes comes round and talks as if he were the kindest of employers. "he'll say, 'take care of your head, there, dear.' it makes you sick to hear him. if he'd give better wages it would be more to the point." . q., _job printing firm in london. visit to works._ work.--i went through the works and saw extra young girls sticking on pockets for stamps on to an appeal sheet of ...; one girl feeding a platen machine which was gumming instead of printing; or upstairs in the regular folding room folding.... regularity.--q. has only or regular hands, and when there is a rush of work, he takes on job hands. "you put up a bill and can easily get if you want them." he dislikes the custom, but does not see how it is to be obviated in the printing trade. "you suddenly have , circulars to do, and you don't know when the next order will be." hours.--the hours are from a.m. to . p.m., with one hour for dinner, ten minutes for lunch and ten minutes for tea. girls prefer this to half an hour for tea and leaving at . on saturdays the hours are from a.m. to p.m., no meal time being allowed. the married women, however, rarely come till a.m. . l., _printing, etc., firm in london. employée's evidence._ work.-- girls are employed at l.'s. informant does folding now, used to do sewing by machine. regularity.--the work is regular, "but you never know when the work is coming in. they are always busy with the ... guides at the end of the month, and two or three job hands come in." health.--she has always found the occupation healthy. prospects.--none; is slow herself. she has worked at l.'s six years, and has never known of anyone becoming a forelady. dangers.--she has never had an accident, and was working on a machine for five years. hours.--the hours are from . a.m. to or p.m., with an hour for dinner (from p.m. to p.m.), and half an hour for tea ( p.m. to . p.m.) and from . a.m. to p.m. on saturdays. sometimes they are let off early if there is no work. but some girls go and lark about in the street, and then the manager scolds the forelady and she will not let the others go. she never takes a holiday except bank holidays. general.--only talks to a few of the girls, but they are quite a nice set. . t., _weekly newspaper firm in london. visit to works._ work.--folding, gathering, collating, sewing (all sewing by machinery), or stabbing with wire, insetting, wrappering (glue pot), feeding folding machines. regularity.--it is more or less regular, but there is the regular weekly and monthly work, so there is less fluctuation than in "binding houses." tuesday to friday are busy days, and the forewoman employs some married women who come in as long as they are wanted. dangers.--one stitching machine is dangerous, the forewoman said; the folded sheet has to be pushed along with the hand and there is the _chance_ of the hand being caught. hours.--the hours are from a.m. to p.m., occasionally till ; one hour being allowed for dinner and half an hour for tea. prospects.--the girls may rise to forewomen and a sort of deputy-forewoman, chosen by forewoman, to overlook certain rooms. the girls are not, as a rule, at all eager for the responsibility. . _large bookbinding firm in london._ (a.) _manager's information._ work.--folding, sewing, collating, placing plates, laying-on gold, etc. regularity.--the work is partly seasonal. they are busy in the winter time, and work to limits allowed by the factory acts; they are slack in the summer, and may even have no work for three weeks or so at a time. dangers.--they have only had two accidents. one was with an ordinary sewing machine; the other was with a bremner machine, when a little girl was setting it up. she caught her finger in it, but was not away from work a fortnight. hours.--they work hours per week, allowing one and a half hours for meals per day, _i.e._, from a.m. to , from p.m. to p.m., and from . p.m. to . p.m.; on saturdays, from a.m. to . this really comes to hours a week if the girls are punctual, but he reckons hours because they are not punctual. prospects.--only a chance of rising to forewomen. (b.) _forewoman's evidence._ regularity.--it is a season trade and they are just beginning to be slack (march) in miss x.'s shop where the new work is done. health.--miss x. "had been through it all," and thought folding dreadfully tiring. there is nothing specially unhealthy about it. hours.--the hours are supposed to be a week, but if there is any work they do not keep to that. a hours' week only means that the time workers get paid extra. miss x. worked in a place where they were supposed to have hours a week but rarely made more than . the firm make their girls stay as little as possible when there is no work, but this is very different to most places, as the workpeople are studied here. (c.) _employée's evidence._ work.--in e., bible work and new or cloth work are quite separate, and there are separate hands for each. she did folding for the bible work herself. health.--the work is not very healthy. "sitting all day is bad for you," but there is no special disease. bible work is light work, as much of it is on india paper; new work is much heavier. hours.--the hours are from . a.m. to . p.m., with an hour for dinner and half an hour for tea, but when busy they work till p.m. or p.m. this happens about thirty times a year. they are allowed to go home if there is not work. [there is a very nice set of girls at the bible work; they are particular there about whom they take, and it is a very good house to be in.] general.--it is rather dull and tiring working because they are not supposed to talk to each other at bible work. . _printing and stationery firm in london. general information._ training. in the book-folding and vellum sewing department the girls have an agreement to serve two years. _age at beginning._--fourteen. _premium._--none. _wages._-- months at _s._, months at _s._ _d._, months at _s._, and months at _s._ _d._ per week. in the numbering, relief stamping, etc., packing department there are no indentures or regular system of apprenticeship but girls are expected to serve about two years. _age at beginning._--fourteen. _premium._--none. _wages._--girls start at _s._ per week, for, say, three months, then get three-quarter earnings. very few are trained in this firm, they take on workers who have learnt elsewhere. how many branches learners are taught seems to depend on chance. some old hands do all the processes, some only one. machine ruling.--in this department there is no system. little girls come and feed at _s._ and _s._ per week. when they have been at it a year or two they are drafted off to other departments. lithographic work.--there is no regular training in this department. it only takes about two weeks to learn the work done by girls here. notepaper folding requires no training. "why! you could pick it up in a week or two." wages.--the firm does much work for public bodies, and so has to pay "fair" wages. the manager did not seem to know whether this applied to women's work too, but evidently it does. department i.--numbering, etc.--the manager gave wages as _s._ to _s._ per week, some being paid on time and some on piece work. the foreman considered _s._ to be about the average. the following girls were questioned:-- one packer got _s._ (time wages) per week. another packer got _s._ (time wages) per week. one piece relief stamper got about _s._ (piece work) per week. another piece relief stamper got about _s._ (piece work) per week. one numberer got _s._ (piece work) per week. department ii.--lithographic feeding.--here girls start at _s._ and rise up to _s._ (time wages). department iii.--machine ruling.--in this department all wages are for time work. quite little girls receive _s._ or _s._ up to _s._ per week. they are drafted off when they want higher wages than that. there were, however, two older ones in the room who were folding and counting the ruled foolscap paper at _s._ per week. department iv.--book-folding, etc.--out of the girls employed in this department, were on time work, and were being paid from _s._ to _s._ per week. the piece workers, according to the forewoman, were making from _s._ to _s._ per week, taking all the year round. some were making over _s._ per week. department v.--vellum work.--all girls employed here were on time work. they got _s._ per week when first out of their time; _s._ after two years. none were receiving over _s._, except one who "makes up" at _s._ a week. these wages were given by the forewoman. the manager seemed surprised that they were not higher, and remarked that they were lower than in the book-folding department. the forewoman said that in most places the vellum workers got more than book workers, but this firm had arranged otherwise. department vi.--the girls folding notepaper in the warehouse were getting _s._ or _s._ (time wages) per week. work.--department i.--numbering, relief stamping, perforating, packing, and gumming going on. the numbering and the stamping are different trades, done by different girls, but most of them can do packing as well, though in some cases they learn packing only. they can mostly do perforating and gumming, odds and ends too. some were folding postal forms. special envelope orders are done here. about girls were employed. there was one man doing the illuminating required and working at a rather heavy press. there was also a good number of youths doing numbering. i tried vainly to find out what they were paid. the manager and the foreman said that they were not doing the same work; it was the same except that a name was stamped on as well as a number (it was on money orders). two girls were also doing this, but i was assured that that was only "by accident." two or three boys were perforating and stamping. department ii.--litho printing. girls were feeding machines and washing rollers. about girls were employed. department iii.--machine ruling. little girls were feeding the ruling machines, and a few older ones were counting and folding the foolscap paper; girls were employed. department iv.--bookbinding and sewing. all sorts of folding, sewing and stitching (by machine mostly), eyeletting, etc., etc., were being carried on, and about girls were employed. department v.--vellum work. sewing, folding, etc., for account books and ledgers was being done; girls were employed, also one girl "laying-on" for cloth work, and two or three running errands. department vi.--in the warehouse were three girls folding notepaper. regularity.--work here is constant all the year round. the forewoman in the book-folding department said they only had in job hands about twice a year. hours.--the firm works about hours per week, _i.e._, from a.m. to p.m., with one hour for dinner, half an hour for tea, and ten minutes for lunch. on saturdays they work from a.m. to p.m. overtime.--it was very difficult to get anything definite about overtime pay. the manager first said that they all got _d._ an hour overtime. then he said that piece workers were simply paid at piece rates. the forewoman in the book-folding department said that time hands got _d._ an hour overtime. in the vellum work they never had any overtime. these extra payments seem to be irregularly made. prospects.--the girls can rise to forewoman's position, here or elsewhere. vellum work forewoman mentioned that two of her young ladies had become forewomen elsewhere. organisation.--the manager knew that a women's union existed, but thought it was more of a benefit society than anything else. he assured me that the problem of the organisation of women's labour was the problem in trade, and seemed vaguely to regret that women were so helpless and ready to be cut down. married and unmarried.--the manager estimated twelve years as the average period that a woman remained in the trade. he fancied that there were a good many married women here; but when we went round and asked the different heads of departments we found that the only married ones were in the litho department, _i.e._, out of in that department, _i.e._, out of about employed altogether. in the other departments the forewomen or foremen did not care to have them because they were so irregular. "you can never count on them." two widows were employed in the book-folding department. the head of the litho department had only lately found out that two of his employees were married--one had run away from her husband, the other's husband was a stone polisher and she had to come out to keep the house going. the manager was very decided that undoubtedly married women's work tended to lower wages. they only want a little to supplement their husbands' earnings. he explained afterwards that his remarks applied more to the provinces than to london. he thought that the thing to aim at in improving the industrial position of women was the abolition of the married woman worker. how this could be done he could not say. the forewoman of the book-folding and sewing department, who had had some experience of married jobbers, said that they would not do ordinary work at ordinary rates, as they did not consider it worth their while. they had not _got_ to earn any money, as they had husbands to fall back upon. the manager said that in the litho department the single girls thought it _infra dig._ to wash the rollers, but the married women "made no bones about it." legislation.--in no case had women been turned away because of restrictive legislation. a certain amount of folding and stitching has to be done by men at night, and he would say that about or men were employed at this for about one hour five nights in the week. sometimes the folding was not ready till p.m., and the men had to hang about before. the manager thought that the chief grievance of the factory acts was that if only one woman in a department was employed overtime, one of the thirty legal nights was thereby used up. the manager thought that it was forty-eight nights you might work overtime, and seemed surprised on looking up the notices to find that it was thirty only. he approved of factory legislation on the whole, and thought that women had benefited by it. personally, he would like to see all overtime abolished by law for men and women. men worked worse next day when they had had to sit up at night. public bodies were the worst offenders in the matter, "they have no consciences." the forewoman of the folding and sewing, where overtime was worked, said that her girls disliked overtime very much; and she did not think it worth while working them, as they could do less work next day in consequence. she had much rather that the men did it at night. she and the manager agreed that in places where women did not make a decent wage by working ordinary hours they might want to work at night. as to the effect factory legislation had upon the diverting of work from the home to the workshop, or _vice versâ_, the manager thought that the tendency had been for work to come in to the factory. there used to be much more home work. men and women.--according to the manager, there is a hard and fast line drawn by the various societies in london as to what a woman may or may not do. in _bookbinding_ of all descriptions she is practically confined to folding and sewing. she may not touch a glue brush or do any putting of paper books or magazines into paper covers. in the provinces, on the other hand, the rules of the consolidated societies are different. a woman may do flush binding (_i.e._, books whose covers are cut on a level with the leaves and which have no "turnings in") up and foolscap size, two quires. hence women do diaries, etc. in certain works at tonbridge women are set to do this. _litter-press printing._--this firm had never tried female compositors. they had men. if they tried to introduce women, all the men would go out and "you'd have a hornet's nest." the idea of paying women at the same rate as men struck them as ridiculous. "they would never be worth as much because they stay such a little time." they might some day try women compositors in their country establishment. _feeding printing machines._--they might not employ women on platen machines because of the union, but were going to try them on smallish letter-press machines. the union had no objection to that. _machine ruling._--the firm only had little girls for feeding. the foreman remarked that at r.'s, "over the water," they had women to do most of their ruling, but did not seem to think that it would be worth while to train a woman for it. at first he said that the men's union would object, then said that he thought they would not; only he would have to give the woman the same pay as a man, "and fancy giving a woman _s._ a week!" this was uttered in a tone of supreme contempt. the manager remarked that he supposed it would not matter paying the woman the same if she did as much work, but the foreman smiled superior to the idea. women and machinery.--the manager thought that the output of printed matter had increased so enormously since the introduction of machinery that more hands than ever were employed. the forewoman of the folding and sewing department said that it seemed as if there must be fewer employed, and yet she had never turned any off. home work.--no home work is given out by the firm. since so much was done by machinery it was not worth while to send work out. influence on family income.--the manager and forewoman and foreman said that none of the girls were working for pocket-money. most lived at home and helped their parents; some who had no parents lived with relatives. general.--the premises were rather nice and the people looked superior and friendly. there was a great gulf fixed between the litho girls and the others. the latter look down tremendously on these former and would not think of speaking to them. they are a much lower set to look at and their language is reported not to be choice. many of them were arrayed in curlers, whilst none of the girls in other departments wore these decorations. the vellum sewers were said by their forewoman to be "a nice family party." . _lithographic firm. general information._ general.--i saw the manager; he was "very much on the spot," friendly and communicative, and took me all over the works and was quite interested in showing different processes. he said he had to look sharp after his workers, and so they often thought him a bully. work.--chief work done is lithography, but there is also a certain amount of letter-press work. engraving and stationery orders are given out in sub-contract. training.--in the binding room, _i.e._, where folding is done, there are no learners now, but they need to have one or two. these apprentices were taken on from fourteen years of age without premiums, and were kept two or three years according to ability. they were paid a few shillings to begin with, and, if good at their work, they rose gradually. if slow and stupid, they got nothing. the forewoman said she did not care to take learners now; "they are more trouble than they are worth." in the litho room the firm never had apprentices. the new hands come in and begin "taking-off" for about _s._ by-and-by, according to their nimbleness, they are elevated to "layers-on." in card mounting there is no training. it is picked up in a few months, and new hands start at about _s._ per week, time wages. wages.--_binding room._--the staff ( girls) are all on time work, the extra hands are paid piece work. time wages range from _s._ to _s._ i was shown last week's wages, and they ranged from _s._ to _s._, the forewoman having £ _s._ _d._; _s._ to _s._ was the predominant figure. job hands on piece "make as much as _s._ in a full week," i was informed, but the wage book that week showed they had only made about _s._ or _s._ for overtime, time and a quarter is paid to all time workers, ordinary rates to piece workers. _litho work._--all wages in this department are time wages, and vary from _s._ to _s._ or _s._ in the wages book the predominant figure was _s._; there were two _s._ and some _s._, and up to _s._ when bronzing the workers appeared to get _s._ extra. _card mounting._--all time wages paid here, and they were said to range from _s._ to _s._ in the wages book, however, _s._ and _s._ were the predominant figures. some were as low as _s._, and there were a few girls who had drawn _s._ no. employed.--there were about employees, of whom one-third were women. the number fluctuated, i was told. _litho artists' work._-- or men were employed on this, but no women on the premises. the firm often accepted sketches from lady artists living outside, some of whom could even work on stone. _litho machine work._--girls are employed feeding litho machines, and they have about when busy. when i was there only about were engaged. when bronzing by hand is wanted these girls are set to it ( were doing it last week). in the same room is _card mounting._--there were only girls at that, but sometimes there are as many as or . this consists of pasting the advertisement, almanac, etc., on to a piece of cardboard, varnishing it, eyeletting it, tying the bits of cord through (the girls were doing that), and sometimes putting gelatine over the surface--a minor trade, at which they get better paid. the same girls do occasional work in the _cutting_ room; not at the big guillotines, but (_a_) at feeding a machine which cuts the strips down or blocks into bent shapes like a small almanac of ----'s mustard which i saw; (_b_) at putting shapes on to huge piles of sheets of advertisements and labels, which are then pressed into the sheets by a heavy top weight being brought down by steam. they were doing some big "flies," on to which a string was to be put, so that they could be whirled round and buzz. _binding room._--there were only about girls employed, but there was room for , and they have them in at a press of work. they do folding by hand in this firm for certain newspapers and all sorts of advertisements. wire stitching is also done. they were folding various things, packing up labels, and so on, when i was there. regularity.--the firm's trade fluctuates, but by no regular fixed seasons; they are always busy before christmas. health.--i was told that it was quite a mistake to think bronzing unhealthy. the manager stated he had known men at it for months at a time without any evil effects. they sometimes imagined themselves ill, but he had never known of a single case of real illness. they grumble at doing it, and pretend that they are afraid of it because then they get extra money ( _s._ extra a week). they really object to it because it is bad for clothes--as you get covered with dust--and uncomfortable to be all powdered with gold. he had a machine below on which most work was done, except when there was a great press. messrs. ---- gave him out so many thousand to do; he could not do them fast enough with only one machine, and it was not worth while having more than one as he had not work enough ordinarily. no dust escaped from the machine. as a proof of the healthiness of bronzing he said that he stood for three or four hours in the middle of it all, "keeping them to their work" (which they want), and got all covered over with the dust himself. "you wouldn't get a manager doing that himself if it were unhealthy." he always gave his bronzers one pint of milk a day to drink, he stated with pride. the other work, folding, card mounting, etc., was all quite healthy. indeed, work was unhealthy more on account of bad ventilation than of any circumstance belonging to itself; he always had the window open and a board put across the bottom, ins. high, on the most approved plan. the workpeople grumbled very much and tried to paste up every crevice with brown paper, but they could not shut it. they objected to the incandescent burners which he put in, for they liked the heat of the gas and missed it. dangers.--occasionally girls catch their skirts in wheels and so on, but there are never any "bad accidents." "with people of that class it is 'funk' more than pain that they suffer; they will turn as white as anything from just a little flesh wound with a cog-wheel." the factory inspectors were very fussy about fencing machinery, he thought. he told me long stories about men's carelessness and how the boys would sit on the edge of the lift. he fined them _s._ _d._ for it. hours.--the hours are about a week, from a.m. to . p.m., with one hour for dinner. the women are allowed by the forewomen to have lunch in the middle of the morning and tea in the afternoon, and when the men are industrious the manager has no objection to their taking "snacks." if it is an idler, he objects. when busy, the work continues till p.m. he had not used special exemption once the last year. prospects.--there are no prospects except for the girls in the binding room. the present forewoman ("a jewel") had been with the firm for thirty years; one or two others whom she had trained could take her place. organisation.--he had no knowledge of any women's unions covering the women employed here. this is a society house in every branch for the men, but the manager said, "trades unionism is all humbug," and he would like to do away with it altogether, if possible; but it is so strong in london that if you want to get good men you must be a society house. married and unmarried.--he employed or married women amongst litho feeders. the firm ask no questions, but he said he knew most of the workers. a lot of the job hands were married, but none of the regular hands in binding room. legislation.--in manager's opinion legislation had not in any way injured the position of women workers. it did not affect him at all. he never employed men to fold at night, because it would not pay. occasionally, when the litho machines had to be kept working late, he had to draft in men from other departments to feed them, and he could understand that a small printer, without different departments, would find it awkward. he would not himself have the place open at night with girls working in it. he would not take the responsibility of that; they would "lark about, etc." he thought it all to the women's advantage that they must not work at night. the intentions of the factory acts are good, and he approved of them in principle, but there was a lot of humbug about them and the l.c.c. regulations,[ ] _e.g._, making him have six basins for lavatory for his workers. they never used more than two, preferring to follow each other, and they broke the others, and then round came the inspector and said you must have six. [footnote : this is allowed to stand as an indication of the frequent misunderstandings our investigators met with regarding the l.c.c. this body appeared to be charged with everything that caused irritation.] the l.c.c. put a premium on burglary by making it compulsory to have a way out on to the roof. the factory inspector was not a practical man, and ordered a great deal of unnecessary fencing of machinery. he told me how one night he kept the girls late without giving notice (the work came in unexpectedly), and sat by the telephone so as to send up notice to the forewoman if the inspector came. it was not the factory acts which kept women from being compositors. men and women.--women did litho artists' work at home, and there was no reason why they should not be quite as good at it as men. it was paid by the merits of the sketch. _feeding litho machines._--he used to have boys, and a few years ago introduced girls. they were much better at it, cleaner, quieter, and more careful to place the paper exactly than boys. he still had boys for _feeding letter-press machines_--why, he did not quite know, except that it was the custom; then, having thought about it, he said further, that it was because less care was needed. girls were no cheaper than the boys were, and were introduced solely on account of being better workers. he had no women compositors, and employed only men, and he did not see how he could work the two together, though he did not see why women should not do all the setting-up and the display work, though they could not lift the formes. he did not think the union objected. it never had been the custom though. he never had women to work _cutting machines_. the men would object. women never rose to mind the _printing litho machines_; he did not think they could do it. he had only one _platen machine_, worked and fed by a boy; but in some places, where cheap things were done by this machine, _e.g._, paper bags, girls attended to it. men used to do _folding_ in his youth, and they still did _stationers' folding_, notepaper, etc., in some houses. home work.--the firm gave out a certain amount of folding when there was a press of work. the forewoman knew of old hands and others who could do it at home. he considered that to be quite a convenient arrangement. influence on family income.--many of the job hands were married women, who liked to come out occasionally for a few extra shillings. others were single girls, who preferred to be paid by the piece, and go about from house to house, making as much as time workers for shorter hours. . _paper colouring and enamelling firm in london, also engaged in showcard mounting and varnishing and book-edge gilding. employer's and manager's information._ both were very communicative. the former, after repeated questions from me as to how things were done, took me over the whole place, intending only to show me the varnishing, and finally letting me see everything. he is a working-class master who has risen. his father had a small business, and he has made it a big one. it is one of the biggest firms in the trade. training.--_card mounting._--the firm indentures apprentices, who agree to stay three or four years. they are taken on at fourteen years of age, and are paid _s._ a week for the first year, and then receive a portion of their piece work earnings, varying according to efficiency, from one-fourth, one-half, three-fourths, two-thirds, and so on, according to skill. they come for a month first to see if they suit. _paper colouring and enamelling._--in this department apprentices are also indentured for two years. they are taken on at fourteen, and are paid _s._ a week first year, then a portion of their piece earnings as above. _varnishing and sizing._--no training is given for this. girls must be tall, or they are no use. any girl will be "good at it" after three weeks. the employer remarked that parents could not afford to pay a premium. it was very provoking when girls went off after four years, when a lot of trouble had been spent in teaching them. i was shown some cards which a girl, who was supposed to be competent, had spoilt by pasting the sheet on so that there was a blister; out of were similarly spoilt, and they cost _d._ each, he said. wages.--_card mounting and paper colouring._--piece work rates are paid here, with overtime at the same rate. it is difficult to give an average. one girl would make _s._, while another girl would only make _s._ at the same work in the same time. after consideration, the head gave it as his opinion that _s._ _d._ a week would be what the ordinary girl would earn, taking the whole year round, slack with busy times. they were kept on all the year at this firm. sometimes a girl would make as much as _s._ it was further stated that a girl might make _d._ in less than an hour at night, when the colours were mixed and she was finishing a job, whereas it might take her a whole morning to earn the _d._ next day. a quick girl could do , eyelets in an hour, eyeletting being paid at _d._ per , . _varnishing and sizing._--piece work wages are paid here, with overtime at same rates. wages are reckoned by the lump sum for the gross work done, and divided equally amongst all the hands. the division is made by the firm, not the workers. we asked one girl what she took last week, and she said _s._; but my guide said that the average would not be so high for the year, say _s._ work.--there are four separate departments or businesses here, in three of which the work is done by women. _varnishing and sizing_, where girls are employed. the calendars, advertisements, and so on, to be varnished are placed in a pile on a table underneath the long webbing band, and a girl sits there and feeds. they are caught up and passed round rollers, and are sized or varnished as the case may be. another girl stands facing the machine, seeing that they pass round all right. they are then carried over the top of the top roller along the webbing band, which stretches the full length of the room, till they come to the drum at the end, round which the band passes on its return journey. there girls take them off and place them in racks, the bottom one of which is on a small trolley. when a big pile of racks (about ½ ft. high) is filled the girls wheel it off, lift up a door, and push it into a big cupboard which takes up all the middle of the room, and above which is a fan. there they are left to dry, and when dry the girls wheel them out again and take out the sheets. there were two rooms in which this was being done, with about girls in each. there was also a third room at the side, where they make up odds and ends, _e.g._, make up packets of "happy families," fold odd papers, eyelet a few things, and so on. there was only girl in this; sometimes there are several. when a girl comes in first she does this work. _card mounting._--about or girls were employed at this. this consists in putting the advertisements, calendars, and so on, on to the big sheets of cardboard and finishing them off. there are various different processes. the board has to be cut, and this is done either by a man or a girl who feeds the rotary cutting machine. the sheet of card is "lined," _i.e._, the back pasted on, and edges pasted over if required. then the picture (or calendar) that is to go on it is pasted down, the girls covering the backs of about four pictures (or calendars), and then pressing them down one after another. for some work eyelets are then punched, and in the best work the edges are bevelled by a little machine consisting of a wheel in a trough, along which the edge is pushed. in the case of a good deal of school board work there is a narrow band of tin or brass at the top which finishes it off, and out of which comes a brass loop by which to hang it up. the men cut the brass into slips, and the girls work about five hand machines, the principle of which is that you put in your map (_e.g._), put the tin or brass slip of metal in the right position, pull down a handle, lift it up, and the work comes out with the metal band pressed down on each side and the loop fixed in the middle. for other work, such as big maps, charts, diagrams, and so on, wooden rods are used as rollers, etc., and the work of fastening is done by girls. _paper colouring and enamelling by hand._--only women were engaged upon this work--a considerable decrease. the sheet of paper to be coloured is placed in front of the girl, who then wets it over with the colour (black when i saw it) by means of a brush like a whitewash brush (the manager said that they were whitewash brushes with the handles taken off), which she dips into a bowl. she then takes another round brush, about ins. in diameter, and brushes over the whole surface, so that the colour lies quite evenly. the sheet of paper is then hung, as it were, on to a clothes line to dry. these lines stretch over the room. enamelling is done in identically the same way, only it is enamel, not colour, which is put on. enamelled paper is the very shiny coloured paper used for end pages of books, for covering confectionery and similar boxes, etc. marbling is never done by this firm. all the coloured paper is in plain colours, marbling being a quite different process. _book-edge gilding._--only men are employed in this. regularity.--the _card mounting_ department is specially busy before christmas with calendars, almanacs, etc., but advertisement cards are turned out all the year. _paper colouring_ comes in rushes, but is not a seasonal trade. _varnishing_ is sometimes busier at one time than at another, but it is not seasonal. the work of this firm is such that no job hands are employed. health.--_paper colouring and enamelling._--mr. ---- called down one woman who had worked there fourteen years, and her mother before her. she looked very strong and healthy. the other girls were not so robust looking as she, but did not look _ill_. one was sitting in one of the colouring rooms during the dinner hour, her hands all coated over with paint, eating bread and butter. mr. ---- rebuked her and told her that she ought to wash her hands, and that he was always telling her to do so, but she did not obey, and went on eating stolidly. the colouring girls were all splashed over, and so were the walls. the rooms were close and dirty. work was done standing. _card mounting._--the rooms were close and dirty, and the work seemed tiring. _varnishing and sizing._--the smell and heat were enough to knock one down when one first went in, though one ceased to notice it after a bit. there are hot pipes connected with the machine to dry the papers. the place looked very dirty, and my guide showed me how the dust all stuck to any varnish about, so that the racks, if left out for a day, got covered with flue. the girls did not look strikingly unhealthy. they have to drag heavy loads about. one or two looked a bit pale. qualifications.--i should judge that strength was required for all three departments, as girls are standing all day. only tall girls are taken in the varnishing room; short ones would be no good for moving about the racks. the head said that no great intelligence was wanted for any department, but a good deal of "perseverance" for card mounting and paper colouring. if girls are careless at card mounting they spoil the whole thing. dangers.--the only machinery was the varnishing machine, and the firm had never had any accident with it, and there seemed no reason why there should be any. if girls are careless they are dismissed. the employer considered the compensation act to be very unfair: "if a girl slips on your iron staircase because her shoelace was undone, you have to pay her." hours.--the hours worked are from a.m. to . p.m., with one hour for dinner and half an hour for tea; on saturdays from a.m. to p.m. on a board a notice was put up stating that work begins as follows: a.m. for women, a.m. for boys, a.m. for men. prospects.--there is girl in the _varnishing_ department who gets "a trifle more than the others," owing to her skill. in _card mounting_ there are no prospects. a foreman manages the _paper colouring_ department, so that there is no chance of the women becoming forewomen. the firm once tried a forewoman, but she was not a success. she could not match the colours properly, etc. mr. ---- and the robust worker seemed to think such a thing beyond a woman's power (especially the latter, who scorned the idea of a forewoman). organisation.--the head did not know if there was a union or not. "they do not give us any trouble." married and unmarried.--only or married women were employed by the firm, and they were confined to the colouring department. one married woman had been there fourteen years. legislation.--my informant did not consider that legislation had injured the woman worker at all, but had benefited her by lessening her hours of labour. legislation was very hard on him, however, especially in the paper colouring and varnishing work. "a customer comes in with some work at o'clock on a saturday. you say you cannot do it till monday. 'well,' he says, 'i shall get it done elsewhere.' people working at home are found to do it, and as they have not got the machinery or appliances it means that they work at it all sunday, and make their little children of nine or ten work too, whereas the grown women may not work an hour longer in factories." mr. ---- evidently feels bitterly about this. it would not pay to keep men on this kind of work. he would like more than thirty days a year exemption for overtime. besides, the girls would often like to make a few shillings extra overtime. this was corroborated by the paper-staining girl. men and women.--in the head's youth men used to do all the card mounting; women were introduced for it about twenty-eight years ago. they were brought in because the men drank so and kept away from work. men used to do paper colouring and varnishing, too, and were replaced by women for the same reason. the unions gave no trouble about this. no women were employed in book-edge gilding by this firm. mr. ---- and an old man employee said that some people got their wives to help lay-on the gold and so on, but it did not come to much. machinery.--_paper colouring and enamelling_ machinery has diminished women's work _considerably_. the head used to have women at it--two whole floors--and now only has . it is done by machinery elsewhere. a certain amount is still done by hand, and must always be, as it is not worth while putting anything under five reams on a machine. _varnishing._--the head invented the present machines because the women kept away so. there used to be many more women in the trade. _card mounting._--no machines are employed for this. girls can feed the rotary cutting machine, but it is generally done by a man. home work.--no work is sent out from here. a good deal of paper colouring and of varnishing is done by people in their own homes (see under "legislation"). family income.--very little information on this subject could be had here. one girl in the varnishing room was pointed out to me, dressed in black, whose father had recently died. she was the eldest of eleven, and was "keen on picking up an extra shilling or two." general.--the whole place was dirty, and there was hardly a vacant inch to squeeze past in. mr. ----, however, did not seem a bad sort of man; the girls did not seem in the least in awe of him. all the girls looked of the regular factory girl type, sloppy and dirty, and with their hair in curlers or curl papers. mrs. ----, the paper stainer, who came down to talk to me, seemed a friendly, rough-and-ready, low-class woman. her mother worked in the trade, and when she herself was a baby her cradle was rocked on the colouring board, and "many is the night" that she sat up all night as a child helping her mother at home. she seemed to have thriven on it, and to be immensely proud of her industrial career. . _bookbinding firm, west end. london. employée's evidence._ work.--trade in the west end is quite different to that in city firms. this employée picked to pieces and sewed. regularity.--hers was not a seasonal trade. she was busy all the year round, but in january and july there was a special press, owing to the number of magazine volumes then being bound. hours.--she worked per week, the length of the ordinary day being from . a.m. to p.m. prospects.--she had never known anyone who rose to be a forewoman, but supposed some did rise. girls from west end shops could not be city forewomen because they knew nothing about machines, and in all advertisements for forewomen knowledge of sewing machines was put as a necessary qualification. general.--i asked why their hours were so much shorter than dressmakers, and have come to the conclusion that it was because the men had got an eight-hours' day. she said this class of workers in city shops is lower than in these west end places, and yet in the city workplaces the best industrial training is given. . _bookbinding firm in london. employée's evidence._ work.--works at a large place about five minutes' walk away (not the same place where she learned). there are four rooms of women. n. m. works in a room on the third floor, where there are women under two forewomen, sisters. in this room folding, stitching, gathering and sewing (hand) is done. in the fourth room there are girls doing machine sewing. the two lower floor rooms each have about or girls. in one of them laying-on of gold is done. she herself does stitching, folding and gathering, hardly ever sewing. regularity.--orders are very slack sometimes, especially just now (august). there had been a great deal of sitting idle, and they had only been making _s._ or _s._ per week. they did not like to go "out to grass" for fear of losing work if it should chance to come in. it was difficult to get off for a holiday. sometimes they were told at p.m. that they could go home. health.--_gold laying-on_ was unhealthy. the dust got on the chest. _folding_ and _sewing_ were very tiring, because "you are sitting in one position all day." _gathering_ is the most pleasant, because you walk about and get a little exercise that way. prospects.--there is not much chance of rising. the forewoman and under-forewoman are sisters, and stay on and on. if one of them were to give up, her successor would be taken from the time workers. the piece workers might rise to be time workers, if they cared. . _bookbinding firm in london. employée's evidence._ work.--this informant was engaged at gold laying-on exclusively, but was originally a folder and sewer. regularity.--in this firm it is a seasonal trade, and slack sometimes as well. she left m. because of slackness. health.--it is not very healthy. layers-on cannot have the windows open because of the draught blowing the gold about, also the gas used for "blocking" overheats the rooms. girls sometimes faint three or four times a day, and get anæmic. after working overtime at ----'s would often stagger in the streets. "you have to drink a lot of tea to keep you up." hours.-- a week is about the normal working time, from a.m. to p.m., with one hour for dinner and half an hour for tea, as at m., and a.m. to p.m. on saturdays; or else from . a.m. to p.m., as at n., with one hour for dinner, and . a.m. to noon on saturdays. she preferred a.m. to p.m., because then she got a tea half-hour. "one got so faint going on till . p.m. from p.m." at o. there was a great deal of overtime; not at m. prospects.--she could have been a sort of forewoman at sixteen over other girls at p., but an older hand persuaded her not to; and being ignorant of the ways of the world she agreed not to, and then the older hand became forewoman herself! that was her only chance of promotion. . j., _bookbinding firm in london. employée's evidence and visit to works_. work.--folding, numbering, perforating, sewing. the regular staff do all, but the firm take in job hands for folding only, when busy. regularity.--the regular hands are kept on all the year round. hours.--the hours worked average a week, from . a.m. to . p.m. my informant said they were "obliged by the factory act[ ] to have half an hour for lunch from a.m. to . a.m., but they did not take more than a quarter of an hour, or else they ate whilst working;" dinner from p.m. to p.m., and tea from p.m. to . p.m. on saturdays the hours are . a.m. to p.m., with a.m. to . a.m. for lunch. [footnote : this, of course, is incorrect.] prospects.--the girls may rise to forewomen. one who had just risen quickly to that position was going off to be married. general.--they can cook food on the premises at this firm. . b., _stationery firm in london. visit to works_. work.--about to women are employed. ( ) hand folding and cementing of envelopes (includes putting band round packet). ( ) machine folding and cementing of envelopes (includes putting band round packet). ( ) black bordering. ( ) stamping, plain and relief. ( ) printing of addresses for circulars, etc. (small machines). ( ) packing twelve packets in long packets and sample packing. ( ) vellum sewing (folding, sewing, and looking over). ( ) perforating (in same room). ( ) machine ruling. the number of women at each process in the part of factory seen were as follows:-- ( ) about , ( ) , ( ) , ( ) stamping, ( ) about , ( ) and sample packer (probably many more), ( ) sewing, looking over, hanging about, ( ) , ( ) . there are other workers who are all older hands. the girls employed in ( ) are a superior grade to those in ( ) and will not mix at all. wages about the same. ( ), ( ), ( ), ( ), ( ) and ( ) are more or less same grade as ( ); ( ) are lower than ( ). regularity.--the work here is steady all the year round. health.--all the girls are healthy, and the work is quite healthy. hours.--they work hours per week. prospects.--envelope hand folders can rise to be cementers or forewomen (envelope hand folders being themselves a superior class to machine folders or machine rulers); packers can rise to be sample packers. . r., _stationery firm (christmas cards, etc.) in london. visit to works_. work.--there are three departments:-- ( ) _relief stamping_, with regular hands. these girls work the presses, which are of the newest kind, and some of which are very heavy. they do monograms and all sorts of designs on menus, wedding cards, christmas cards, ball cards, etc., and stamp in gold, silver, or colours. ( ) _hand painting_, with regular hands. this means filling in stamped-out or printed designs of various kinds of cards with colour, _e.g._, figures of soldiers, flowers, and so on. ( ) _packing department_, with about regular hands. they do up the cards in packets, fold and gum special wedding envelopes, paste pictures on to cards, tie the little ribbon bows on cards, and do all the many little processes required for finishing this kind of work. regularity.--the work of this firm is very seasonal. the busy time is for about three months before christmas, but they are specially rushed for the six weeks before christmas. the regular hands are kept on all the year round, but about or extra are employed for the packing room for six weeks before christmas. in the other departments they get a few married hands just to come in and help. they are now (july) preparing books of christmas cards, but the orders for private christmas cards do not come in till november and december. the girls who work in the packing room pack scents, etc., at other times of the year. health.--the work is quite healthy and the girls all appeared to be healthy. the premises were light and airy. two of the relief stamping presses _looked_ very heavy indeed, and the forewoman said that they were really men's work. the girls working them always had the same machines, and did not look ill, though they said that it was very tiring. machinery.--machinery has not displaced women in this firm. hours.--for _stamping and packing_ the hours are from a.m. to . p.m. with three-quarters of an hour for dinner and a quarter of an hour for tea; on saturdays, from a.m. to p.m., with half an hour for lunch. for _painting_ they are from a.m. to . p.m., with the same meal hour; on saturdays, from a.m. to p.m. the hours of painters had been shortened about a year ago, and it was found that they did just as much work. for the six weeks before christmas they regularly work from a.m. to p.m., with as much overtime as is allowed, _i.e._, three nights a week. prospects.--they may rise to forewomen; _e.g._, the forewoman over the stampers came as an ordinary hand. general.--there is a dining room, and every girl can pay _s._ a week and get dinner of meat and pudding and tea every day. this covers all expenses, wages of cook, gas for stove, all utensils, etc. last year there was money over, so they had free meals for a week. . g., _large stationery firm in london. visit to works_. work.--about girls are employed. _stationery and printing_ with following divisions:--( ) plain cameo and relief stamping (about girls), ( ) illuminating, _i.e._, putting on the colour by hand ( girls), ( ) envelope folding and cementing ( girls), ( ) packing, including cleaning (girls in each department), ( ) folding notepaper (saw little girls doing this), ( ) feeding printing machines, big and small, and lithographic machines (about girls), ( ) various odd jobs, _e.g._, cutting visiting cards to proper size, ( ) feeding ruling machine ( girl). regularity.--this firm's trade is regular. they are busy all the year round, though perhaps they are busiest at christmas. the bulk of their orders come from the country though. health.--the little printing and lithographic girls looked anything but healthy. machinery.--machines have not displaced women. there was nothing dangerous about the machinery used, though the small printing machine which girl was feeding _might_ be dangerous. hours.--the hours worked are from . a.m. to p.m., with one hour for dinner and half an hour for tea; on saturdays, from . a.m. to p.m. they work overtime at christmas. prospects.--girls in ( ) may rise to ( ), and those in ( ) to ( ). . k., _stationery firm in london. visit to works_. work.--_numbering and perforating_; girls also dust and clean up after blocking. regularity.--the work in this firm is regular, "as they work for the trade." skill.--intelligence is required for numbering, or else valuable material is spoilt, _e.g._, the other day a girl, who was six months out of her time, never changed when she came to the , and so spoilt the work, as one figure came out darker. three numbers are harder to do than two or four. the firm had tried to take two girls from the blocking work and teach them numbering, but it was no good, they were not intelligent enough. hours.--the hours worked are from a.m. to . p.m., with one hour for dinner, ten minutes for lunch, and ten minutes for tea; on saturdays, from a.m. to p.m. prospects.--the girls can rise to be forewomen. . i., _stationery and stamping firm in london. employee's evidence_. work.--stamping, plain and relief, including tradesmen's cards, notepaper, christmas cards, etc. regularity.--the work here is regular, because they work for the trade. skill.--the girls need arm strength. artistic taste is also required. some never make good stampers on account of deficiency in taste. machinery.--machinery has not displaced women. hours.--the hours worked are from a.m. to p.m., with one hour for dinner, and half an hour for tea; on saturdays, from a.m. to p.m. prospects.--girls may rise to forewomen. "there is a little girl of fifteen now, who has only been here a year, and the other day mr. i. (who does not say things when he does not mean them) told her that she would rise to be forewoman one day. she is very good at her work and knows how things should look." general.--the girls are very comfortable here. they have a room to themselves upstairs, and a dining room and a stove to cook on. . f., _stationery firm in london. employee's evidence_. work.--( ) envelope folding, which includes creasing, gumming, and shuffling. ( ) envelope cementing. ( ) plain stamping. ( ) relief stamping. ( ) looking over and packing. regularity.--slack times vary in different houses. "you never can tell," but summer, as a rule, is slack. last summer there was very little work all july and august at c. and d. and f. she made only _d._ or _d._ a day sometimes. hours.--at c. and d. the hours worked are from a.m. to p.m., with one and a-half hours for meals; at e., from a.m. to . p.m., with one and a-half hours for meals on monday and tuesday; from a.m. to p.m., with one and a-half hours for meals on wednesday, thursday, and friday; and from a.m. to p.m. on saturdays. machinery.--machinery has not taken work from women. general.--she remarked that g. was "a dreadful place." the girls cried because there was no work. . x., _stamping firm in london. employee's evidence_. work.--there are about girls in the _stamping_ room, about of whom pack up the work in boxes, etc. in some places the stampers have to pack their own work. there is also _envelope work_, etc., done on the firm, but my informant knew nothing of this. some girls did the hand illuminating, _i.e._, colouring part of a design that has been stamped. regularity.--the trade is seasonal, and is slack in the summer and busy in winter. skill.--"you have to be strong to stand the stamping," she said. she herself had to give it up after she had been a learner for two years, and take to packing. her health gave way; she got very anæmic, and could not stand the strain. most of the packers were girls who could not stand stamping. they had one very heavy press with big dies, and tried a girl on it, but she got injured internally, so a man was put on it. at r. she heard they had heavy presses. she said she knew of two girls who went there, and both injured themselves. she thinks they had to go to the hospital. the best paying work was done on the big presses. however, many girls stood the stamping all right. strength is absolutely necessary. hours.--the hours worked are from a.m. to p.m., with one and a-half hours off for meals; on saturdays, from a.m. to p.m. when busy they work regularly from a.m. to p.m., and three nights a week to . p.m. and . u. and v., _two stamping firms in london. employee's evidence_. work.--my informant did plain stamping, but never learnt relief work. she once tried it, but did not get on with it. at u. there were only stampers, at v. quite . regularity.--at u. work came in rushes, and they were always either very busy or else very slack; at v. work was steady all the year. health.--my informant herself had grown rather crooked, and had to leave off work. she did not know of any other girls similarly affected though, nor did she consider it unhealthy. a good many were anæmic. she thought that now she has had a rest she might be able to stand it better. the big dies were the bad ones, and were tiring. hours.--at u. the hours were from . a.m. to p.m., with one hour for dinner and half an hour for tea; at v. from . a.m. to . p.m., but at v. one could work till or . p.m., if one cared. at u. they were then working till p.m. (december). she had never worked later than , and that very rarely. prospects.--she thought that the chance of rising to forewoman was exceedingly remote. general.--both u. and v. were very nice and respectable shops, and particular about whom they took on. at u. there was a dining room, and things more comfortable than at v. . y., _machine ruling firm in london. visit to works_. work.--there are _two departments_. ( ) top floor: _machine ruling_. ( ) ground floor: _perforating_, _numbering_, _and paging._ ( ) the following is the general principle of the ruling machine: there is a band about yd. wide which goes round and round in a large ellipse (one flat side of the ellipse is about ½ yds. long). upon this band the sheets of paper are placed by the girls, and by it they are drawn under a row of pens set at the required intervals for the lines. they are then carried up and round by the revolutions of the band--being held in their places by string which revolves with the band--and fall out of the machine with the ink dry. a good many machines are fitted with a second row of pens which rules the underneath side of the paper as well as the upper. the pens are fed by a piece of flannel which is kept soaked by a regular flow of ink from a vessel fitted with a small tap. these machines are worked by power. they used to be worked by hand. ( ) _perforating_ is done by a machine worked by a treadle. a good many foreign and colonial postage stamps are done here. _numbering_ of loose pages, cheques, receipts, etc., is done by a machine with a handle which has to be pulled down by hand. _paging_, which is for made-up books, is done by a machine worked by a treadle. regularity.--the summer is a slack season in this trade as a rule. the firm are especially slack just now (august) as there are no orders from south africa. health.--the upper floor was exceedingly, almost insupportably, stuffy. the ground floor was fairly airy. the under-forewoman said that working the treadle for paging was very hard work. "it always upset her inside," so she had to give it up. skill.--strength is required for paging. danger.--they had just had an accident with the perforating machine. the bands upstairs were dangerous to long hair. one girl had her hair caught and was carried right up to the ceiling. the band was loose and slipped off the wheel, so she was let down again with no great injury. prospects.--the girls may rise to forewoman; the machine rulers may rise to wet the flannels. . _paper bag making in london. employee's evidence._ work.--( ) cake bags, ( ) tea bags, ( ) sugar bags. these are different classes of work and some hands can do only one class. the girls do their own cutting except for the very heavy work, which men do. as a rule, the piece-rate girls make the bag right through from the sheet, _i.e._, cut the paper, lay it out and paste. tea bags are made on a tin. there were girls working in the room. regularity.--the work is irregular, but if a girl can do all kinds it is better for her. "there is always some work, but sometimes you may sit idle doing needlework most of the day." health.--"it is very bad for you standing all day long," said my informant. "girls come in looking lively and healthy, but they soon get run down." the standing and the used-up air are bad, the latter especially in the winter-time when the gas is alight. she herself has lost her health. machinery.--machinery had not displaced women. hours.--the hours are from a.m. to . p.m., with one hour for dinner, ten minutes for lunch, and twenty minutes for tea; on saturdays, from a.m. to p.m. the girls have to be in by . or they are locked out for the morning. when at overtime they work from a.m. to . p.m. prospects.--the forewoman was at the bench once. general.--"on the floor below," said my informant, "are litho girls--not the sort whom you _could_ speak to. that is a very bad trade." . _printer's and bookbinder's firm in leeds. employer's information._ i was shown over the factory. the rooms are all very large and lofty. electric instead of steam power is used, and so the factory is far less noisy and cooler than most printing works. _one hundred and twenty girls_ of a very superior class are employed. the conditions under which work is carried on here are evidently very good. they print large advertisement posters, time-tables, magazines, novels, and make account books, cheque books, etc. training.--girls begin by feeding ruling machines, packing, etc., and the length of their "apprenticeship" depends entirely upon the girls themselves. they are put on piece work as soon as they are fit for it; they are taken on about fourteen without premium, and their wages begin at _s._ _d._ or, sometimes, _s._, and rise by degrees till they are paid piece work rates. wages.--_folding and sewing_ (piece work).--the pay ranges about _s._, _s._, _s._, up to _s._ per week. _laying-on of gold-leaf and blockers_ (piece work) yields _s._ to _s._ per week. girls who put _paper covers_ on to cheap novels, etc., earn about _s._ _layers-on_ (_letter-press and litho_) are paid time wages and receive _s._, _s._, and _s._ per week. the employer says he has known three sisters take home £ a week for several months in succession. he thinks it pays well to give high wages. hours.--the hours are ½ per week: from . a.m. to p.m., with dinner from . p.m. to . p.m.; on saturdays, . a.m. till . p.m.; but overtime is worked thirty days in the year. piece workers receive no extra pay; time workers get time and a quarter. work.--_folding_ is done chiefly by hand. there is one machine, but that is self-feeding and a man minds it. _sewing_ is done by hand and by machinery. _perforating_ is done by a machine worked by power, which has simply to be fed. several girls were employed putting the wrappers on to _d._ novels, while others were pasting cloth on to cardboard for school exercise books. little girls were feeding the ruling machine, punching labels, eyeletting and packing. girls were also engaged in gold laying-on and blocking, but none were employed at this when i was there. in the litho and letter-press printing rooms a large number of very respectable girls, about eighteen years of age, were employed as layers-on. they were feeding large as well as small machines. regularity.--the girls are employed all the year round, but they are busier in the autumn and winter (from september to may). they are also very busy the last week in each month. _occasionally_, in june and july, they only work half-time, but this does not happen often. health.--the work is very healthy. before they had electric power the employer had seen girls fall down and faint when "laying-on" at night when the gas was lit and the room hot. now that they have electric power and electric light such a thing never happens. danger.--the use of electric power does away with the need of belting shafts, etc. there is simply a small motor on the ground. organisation.--there is no organisation amongst the women, though the men are all unionists. married and unmarried.--girls all leave when they get married. occasionally, when they are busy, an old hand who has got married comes back, but per cent. are unmarried. the employer did not know whether they had any married women there then. factory legislation.--factory legislation has in no way limited the usefulness of women. girls do not mind working overtime when they can make a little extra by it, but the employer said "overtime does not pay anybody." _e.g._, when layers-on worked overtime they were paid time and a quarter, and it did not pay to give that extra money. the restriction of overtime to thirty days a year worked out very inconveniently for the masters, but this employer thought the factory legislation was a very good thing on the whole. one direct result of factory legislation here has been the introduction of a self-feeding folding machine worked by electric power, which they use when they are busy instead of getting in extra hands or working overtime. when not busy this machine stands idle, and the folding is done by hand. another result of factory legislation is that they have to employ more hands than they otherwise would, and so girls sometimes have to work short time. men and women.--the employer said there was a clearly drawn line between men's work and women's work. the union made a great point of keeping women out of what they consider to be men's work, and there would be a "row" amongst them if women were put on, but i found out later on that girls do the laying-on and _gold blocking_ for the backs of books, etc. the employer said he put them on to that about three years ago. at first the men made a fuss about it, but it passed over. his reason for putting girls on was that it was light work quite suitable for a girl. only skilled girls did it. they would get perhaps _s._ _d._, time wage, while they were learning, and then go on to piece work and earn _s._ or _s._ a week. a man's wage for the same work would be a minimum of _s._ a week (time), as that is the trade union minimum, and the trade unionists generally get something above the minimum. this firm was the first in leeds to introduce girls as layers-on for letter-press and litho machines. that was about twenty years ago. the reason was that it was impossible to apprentice the number of boys required. the trade union regulation about the proportion of apprentices to journeymen is very strictly enforced, and it was not fair to employ boys and simply turn them off when they got older; so girls were employed, and now the majority of layers-on are girls. they do the work, on the whole, better than boys, and they are steadier. machinery.--machinery is continually being introduced and more women are being employed in spite of the fact that the machines do work so much more quickly. production is made cheaper and so the demand is greater. home work.--no home work is given out. _relief stamping firms. general summary._ we have information about twenty-one houses where women are employed at stamping (covering over women). training.--out of these nine have a regular system of training, four do not take apprentices, having found them more trouble than they were worth; three have no settled system, while three refused to furnish information on the subject. in four cases indentures were signed, and there were two cases of premiums, in one of which £ was paid, to be returned with per cent. interest after three years; in the other, £ --with variations. "it varies with the girl," we were told. "sometimes girls with very respectable parents like to pay a premium, in other cases it is waived." in eight out of the nine houses where there is a regular system of training, the girls serve an apprenticeship varying from two to three years. they begin by a few shillings pocket-money and go on to receive a part of what they make at piece work rates. in one house they gave from two weeks to two months for nothing, during which time their earnings went to the forewoman who taught them. the following are some of the systems of payment during training:-- ( ) st year (employed in warehouse), _s._; nd year, half earnings, piece, with _s._ per month pocket-money; rd year, three-quarter earnings, with _s._ per month pocket-money. ( ) st year, _s._; nd year, _s._ _d._; rd year, _s._ ( ) _s._ _d._ for first months; rising _s._ every months, till _s._ _d._ is reached. ( ) start at _s._ _d._; rise to _s._ during training. ( ) st year, half earnings; nd year, three-quarter earnings. ( ) _s._ or _s._ first months; _s._ second months; then _s._ for nd year. ( ) pay £ premium. put on piece work almost at once and receive what they make. premiums returned with per cent. interest after years. ( ) months, nothing; months, _s._ per week; next months, _s._; next, _s._; so on till _s._ one forewoman considered that three years' training was much too long, and stated that there was a tendency in certain houses to do work cheap by means of apprentices. she said that the girls in such houses get disheartened and sick of work, and when they were out of their time it was no use staying on, for all the work got given to the learners. some learners are quite quick by the end of three weeks. we often found that when a girl came in to learn stamping she was set to run about the warehouse or to do gumming for the first year. this, it was urged by one employer, was done purely from humane motives. since the girls were often delicate when they came in, it was far better for them to do odd jobs for a year than to be stuck down at once at some sedentary occupation. learners are taken at thirteen or fourteen years of age. sometimes they are left to "pick things up." sometimes they are taught by a forewoman or experienced hand. the relief stamper belongs to the upper class of factory girl. regularity.--trade is tolerably steady. a few weeks in summer are generally slack, and where there is christmas card work the six weeks before christmas are extremely busy. health.--we were told almost unanimously that stamping was healthy work, and undoubtedly, where the presses are light, it is so. some of the presses, however, are very heavy, and the girls who work them acknowledged that the work was extremely tiring. most houses have men to work their heaviest presses. we heard of three cases in two different houses of internal strain to girls working at these presses, and we heard of one house where the girls in the packing room were recruited from those who could not stand the stamping. skill.--skill is required for illuminating. prospects.--in some cases it is possible to rise to forewoman, or from plain to relief and cameo stamping and occasionally illuminating. wages.--wages vary from _s._ to _s._ or _s._, mostly piece work. some of the piece work rates were _d._ per , impressions, _d._ per , plain ( , can be done per hour); _d._ per ream one die (takes two hours to do one ream), _s._ _d._ per , impressions. married and unmarried.--very few relief stampers are married. in some houses married women are not allowed, in some they "come back to oblige" at busy times. in one house only we heard "that many stampers marry, though they might as well not, as they come back to work." displacement.--men used to do relief stamping, but women, owing to the cheapness of their labour, have superseded them in all but the heaviest work. for the heavy presses men are still employed, "but it is a poor trade for them." in some houses they do illuminating, as for this the women are found not to possess sufficient skill and patience. one large house employs men for a superior sort of relief stamping--gold and silver on a coloured surface. the crest or monogram has to be stamped in plain first, then coloured, then stamped with the gold or silver by the men. this last process requires great skill and accuracy and care, for if it is crooked by a hair's breadth the thing is spoilt. girls are stated not to be accurate and careful enough for this work, although they are employed for the simpler sort of gold stamping. where heavy hand machines have come in they have ousted women. one employer considered that if stamping machines worked by steam came in women would be employed on them. in one house, however, where there was machine stamping, it was done by men. we were told by a large employer that there is now a new machine in the market which may supersede female labour. it colours the surface first and then embosses it out. another new machine requires a feeder only, as the die is coloured, rubbed and stamped down by machinery. _job hands. interview with agent._ miss r., like mrs. b. before her, apparently acts as a sort of bureau-keeper for job hands; sometimes she has work in to do herself and keeps a certain staff, at other times she gets a notice to say that w. has got a big job and wants so many hands; she collects them, sends postcards all round, and goes and works herself too. very few of her job hands would touch magazine work; they usually work at prospectuses. mrs. b. used to do all the work for the ---- societies. there were hundreds of job hands, how many she cannot tell at all. regularity.--the work is quite uncertain. "you never know when there will be work; but july and august are usually the slack months, but this year ( - ) it has been slack all the year. job hands, however, do what they like when there is not work, whereas constant hands have to come in and wait whether there is work or not." health.--it is hard work, but there is nothing unhealthy about it. general.--she spoke with pitying contempt of the "constant" hands and their low prices and the long hours they worked. appendix iii.--general glasgow report. (a.) _letterpress printing. machine feeding and flying._ girls are employed to "feed" the machines and to "take off" the impressed sheet. a girl will learn "taking off," or "flying," in a couple of days; but except in the old-fashioned and smaller jobbing-shops flying is now done entirely by machinery. machine feeding is not so easy and simple a process as it seems. the girls stand and perform the same movement repeatedly, each time giving to the sheet the precise swing required to send it accurately into the grips. the work requires little intelligence, and the extent to which it can be characterised as exhausting depends partly on the speed of the machine, but chiefly on the length of the "run." three methods of treating the girls may be distinguished. in some shops where there are very long runs, perhaps extending to a couple of weeks, as in the case of the printing of low-priced bibles, the work is tiring. at the close of a long run the machines have to be prepared afresh, and the girls enjoy a spell for a day or two. this leisure they are sometimes inclined to abuse by interrupting the work of others with conversation, and consequently attempts are being made to employ them on other machines during the interval. this innovation the girls are resisting. in other shops the fatiguing nature of a long run is mitigated by removing the girl to another machine with a different movement, but the "right" of a girl to be so moved about and rested is not recognised; it is simply a matter for the consideration of the foreman. to allow the claim to frequent shifting might prove inconvenient in times of pressure. lastly, in establishments where the bulk of the work involves short runs, as, for example, in printing the official matter of a municipality or a college, the necessity for frequently preparing the machines affords considerable leisure to the feeders. these intervals explain the groups of girls often to be seen chatting and knitting in odd corners of the machine-room. some of these shops recognise the right of a girl to feed and keep clean "her own machine" and no other. where this is the case a girl may be employed feeding for no longer than a quarter of the normal working week of fifty-two and a half hours owing to the shortness of the runs and the length of time spent in re-adjustment. the work is dirty but not dangerous, as all machinery is well-fenced, and accidents are of very rare occurrence. the day's work usually starts at . a.m. and ends at p.m., with meal hours at and at o'clock and half an hour for tea when engaged on overtime. saturday's shift is from . a.m. until a.m. girls are paid _s._, in a few shops _s._, a week as beginners. they get their first rise in three months, and are gradually advanced to an average wage of _s._, while an expert feeder may earn _s._, or at the outside _s._, a week. when girls find that they can feed well after a comparatively short time in a shop and that they are getting only _s._ or _s._ a week they commonly seek and obtain the average wage elsewhere. managers fancy "it would not do" to advance a girl abruptly from _s._ to _s._ a week in the same shop, but do not blame the girls for leaving. "it is human nature." girls are taken on at any age after fourteen, and stay on till they are married or until they are called away to domestic duties. some remain on after marriage, but not more than or per cent. a few come back as widows. married and unmarried as workers are "six of one and half a dozen of the other," remarked an employer of both, while another thought married women "less regular" in attendance. there are no signs of married women lowering rates of pay. "time and a half" is the overtime rate. women workers who do not get paid overtime when they work beyond the normal day get paid over the holidays, but not otherwise. there are no fines. there is no trade organisation among the machine feeders, and as the various unions of the men are not directly affected they do not interfere. in some firms feeding has been done by girls for a quarter of a century; in others they have been introduced only within the last five or six years. boys were rough, irregular, scarce, and wanted higher pay. the girls, although they also are drawn from a rough class, are steadier, cleaner, and more economical in the use of material than boys. besides, there are more of them. there was no inducement for boys to continue at such work, so they have been drafted into certain forms of unskilled, but fairly well paid, labour, such as is offered by the post office or bread factories. in some districts they go to the shipyards to assist riveters, and are able to earn straight away twice the wages they would obtain in a printing shop. as overtime by girls is restricted by legislation, young men (over ) are kept for feeding in one large jobbing-shop where there are often seasons of great pressure (_e.g._, in the printing of penny monthly diaries and time-tables) and where "rushes" and overtime are inevitable. these young men would not be thus employed but for the restrictions of the factory acts, as the manager, for reasons stated above, much prefers girls for feeding. while all modern machines are fitted with self-fliers, not one of the many attempts to provide automatic feeders has proved quite satisfactory. for long runs such feeders as have been designed may serve fairly well, but in shops with much jobbing and many short runs too much time would be spent in adjusting the feeder to the particular job. the sole advantages of a mechanical feeder are that it neither "takes ill" nor "goes on strike." meanwhile it is imperfect and expensive, and the supply of cheap female labour abundant. (b.) _lithographic printing. machine feeding._ what has been said of feeders under letterpress printing is generally true of feeders in the lithographic branch. the only difference seems to be one of social position. girls employed in feeding lithographic machines are "higher,"[ ] "less filthy in talk," etc. they form the intermediate class, of which the girls in the bookbinding and warehouse departments are at the top. in one shop where all three classes are employed, the manager remarked that these caste distinctions were "clean cut," and obvious to the most casual observer. [footnote : they are supposed to be lower in london, manchester, etc.--[ed.]] (c.) _letterpress printing. type-setting._ the employment of women as compositors is a "vexed question." in two shops only are they so employed in glasgow, and both are on the black list of the local trade union. inasmuch as the conditions which obtain in these shops differ in important respects, they are here described separately. firm no. introduced women as compositors some nine or ten years ago, when a dispute with the union ensued. it now employs about a dozen women at the cases. girls are taken on at any age after fourteen. in three months' time they are able to set up type in "solid dig," _i.e._, newspaper or book matter, consisting of solid uniform paragraphs. three girls who have spent about eight years with this firm are declared to be "good at displaying," and "more competent than the ordinary journeyman." beginners get _s._ a week during the first year, and in the third year are put on piecework rates. there are no indentures. capable women compositors may earn _s._ a week, while their average earnings may be put at _s._ a week, and they never sink below a pound. young workers make an average of _s._ a week or thereabouts. the normal week is one of fifty-one hours, made up as follows:-- a.m. to p.m. and p.m. to p.m. on four days. a.m. to p.m. and p.m. to p.m. on wednesdays. a.m. to p.m. on saturdays. a compositor sometimes acts as "clicker," _i.e._, checks the amount of piecework, but this is usually done by a clerk. no married women are employed. overtime is paid time and a half, and women are fined a penny for being late. firm no. employed at one time about two dozen girls in the composing-rooms. they were engaged solely on solid newspaper work, and never in the higher branches of the trade, such as "displaying." seats were provided for them. they worked a forty-eight hour week for a "stab" wage of _s._ or _s._, and had three weeks' holiday, off and on, for which they were paid. further, they were never turned away in slack time. but the experiment was not altogether a success, and by to-day the two dozen have dwindled down to two, who set for newspapers and get _s._ a week. the reasons assigned for the gradual reversion to the employment of men are as follows:-- (_a_) irregularity of the women's attendance at work. (_b_) their shorter hours. (_c_) marriage. (_d_) the introduction of the linotype machine, of which there are three in this establishment. this was urged as the most important cause of the change back to men. of the work in general, it may be said that some intelligence is needed, that no dangerous machinery is used, and that the health of the workers depends largely on the character of the workroom. the special trade disease is that to which men are similarly subject, viz., "consumption" in some of its many forms. in glasgow the typographical association has strenuously, and, with the above exceptions, successfully, resisted the introduction of women into the composing-room. the attitude taken up by the men may be summarised as follows: no objection would be offered to the employment of women at the case provided that they served the usual seven years' apprenticeship at the same rates as male apprentices, and then on its completion were paid the full standard wage. "underpaid female labour is equally unjust to the legitimate employer and employee." to allow women unrestricted access to the composing-rooms would probably lead in time, not only to the reduction of the men's wages, but to the undermining of the trade itself. the various branches of the trade which now demand many years of apprenticeship before they are completely mastered by one man would be split up and distributed among a number of highly-specialized workers. women would be employed for separate departments, and by being continuously kept at one job or branch would become expert therein, but would have no knowledge of the trade as a whole. the employers, on the other hand, are aggrieved that, while the union prevents women from acting as compositors in glasgow, the same trade society allows them to work in edinburgh. the result of the present arrangement is to divert a certain class of trade, viz., "solid dig," or book work, from other centres to edinburgh. the cause of this is to be found in the non-employment of women compositors in glasgow, and is not, as sometimes suggested, due to the superiority of edinburgh printing. in answer to the claim of the union to equal pay for equal work for women and men, it is urged by the masters:-- ( ) women when employed as compositors at piecework rates get the best, _i.e._, the simplest jobs. they are put to do what boys would be at when half through their apprenticeship. they are kept always at pretty much the same kind of work, and thus become very skilful at it. boys, on the other hand, would claim to be shifted on to the higher branches of the trade. ( ) the man who now does the solid type-setting, which the employer wishes to see a woman do, is paid higher than a woman would or should be, because he is liable to be called on at any moment to undertake the more complex operations of his craft, while a woman is not. in other words, the man is paid for potential ability. ( ) if women were taken on freely to do solid setting, it is not at all likely that they would seriously aspire to the higher stages of the compositor's craft. (_a_) partly for physical reasons. women are not fitted to handle the heavy formes. (_b_) partly because they could not be relied upon to go through a full course of training. they would be continually leaving in the middle or at the end of it, and employers, therefore, would not take the trouble to train them. "the pick of the girls get married. the qualities which make a girl smart and successful at her work would similarly make for her success in the marriage market." ( ) the cheaper type-setting of women is needed in order to compete successfully with the linotype machine. there is no doubt that to a certain extent the comparatively low price of women's labour tends to retard the introduction of machinery. (d.) _bookbinding._ in the bookbinding trade girls fold, put in plates and illustrations, collate, sew by hand and by machine. sewing used all to be done by hand, but machines were introduced some fifteen years ago. in the case of primers and stitched books girls do all except print the covers. they make cloth cases as distinct from leather cases. girls also lay the gold leaf on covers, which are subsequently stamped by machines operated by men. for at least half a century women have worked in these branches, but while in earlier days they learnt a variety of operations the tendency now is to keep them to a special process or machine. hence a smart girl can pick up her task in a week. the old custom of a four years' apprenticeship still survives. girls start at fourteen, or at thirteen if they have passed the fifth standard. the initial wage is still in some shops _s._ a week, but there is a decided upward tendency, which in one case was found to reach _s._ _d._ for beginners. on the termination of the apprenticeship an average wage of _s._ a week is paid, but in the exceptional case referred to above the average was given as _s._ _d._, while _s._ is earned by expert pagers, coverers, and perforators who have been in the employment of the firm for some time. a chargewoman gets about _s._ a week, while the principal forewoman in a firm employing nearly girls in its bookbinding branch is paid a guinea per week. folders and hand-sewers are paid piecework rates in the large shops, but not in the smaller ones. to the casual visitor these pieceworkers exhibit a remarkable swiftness and accuracy, and the work must involve no small physical strain. although the girls engaged in folding and the allied processes are as a rule of higher intelligence than mill girls and machine feeders and drawn from different social strata, there are many who come, frail and under-fed, from very poor homes. to these especially the early hour at which the day's work begins is a hardship. on a glasgow winter's morning to start work at . on a hurried bite of bread and margarine, with the distant prospect of more bread and margarine three hours later, leads logically to "broken time." there has been some slight tendency towards beginning at o'clock and stopping on saturdays at , but two of the largest firms still adhere to . a.m. and finish on saturdays at a.m. the manager of one of these characterised the system as a "relic of barbarism," and said he had tried to alter the hour to o'clock, but the men vigorously opposed the change and the scheme had to be dropped. as matters now stand, and owing to the great irregularity of the attendance during the week, work has often to go on from till on saturdays. otherwise in this establishment overtime is systematically avoided, the manager maintaining that the normal week of ½ hours is quite exhausting enough for the girls. when, as at seasons of unusual pressure, overtime is reluctantly resorted to, it is paid time-and-a-quarter, as in the case of men. the busy season lasts from august to march, but the girls are hardly affected, and have plenty of work round the year. in another large firm, where much railway printing is done, the conditions differ somewhat. the hours are as follows:-- . a.m. to a.m. a.m. to p.m. p.m. to p.m. saturdays till p.m. there are small fines for spoilt work, but the money goes to the workers' benevolent fund. these fines do not amount to more than sixpence per head per annum. overtime is worked to the full limit. it is paid at a higher rate, but not at the same proportionally higher rate as men. girls are never suspended in slack seasons, but are put on time wages of _s._ or _s._ a week for the best workers. the employment of married women is regarded as exceptional, but all large firms have a small number of such-- or per cent., perhaps. the usual practice is for girls to come from school and remain on until they get married or leave for some domestic purposes. some come back as widows or when living apart from their husbands. some firms boast a considerable number of workers who have been employed for very long periods, ranging from to years and upwards. there are no signs of married women lowering the rates of pay. it is customary for those who return after a long absence to do so at the old wages. efforts have been made from time to time to organise the women into unions, but they have invariably proved disappointing. indirectly the women have gained by the successful efforts of the men to shorten the hours of toil. generally speaking the attitude of the men's unions is not so much one of hostility as of indifference to women's work, except where it threatens to encroach on the men's preserves. there is no positive agreement as to the line of demarcation; it is determined tacitly by use and wont. the men profess to see a tendency among employers to extend the field of female labour. this extension of woman's sphere they deprecate as likely to lead to the lowering of men's wages. just as men are never employed in folding in the bookbinding department of a publishing firm, so certain processes are invariably never done by women. as a rule men do the heavier and more complicated work, while women do that which is preparatory or supplementary. in jobbing-shops where odd volumes come in to be bound in various styles women are unsuitable, and men do the work right through; but in large publishing houses where orders run into thousands women specialise on particular processes. women's work is apt to be extended where there are large quantities involved and where the work can be sub-divided. while women perform many of these sub-divisions quite as skilfully as men, they do not exhibit a like concentration of effort, and are more inclined to scamp. opinions differ as to the amount of homework done nowadays. the plant required is just a folder--a piece of bone. there is no doubt that to some extent folding is still done at home by the older girls who have _during the day been employed in the factory_. one employer admitted that on "not more than three or at most four nights in the year" do girls take work home from his shop. the cause is set down to the impatience of the public. everybody wants his order executed immediately. rates paid for homework are, if anything, a shade less than those paid for work done in the factory. while such work increases the total earnings this is not the main motive for undertaking it. a good deal of it is forced, and due to the urgency of the public demand. during very busy months some firms have a great deal of folding done as _outwork_ by widows and married women _not_ now employed in the factory during the day. but this practice is declining. twopence per , extra is paid by one firm, _i.e._, _d._ as against _d._, for this outwork to compensate for lack of facilities in the home. despite the great number of sewing and folding machines introduced in recent years there are probably more women employed at the trade than ever. there is more work. the small shops tend to retain women's labour. their jobs are so small in amount and varied in character that it would not pay them to introduce machinery. further, in the large shops, folding machines have not always proved satisfactory. doubtless, had men been engaged in folding during the last fifty years, employers would ere this have perfected a folding machine, but the cheapness of women's labour takes away some of the incentive to invention. sometimes the introduction of a machine reduces women's work in one department and increases it in another. take as an example the wire-stitching machine used in the production of tens of thousands of penny pocket time-tables and diaries. if the diary is not out during the first three days of the month it may as well not appear at all. there is a short selling time during which sales are keen. without the device of the stitching machine the only way in which large quantities of such ephemeral publications could be placed quickly on the market would be by the employment of a very large staff of women. but the big and rapid output possible by means of the machine, although it reduces the work of women stitchers, brings increased work to the women folders. (e.) _machine ruling._ girls who start as feeders are sometimes promoted to the supervision of simple ruling machines. men look upon this with disfavour, as it used to be considered their work. one firm is said to have only two men now employed where there were once forty, and the two that remain are tenters, who supervise the girls and the machines. machine ruling is paid at time rates. wages rank as high as _s._ a week, where men formerly got _s._ for more complex machines girls would need to be specially trained, but managers think they could easily be prepared, as intelligence rather than strength is necessary. the girls themselves believe they would succeed if given a chance. (f.) _type and stereotype founding._ no type founding is done in glasgow, and no women are employed here in stereotype founding. such work is considered unsuitable for women, and there seems no likelihood of their taking it up. (g.) _paper staining._ this work has always been done by women. there is no formal apprenticeship, but it takes a couple of years before the girls are thoroughly initiated. they are taken on at thirteen or fourteen at a wage of _s._ a week, paid _s._ at the end of the first year and _s._ at the end of the second. afterwards their wages range from _s._ to _s._, with an average of about _s._ _d._ per week. there is no piecework and no fines are exacted. the working hours are per week, distributed as follows:-- a.m. to a.m. a.m. to p.m. p.m. to p.m. saturdays, a.m. to a.m. a.m. to p.m. work is plentiful all the year round. no dangerous machinery is used, and there is no special trade disease. the girls remain on till they get married. they are drawn from the "better sort" of working-class families, and some were reported as coming to the factory on cycles. they have no trade organisation, and there do not seem to have been any attempts on the part of the girls to supplant men in the allied processes. no machinery has yet been devised capable of doing the work of the girls. (h.) _paper-box making._ girls come from school and begin by dabbling about the shop and running messages. presently they become "spreaders," and in two or three years' time "coverers," the highest position open to them. the cutting of the paper and cardboard is done by machines, which men operate. the material thus prepared to the required sizes is passed on to the girls to be glued up into boxes. the girls use no machinery, and stand to their work at benches. at the height of summer, and despite the gluey atmosphere of the workrooms, the girls have the usual reluctance to open windows. wages start at _s._ or _s._ _d._ spreaders are paid from _s._ _d._, to _s._ _d._; coverers, _s._ and _s._ hours vary from shop to shop. some begin at and finish at . (saturdays, . ), with a meal hour at o'clock. others allow an hour and a quarter for dinner, so as to enable girls to get home. the week is then arranged as follows: a.m. to . a.m. a.m. to p.m. . p.m. to . p.m. saturdays, a.m. to a.m. a.m. to p.m. (i.) _pattern-book making._ this trade consists in making pattern-books for travellers, and is usually found in close alliance with box-making. girls get _s._ to start, and rise to _s._ a week. the hours in one factory visited were found to be as follows:-- a.m. to p.m. p.m. to . p.m. saturdays, a.m. to p.m. without a break. appendix iv.--women in the printing trades in birmingham. fifteen firms were visited. no women compositors were found in the chief printing businesses visited in birmingham. the wife of the manager of one factory said that ten years ago in non-society places there had been a very few women compositors in birmingham. they took _s._, as compared to _s._ taken by the men compositors for the same work. it is now fifteen years since the informant left the trade, and she believes that at present none exist in birmingham. she imagines that it is the strength of the compositors' union which has driven them out. only one owner of a printing business considered that factory legislation was detrimental to the interests of women in the printing trade. he says that he keeps a number of youths where he would otherwise employ women, as in stress of trade overwork has to be done, including sunday work, _e.g._, at the time of the great cycle boom. he tried to get permission for the women to work on sunday, but could not. another manager considered that the compositors' union spoilt the chance of women workers in the printing trade. he himself, if it were not for the union, would like to train girl compositors. no other printer expressed this opinion. all said that, on the whole, men were better in the compositors' room, as they could be set on any job, and the pressure of women would necessitate much rearrangement. machine ruling. _training and wages._--_machine ruling_ is the only process for which training can be said to exist. in some houses women are still articled or apprenticed to this branch, but in many they simply learn their trade as they can, from the foreman or forewoman. they generally begin as machine feeders of the ruling machine. the secretary of the union of bookbinders and machine rulers gave the information that women had been first employed as machine rulers about twenty years ago. he himself had learnt his trade under a woman who was head of the whole department. the final wage of a woman machine ruler is _s._ to _s._ in one case a female ruler was taking _s._, but i was told that was because she was a relative of the employer. the minimum wage of a man belonging to the union is _s._ i was informed, however, that the man always worked a heavier machine, generally made the pens, was responsible for the good condition of all the machines, and that his output was always in advance of that of a woman. _men and women._--in six businesses (the largest in birmingham visited) the proportion of women machine rulers is about three to one man. an attempt was made about eight years ago to organise the women machine rulers in birmingham, but met with no response. the secretary of the men's union informs me, "the reason why the attempt failed is probably that they have little to complain of. the wages vary from _s._ to _s._ per week for beginners, to £ per week of fifty-two hours." table processes. all _table processes_, such as folding, knocking-up, gumming, numbering, paging, interlaying, etc., are done by women. the average wage varies from _s._ to about _s._ _d._ numbering seems to be about the best. three numberers had taken _s._, but the average maximum was between _s._ and _s._ _d._ envelope making. _training._--a beginner is given a teacher, that is, a more experienced worker, for six weeks. the teacher gets the profits of the beginner's work, and the beginner is paid about _s._ per week. all the work in the establishment was piecework, with the exception of the new scotch folding machine, which turns out , envelopes per day, as against , done by hand. the day wage is _s._ per week. _sub-divisions._--envelope folders take _s._ to _s._ the smallest envelopes are _d._ per , , the largest _s._ _d._ _average wage_ for folding is _s._ to _s._ _stamping_, _s._ to _s._ _stitching_, _s._ to _s._ _gumming_, _s._ to _s._ _general remarks._--envelope making is not a seasonal trade. _hours._--maximum, ½ per week. . a.m. to . p.m., winter. a.m. to p.m., summer. one week's holiday in august. one week's holiday at christmas. colour printing. colour printing takes about six months to learn well. _wages._-- _s._ to _s._ for a woman. a man employed on a heavier machine took _s._ the forewoman takes _s._ bookbinding. by the rules of the machine rulers' and bookbinders' consolidated union women may only bind paper pamphlets. they are not allowed to bind regular books. they may book-stitch with thread or wire, glue, fold, bronze, and gild. paper-bag making. _business no. ._ _conditions._--cap bag-making is all piecework, except for beginners, who start at _s._ in fifteen months, manager says they should be able to earn _s._ per week by piecework. _average wage._-- _s._ to _s._ manager considered that in heavy cap bag-making _s._ was top wage ever taken by an extra good hand in extra busy time. eighteen girls were employed in cap bag-making. a rougher class of girls were employed in the sugar bag department, which is heavier work. the wages were higher for this heavier work. the average wage approached _s._ the bag-stringing machine was the only machinery employed in this business. it was worked by a foreman and forewoman. no married women were employed. the clerks were all women, taking _s._ per week. the manager preferred them to men because they were content with that wage as a maximum. _outwork_ given to old workers under known conditions, as since the bags are for the grocery trade it is important to know home conditions. same price as for inworkers, but outworkers found their own paste and brushes, etc. _hours._-- a.m. to p.m., hour dinner, minutes tea. saturday, a.m. to p.m. _remarks._--the contrast between this business and the business next door (see following case) was very striking as regards relation between manager and employees. _business no. ._ girls are employed here in bag-making and table processes. the employer considered that the girls could average _s._ to _s._ he gave the highest wage for machine laying-on, which begins at _s._ and goes up to _s._ and _s._ this wage was given because of the danger of the process (i think the machine was the "arab," which in union houses women may not work "because of the danger"). manager believed a good many of his hands were married women. he did not care whether they were married or not. the forewoman and the girl in the warehouse were each taking _s._ _homework._--given out in busy times to whoever applied, without further precautions. manager thought no outworker took more than _s._ to _s._ per week. _hours._-- a.m. to . p.m. fifty-two and a half hours per week regular time. just now (december) they were working ten hours per day. august slackest month. manager generally turned off hands then. manager spoke of difficulty of getting workers--he could not get boys to feed the machines, for example, because it led to nothing. manager said he "conducted his business on purely business principles" and got his work done as cheaply as he could. machine feeding. this is the lowest work in letterpress printing. girls are employed largely as feeders, and are replacing boys. the managers said that the work was not liked by boys, as leading to nothing, and it was difficult to get them. the wages for a machine feeder are _s._ _d._ to _s._ _d._ initial wage, which rises to _s._ _d._ or _s._ in the best workshops we were told that the firm tried to find better work for machine feeders when they had been some time with them and had proved themselves capable and steady. other firms did not know what became of machine feeders when they grew dissatisfied with the small wage paid to them. _employment of married women._ it is curious to notice how few married women there are in the printing trade in birmingham compared to the pen trade, for example. a better class of girl seems to go into the printing trade, coming from better homes than women employed in the hardware trades. it is very exceptional for a girl who marries a skilled artisan in birmingham to continue her work, and in these trades girls appear to belong more to the skilled artisan class. several employers refuse married women; one employer told me that he never had had an application for work from a married woman. only one employer was indifferent as to whether he employed married women, and did not know whether his hands were married or not. _women and machinery._ it was very difficult to ascertain whether the machinery introduced meant dismissal of hands. in one business, for example, the thread sewing machine introduced months ago did the work of girls. the machinist was taking _s._ per week in place of girls at _s._ to _s._ _d._ the manager said that they had not dismissed any thread sewers when this machine was introduced, but had absorbed them in other processes. they would, however, engage no more girls as thread sewers. the new scotch folding machine for envelopes, which turns out , per day against , done by hand, also was _said_ not to have been productive of dismissals.[ ] [footnote : the only actual cases of dismissal of workers owing to introduction of machinery which i can ascertain is that of the new grinding machines for pens. the employer, who has invented the machine, told me he meant to dismiss about half his grinders and supply their places with girls fresh from school, as very little skill will be needed to work the machine. i hear that the largest pen business has ordered sixty of these machines, but i have not yet ascertained what effect it will have on that business. the employer in the first business mentioned spoke of the grinders as the most indocile of his workers, and as many of them belonged to the penworkers' union, he hoped that the machine would help in annihilating the union. in two businesses i was told that the cheapness of women labour retarded the introduction of thread sewing machines, etc.] _continuity of employment in printing trade._ the printing trade in birmingham is slackest in august and september. the busiest times are november, december, and towards easter time. in the best businesses the hands are asked to take half-holiday in turns in slack times, or short hours are worked, but the managers appeared to make every effort to keep the workers employed as far as possible, and in no cases actually to dismiss hands. in the worst businesses dismissal in slack times is common. _overtime and the factory laws._ only one employer considered that the factory laws against overtime militated against women's employment. all spoke of their endeavour to reduce overtime, owing to the fact that their union men asked one and a half and twice usual rate. no employer acknowledged that women were ever kept overtime, although, from the account of one worker, apparently this does sometimes occur. all concurred that the cheapness of women's work compared to men's outweighed any inconvenience arising from special legislation for women and young persons. in no case was the cheapness of women's work attributed to legislation, but to absence of unionism and different standards of life for men and women, and inferiority of physical strength and mental ingenuity, and also to custom. appendix v. the following tables of wages paid to the workwomen as described, form, we believe, a unique record in wages statistics. the occupations and the nature of the wages, _e.g._, time or piece, are as follows:-- . hand folder in bookbinding house (piece). . hand folder in bookbinding house (piece). . hand folder in bookbinding house (piece). . hand folder in bookbinding house (piece). . hand folder in bookbinding house (piece). . hand folder in bookbinding house (time). . learner. folder in bookbinding house (piece). . folder and gatherer in bookbinding house (piece). . hand sewer in bookbinding house (piece). . hand sewer in bookbinding house (piece). . machine sewer in bookbinding house (piece). . learner. sewing and collating in bookbinding house (piece). . folding, sewing and collating in bookbinding house (time). . collating and sewing in bookbinding house (piece). . plate hand in bookbinding house (time). . plate hand in bookbinding house (time). . layer on of gold in bookbinding house (piece). . printers' binding (piece). . printers' binding (time). . printers' binding (time). . printers' binding (piece). . printers' binding (piece). . printers' binding (piece). . hand folder in printers' warehouse (piece). . envelope packer (time). . machine ruler (time). +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | . hand folder in bookbinding house. | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | _piece rates._ | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | | | | | | | | | | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | | | | | ½ | | ½ | | | | | ½ | | | | ½ | | | | | ½ | | ½ | | ½ | | ½ | | | ½ | | ½ | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | ½ | | | | | ½ | | ½ | | | | | | | | | ½ | | ½ | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | ½ | | ½ | | | | | | | ½ | | | | ½ | | | | | ½ | | ½ | | ½ | | ½ | | | ½ | | | | -- | | ½ | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | ½ | | ½ | | | | week | | | ½ | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | . hand folder in bookbinding house. | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | _piece rates--quick hand._ | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | | | | | | | | | | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week.| s. d. | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | ½ | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | | | -- | | | ½ | | ½ | (a)| -- | | -- | | | | | ½ | | | | -- | | | | | ½ | | | | -- | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | (a) missing from wage sheets. | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | . hand folder in bookbinding house. | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | _piece rates_--_quick hand._ | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | | | | | | | | | | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | ½ | | | | | ½ | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | -- | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | . hand folder in bookbinding house. | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | _piece rates--typical hand._ | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | | | | | | | | | | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | | | | | | ½ | | | | | ½ | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | ½ | | ½ | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | ½ | | ½ | | | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | . hand folder in bookbinding house. | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | _piece rates--slow hand._ | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | | | | | | | | | | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | ½ | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | -- | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | ½ | | ½ | | | | | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | . hand folder in bookbinding house. | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | _time rates._ | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | this worker was paid _s._ per week steadily throughout | | the year . | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | . learner. folder in bookbinding house. | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | _up to week receives fixed sum, afterwards | | half earnings at piece rates._ | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | | | | | | | | | | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | | | | ½ | | | | ½ | | | | | | | ½ | | ½ | | | | | ½ | | ½ | | ½ | | | | | ½ | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | ½ | | ½ | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | ½ | | -- | | ½ | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | ½ | | ½ | | ½ | | ½ | | | ½ | | ½ | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ +------+--------+------+--------+-------+--------+------+--------+ | . folder and gatherer in bookbinding house. | +------+--------+------+--------+-------+--------+------+--------+ | _piece rates._ | +------+--------+------+--------+-------+--------+------+--------+ | | | | | | | | | | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | +------+--------+------+--------+-------+--------+------+--------+ | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | (a) | -- | | ½ | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | ½ | | ½ | | ½ | | | +------+--------+------+--------+-------+--------+------+--------+ | (a) week missing from wage sheets. | +------+--------+------+--------+-------+--------+------+--------+ +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+---------+ | . hand sewer in bookbinding house. | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+---------+ | _piece rates--slow hand._ | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+---------+ | | | | | | | | | | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+---------+ | | ½ | | ½ | | | | ½ | | | | | ½ | | -- | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | -- | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | ½ | | (a) | | | ½ | | | | ½ | | | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+---------+ | (a) she left after this. | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+---------+ +------+--------+------+--------+-------+--------+------+--------+ | . hand sewer in bookbinding house. | +------+--------+------+--------+-------+--------+------+--------+ | _piece rates--quick hand._ | +------+--------+------+--------+-------+--------+------+--------+ | | | | | | | | | | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | +------+--------+------+--------+-------+--------+------+--------+ | | ½ | | | | -- | | | | | -- | | | | -- | | ½ | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | (a) | | ½ | (b) | -- | | | | | ½ | | ½ | | | | | | | ½ | | ½ | | | | | +------+--------+------+--------+-------+--------+------+--------+ | (a) - | | (b) missing from wage sheets. | +------+--------+------+--------+-------+--------+------+--------+ +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | . machine sewer in bookbinding house. | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | _piece rates._ | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | | | | | | | | | | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | | | ½ | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | -- | | ½ | | | ½ | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | ½ | | ½ | | | | | | | ½ | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | ½ | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | . learner. sewing and collating in bookbinding house. | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | _receives half earnings at piece rates._ | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | | | | | | | | | | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | | | -- | | ½ | | | | ½ | | | ½ | | | | | | ½ | | | ½ | | | | ½ | | | | | ½ | | | | ½ | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | ½ | | | ½ | | | | ½ | | ½ | | | ½ | | ½ | | ½ | | | | | ½ | | | | | | ½ | | | ½ | | ½ | | | | ½ | | | ½ | | | | ½ | | ½ | | | ½ | | | | | | ½ | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | . folding, sewing, collating in bookbinding house. | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | _time hand._ | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | | | | | | | | | | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | -- | | | | | | | | | | week | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | week | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | . collator and sewer. | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | _piece rates--quick hand._ | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | | | | | | | | | | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | ½ | | ½ | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | ½ | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | ½ | | ½ | | | | | | | ½ | | ½ | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | ½ | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+---------+ | . plate hand in bookbinding house. | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+---------+ | _time rates, _s._ for hours till october, then _s._ | | overtime, _d._ an hour._ | +------+--------+------+--------+-------+--------+------+--------+ | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | ½ | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | ½ | | | ½ | | | | | | ½ | | | | | ½ | | ½ | | ½ | | | ½ | | ½ | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | | | -- | | | | | | | ½ | (a) | -- | | | | | | | ½ | | | | ½ | +------+--------+------+--------+-------+--------+------+--------+ | (a) missing from wage sheets. +------+--------+------+--------+-------+--------+------+--------+ +------+--------+------+--------+-------+--------+------+--------+ | . plate hand in bookbinding house. | +------+--------+------+--------+-------+--------+------+--------+ | _time rates_, _s._ _for hours. overtime_, ½_d._ _per | | hour for first hours_, _d._ _per hour afterwards._ | +------+--------+------+--------+-------+--------+------+--------+ | | | | | | | | | | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | ½ | | | | ½ | | | | | ½ | | ½ | | | | | ½ | | ½ | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | ½ | | | | ½ | | | ½ | | | | | | ½ | | | ½ | | ½ | | ½ | | ½ | | | ½ | | | | ½ | | ½ | | | ½ | | | (a) | -- | | | | | ½ | | ½ | | ½ | | | | | | | ½ | | ½ | | | +------+--------+------+--------+-------+--------+------+--------+ | (a) missing from wage sheets. | +------+--------+------+--------+-------+--------+------+--------+ +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | . layer-on of gold. | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | _piece rates._ | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | | | | | | | | | | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | | | | | | | ½ | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | ½ | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | ½ | | -- | | ½ | | | | | | | -- | | | | ½ | | | | | -- | | ½ | | ½ | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | ½ | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | . binding department in printing house. | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | _piece rates--quick worker._ | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | | | | | | | | | | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | -- | | | | | | | | | -- | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | . binding department in printing house. | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | _time worker at_ _s._ | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | | | | | | | | | | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | -- | | | | | -- | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | -- | | | | | | | | | | | | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ +------+-------+------+--------+------+----------+------+-------+ | . quarterly averages of a time worker--printers' folding | | and sewing, &c. | +------+-------+------+---------+------+---------+------+-------+ | | s. d. | | s. d. | | s. d. | | s. d. | | | | | | | | | | | | | " | | " | | | | | | | " | | | | | | | " | | " | (a) | | | " | | | " | | | | " | | " | | | " | | | | " | | " | | | | | " | | " | | | | | | | " | | | | | | | " | | " | | | | " | | | " | | | | " | | " | | | " | | | | " | (b) | " | | | | | " | | " | | | | | | | " | | | | | | | " | | " | | | | " | | | " | | | | " | | " | | | " | | | | " | | " | | | | | " | | | | | | +------+-------+------+---------+------+---------+------+-------+ | (a) absent weeks. | | (b) absent weeks. | +------+--------+------+--------+------+---------+------+-------+ +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | . piece hand in binding department of printers and | | stationers. | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | | | | | | | | | | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | | | | | | | | | -- | | | ½ | | ½ | | ½ | | -- | | | ½ | | | | ½ | | | | | ½ | | | | ½ | | ½ | | | | | ½ | | | | ½ | | | ½ | | ½ | | | | ½ | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | ½ | | ½ | | ½ | | | | | | | ½ | | ½ | | | | | | | | | ½ | | ½ | | | | | | | ½ | | ½ | | week | s. d. | | ½ | | ½ | | | | | ½ | | -- | | | | ½ | | | | | -- | | ½ | | | | | ½ | | | | ½ | | ½ | | | ½ | | ½ | | | | ½ | | | ½ | | | | ½ | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | ½ | | | week | s. d. | | | ½ | | ½ | | ½ | | -- | | | ½ | | | | | | -- | | | ½ | | | | | | -- | | | ½ | | ½ | | | | -- | | | | | ½ | | | | -- | | | | | | | ½ | | -- | | | | | ½ | | ½ | | -- | | | ½ | | | | | | -- | | | ½ | | | | | | -- | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | | | | | | | | | | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | | | -- | | | | | | | | | -- | | ½ | | | | ½ | | | -- | | ½ | | ½ | | ½ | | | -- | | | | ½ | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | ½ | | ½ | | | | ½ | | | ½ | | | | | | ½ | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | ½ | | | ½ | | ½ | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | week | s. d. | | | | | | | ½ | | ½ | | | ½ | | | | | | ½ | | | ½ | week | s. d. | | ½ | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | ½ | | | ½ | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | -- | | | | | ½ | | | | -- | | | | | -- | | | | ½ | | ½ | | | -- | | | | | | ½ | | | ½ | | ½ | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | ½ | | | | | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | . hand folder and sewer in printing house. | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | _piece rates._ | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | | half- | | half- | | full- | | full- | | | pay | | pay | | pay | | pay | | | earner | | earner | | earner | | earner | | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | | ½ | | ½ | | | | | | | ½ | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | ½ | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | ½ | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | week | s. d. | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | | full- | | full- | | full- | | full- | | | pay | | pay | | pay | | pay | | | earner | | earner | | earner | | earner | | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | | ½ | | ½ | | ½ | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | ½ | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | ½ | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | ½ | | ½ | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | -- | | | | ½ | | | | | -- | | | | ½ | | | ½ | | -- | | ½ | | | | | | | ½ | | -- | | | | | -- | | | | -- | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | ½ | | ½ | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | -- | | | ½ | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | ½ | | ½ | | | | | ½ | | ½ | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | ½ | | | | ½ | | week | s. d. | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | week | s. d. | | | | ½ | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | | week | s. d. | | ½ | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | week | s. d. | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | ½ | | ½ | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | ½ | | -- | | | | | | | | | ½ | | | | | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | . folder and sewer in binding department of printing house. | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | _piece rates--slow hand._ | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | | | | | | | | | | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | week | s. d. | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | . hand folder in printers' warehouse. | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | _piece rates._ | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | | | | | | | | | | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week | s. d .| week | s. d. | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | -- | | | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | . envelope packer. | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | _time work_, _s._ | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | | | | | | | | | | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | week | s. d. | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | +------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+------+--------+ +------+-------------+------+-------------+------+-------------+ | . machine ruler. | +------+-------------+------+-------------+------+-------------+ | the figures in brackets to the left of the wage give | | the nominal time wage. | +------+-------------+------+-------------+------+-------------+ | | | | | | | | week | s. d. s. d. | week | s. d. s. d. | week | s. d. s. d. | | | ( ) | | ( ) | | ( ) | | | " | | " | | " | | | " | | " | | " | | | " | | ( ) | | " | | | " | | " | | " | | | ( ) | | " | | " | | | " | | " | | " | | | " | | " | | " | | | " | | " | | " | | | ( ) | | " | | " | | | " | | " | | " | | | " | | " | | " | | | " | | " | | " | | | " | | " | | " | | | " | | " | | " | | | " | | " | | " | | | " | | " | | " | | | " | | " | | " | | | " | | ( ) | | " | | | " | | " | | " | | | " | | " | | " | | | " | | " | | " | | | " | | " | | " | | | " | | " | | " | | | " | | " | | " | | | " | | " | | " | | | ( ) | | " | | " | | | " | | " | | ( ) | | | " | | " | | " | | | " | | " | | " | | | " | | " | | " - -- | | | " | | " | | " | | | " | | " | | " | | | " | | " | | " | | | " | | " | | " | | | " | | " | | " | | | " | | " | | " | | | " | | " | | " | | | " | | " | | " | | | " | | " | | " | | | " | | " | | " | | | " | | " | | " | | | " | | " | | " | | | " | | " | | " | | | ( ) | | " | | " | | | " | | " | | " | | | " | | " | | " | | | " | | " | | " | | | " | | " | | " | | | " | | " | | " | | | " | | " | | " | | | " | | " | | " | +------+-------------+------+-------------+------+-------------+ appendix vi. in view of the importance of the preservation of authentic wages figures we reprint the appendix published in by mr. dunning to his "reply to a letter from the committee of the southwark auxiliary bible society, &c.," as under:-- no. i. +------------+---------------+----------------+----------------+ | earnings on the premises. | +------------+---------------+----------------+----------------+ | _piece workers._ | +------------+---------------+----------------+----------------+ | . | sept. th. | sept th. | oct. th. | | | £ _s._ _d._ | £ _s._ _d._ | £ _s._ _d._ | +------------+---------------+----------------+----------------+ | ashford | | ½ | | | aggersbury | -- | -- | | | blichenden | ¾ | ½ | | | burkitt, | ¾ | ¾ | ½ | | mrs. | | | | | brown, | | | ¼ | | m. a. | | | | | berridge | -- | -- | ¼ | | bozankae | ½ | | ½ | | betherston | ½ | -- | -- | | carpenter, | ¾ | -- | ½ | | mrs. | | | | | carpenter, | | ¾ | ¾ | | m. p. | | | | | cooper, | ½ | ½ | | | ann | | | | | diggles | ¾ | ½ | | | day, mary | | ½ | ¾ | | elliott, | | -- | -- | | e. | | | | | facey | ½ | ¼ | ½ | | hart, e. | -- | | ½ | | joyce, | | ¼ | -- | | m. a. | | | | | leggatt, | -- | -- | ½ | | mrs. | | | | | pepper | ¼ | ½ | ¼ | | rogers, e. | ½ | ½ | ¼ | | richardson | ¼ | ¼ | | | spencer | -- | -- | | | satchell, | ½ | ¼ | ¼ | | a. e. | | | | | such, e. | -- | -- | | | smith, | ½ | ½ | -- | | mrs. | | | | | speak, | ½ | ¾ | ¼ | | mrs. | | | | | touse, | | ¾ | ½ | | m. a. | | | | | wilkins, | | ¼ | ¼ | | a. | | | | | wilkins, | ½ | ¾ | ¼ | | e. | | | | +------------+---------------+----------------+----------------+ | | £ | £ | £ | +------------+---------------+----------------+----------------+ +------------+---------------+----------------+----------------+ | _time workers._ | +------------+---------------+----------------+----------------+ | . | sept. th. | sept. th. | oct. th. | | | £ _s._ _d._ | £ _s._ _d._ | £ _s._ _d._ | +------------+---------------+----------------+----------------+ | osborne, | | | | | c. ( _s._ | | | | | per week) | | | | +------------+---------------+----------------+----------------+ | burrows, | | ½ | | | e. ( _s._ | | | | | per week) | | | | +------------+---------------+----------------+----------------+ | aurnett | | | | | ( _s._ | | | | | per week) | | | | +------------+---------------+----------------+----------------+ | holloway | | | | | (learner) | | | | +------------+---------------+----------------+----------------+ | dew ( _s._ | ½ | ½ | | | _d._ | | | | | per week) | | | | +------------+---------------+----------------+----------------+ | bocking | | | | | (learner) | | | | +------------+---------------+----------------+----------------+ | routledge | | -- | -- | | ( days' | | | | | work) | | | | +------------+---------------+----------------+----------------+ | emery, a. | -- | | | | (learner) | | | | +------------+---------------+----------------+----------------+ | mills. m. | -- | -- | | +------------+---------------+----------------+----------------+ | | £ ½ | £ | £ | +------------+---------------+----------------+----------------+ +-------------+---------------+----------------+----------------+ | women who worked at their own homes. | +-------------+---------------+----------------+----------------+ | . | sept th. | sept. th. | oct. th. | | | £ _s._ _d._ | £ _s._ _d._ | £ _s._ _d._ | +-------------+---------------+----------------+----------------+ | atchiller, | | -- | -- | | s. | | | | | anstead, | -- | | | | mrs. | | | | | aldred | -- | -- | | | bruce, c. | ¼ | -- | ½ | | bullmore | | ¼ | ½ | | birch, | ½ | | ¾ | | mrs.(a) | | | | | bell, mrs. | -- | -- | | | burton, s. | -- | -- | ¼ | | clarke, m. | -- | -- | ½ | | cauline, | ¾ | | ½ | | e. | | | | | cox, mrs. | ½ | | -- | | collier, | -- | ½ | -- | | a. | | | | | fothergill | -- | | -- | | fisher | -- | -- | | | foster, | -- | -- | | | mrs. | | | | | green, | ½ | | ¾ | | mrs. | | | | | gulliers | ¼ | ¾ | ½ | | glover, | -- | ¾ | | | m. a. | | | | | haydram, | -- | -- | | | mrs. | | | | | hayes, | ¾ | ½ | ½ | | mrs. | | | | | hartopp | | ¼ | -- | | hearn, | -- | | ¾ | | mrs. | | | | | humphreys, | -- | ¾ | ¼ | | mrs. | | | | | hobdell | -- | ½ | ¾ | | hatfield | -- | -- | ¾ | | hall, mrs. | -- | -- | ½ | | joyce, | -- | -- | ½ | | m. a. | | | | | knight, | | ¼ | | | h.(a) | | | | +-------------+---------------+----------------+----------------+ | carried | £ ½ | £ ½ | £ ¼ | | forward | | | +-------------+---------------+----------------+----------------+ | . | sept th. | sept. th. | oct. th. | +-------------+---------------+----------------+----------------+ | brought | £ ½ |£ ½ | £ ¼ | | forward | | | | | knight, e. | ¼ | ½ | | | kelly, | -- | -- | ¾ | | or skelly, | | | | | mrs. | | | | | lawrance, | | ¼ | ½ | | mrs. | | | | | latham | | ¼ | | | mcdaniell | -- | -- | ½ | | matthews | ½ | ¼ | ½ | | mills, mrs. | ¾ | ½ | ½ | | mozer, e. | ¼ | ½ | ½ | | margetts | -- | ½ | ¼ | | mayes | -- | ½ | | | moseley | -- | ½ | -- | | neascomp | | -- | -- | | norris, | -- | -- | | | m. a. | | | | | nichols, | -- | -- | ½ | | mrs. | | | | | pottiee | -- | -- | ½ | | parker, | ½ | ¾ | ½ | | mrs. | | | | | pool | ½ | -- | -- | | potter, e. | ½ | ¾ | ¼ | | pontifex, | -- | ¾ | ½ | | a. | | | | | pearce, c. | -- | ½ | -- | | rumball, | ¼ | | ½ | | mrs.(a) | | | | | rudge | -- | ½ | ½ | | ross, mrs. | -- | -- | ½ | | scott, mrs. | -- | -- | | | sleap | -- | -- | ¾ | | slater | ¼ | ¼ | ½ | | sharp, c. | -- | -- | ½ | | such, e. | | ½ | -- | | smout, m. | -- | ¾ | | | sumner, | ½ | | ¾ | | mrs. | | | | | tucker, | | ½ | -- | | mrs. | | | | | truscoat, | ½ | ½ | -- | | a. | | | | | tattersall | -- | -- | ¾ | | todd | -- | -- | ¾ | | wichelam | -- | -- | ½ | | west, mrs. | ½ | ½ | ¾ | | weedon | -- | | ¼ | | williams, | -- | -- | ¼ | | eliz. | | | | | williams, | -- | -- | ½ | | eleanor | | | | | woods, mrs. | -- | -- | ¾ | | wacey | -- | -- | ¼ | +-------------+---------------+----------------+----------------+ | | £ ¾ | £ ½ | £ ¾ | +-------------+---------------+----------------+----------------+ | (a) bills marked thus were for work done by more than one | | person. | +-------------+---------------+----------------+----------------+ no. ii. the following names are a transcript, as far as it extends, of the wages' book of july th, :-- folders. _s._ _d._ stone ¼ carroll donald ½ fenning ¾ nalty zugg read ¼ thomson ¾ frazier parker philpots, mrs. ( weeks) salter routledge ¾ giles ½ name not known ½ hodnett ½ measor moss ½ smith ¼ york ¼ ainsworth smith surridge ¾ read ¼ hone ¾ stroud ( weeks) ¼ pritlove ½ jolly ¾ thomas ½ olpin ¾ brown ½ desaper ¾ harlow ¼ glynn ¾ haywood ¾ cooper charles ¾ gauntry ½ leat ½ beattie ½ lockwood ½ burton ¾ cook ¼ spall ¼ name not known ½ shay hockley ¼ hodson coghan ½ charles ¼ donovan ¼ newham ½ brown, o. ¾ cleaver ¾ mallison chelsom ¼ griffiths ½ timlett guyon ¾ johnson smith daniells paris ½ rawlings ½ long ¼ macintosh cracknell old sewers. _s._ _d._ clarke ½ trimnell ¾ abbott ¾ hawkins ½ hubbard ¾ deacles norcutt ¼ _time workers._ _s._ _d._ mrs. brinton (lewis) mary shea mary carpenter anne cooper ½ e. manvill hardy norris aldred collis hayes kinder wilkins joyce dew m. joyce ½ no. iii. +----------------+-----------+-----------+-----------+-----------+ | folders' wages for the four weeks before the dispute. | +----------------+-----------+-----------+-----------+-----------+ | | aug. | aug. | aug. | aug. | | | th. | th. | th. | rd. | | | £ _s. d._ | £ _s. d._ | £ _s. d._ | £ _s. d._ | +----------------+-----------+-----------+-----------+-----------+ | m. e. zugg | ¼ | ¼ | | ¾ | | a. harlow | -- | -- | -- | ½ | | m. a. long | | | | | | s. olpin | ¾ | ½ | | | | m. fowler | | | | ½ | | m. morris | -- | -- | -- | | | m. beatie | | | ½ | | | m. parker | ¼ | | | | | m. a. jolly | ½ | | | | | m. thomas | | | ½ | ½ | | e. carroll | | ½ | | | | m. sheay | | ¾ | | ½ | | h. donovan | | ¾ | ¼ | | | e. hone | | ¼ | ¾ | ½ | | s. moss | | | | ½ | | e. hainsworth | | | | | | e. timlett | | ½ | | ½ | | m. cracknell | | | | | | c. guyon | | | | | | mrs. philpot | | | | | | p. measor | | | | ½ | | m. cooke | | | | | | m. stone | | | | ¾ | | m. cleaver | ¾ | | | | | m. e. reide | ½ | ½ | | | | m. foweraker | | | ¾ | | | a. hodnett | | | | ½ | | m. smith | ½ | | | ½ | | a. smith | | | ½ | ¾ | | m. frazier | | | ½ | ½ | | m. roach | | | | | | c. mallison | | | | ½ | | s. macintosh | | | | ½ | | b. j. salter | | ¼ | ½ | ¾ | | m. j. smith | ¼ | ½ | | | | e. daniels | ½ | ¼ | ¾ | ½ | | m. brown | ¼ | ¾ | | ¼ | | e. rallians | ½ | ¼ | | | | w. reide | | ¼ | ¾ | | | m. a. lockwood | ¾ | ½ | ½ | | | e. spall | ¾ | | | | | j. griffith | -- | ½ | | ½ | | m. thomson | | ½ | | ½ | | l. farris | ½ | | | ½ | | m. glyn | | ½ | | ½ | | l. yorke | | ¼ | | | | c. brown | ½ | | ½ | ½ | | m. fenning | | ½ | | ½ | | e. burton | | ½ | | ½ | +----------------+-----------+-----------+-----------+-----------+ | | £ ¾ | £ ½ | £ ½ | £ ½ | +----------------+-----------+-----------+-----------+-----------+ +---------------+-----------+-----------+------------+-----------+ | sewers' wages for the four weeks before the dispute. | +---------------+-----------+-----------+------------+-----------+ | -- | aug. | aug. | aug. | aug. | | | th. | th. | th. | rd. | | | £ _s. d._ | £ _s. d._ | £ _s. d._ | £ _s. d._ | +---------------+-----------+-----------+------------+-----------+ | m. richardson | | | ½ | | | m. touse | | | | | | e. hawkins | -- | -- | -- | ¼ | | a. hanson | ¼ | | | | | m. clements | | | | ½ | | l. thomson | ½ | | ½ | | | e. webb | | | | | | e. wigmore | ½ | | ½ | ½ | | h. gammon | | | | | | a. butcher | | | | ½ | | e. taylor | | | ½ | | | m. wheatley | | | | | | e. harris | -- | | ½ | ¾ | | j. williams | | | | | | h. hutchinson | | ¼ | ½ | ½ | | e. ashford | | | | | | r. howell | | | | ½ | | m. hubbard | | | | ½ | | m. abbott | | | | | | m. akerman | | | | | | a. hall | | | | | | e. ellis | | | | | | m. gildbody | | | | | | m. mack | | | | | | e. potter | | | | | | c. collier | | | | | | m. smiley | | | | | | a. clarke | | | | | | b. mealoney | ½ | | | | | m. a. | | | | | | sullivan | | | | | | m. diggles | ½ | ½ | | | | j. purvey | | ¾ | | ½ | | m. reding | ½ | | | ½ | | l. tattersall | | | | | | e. treacher | ½ | | ½ | ½ | | m. davis | ½ | | | ¼ | | e. griffiths | | ½ | | ½ | | m. clarke | ½ | ½ | | ½ | | m. perkins | ½ | | ½ | ½ | | e. marshall | | ½ | | ½ | | g. trimnell | ½ | ¾ | ½ | | | h. night | ½ | ½ | | | | m. norcott | | ¼ | | ½ | | m. goldwin | ½ | ¾ | | ½ | | e. ainyouns | ½ | | | | | m. newnham | | ½ | | | | m. rodgers | | ½ | | ½ | | c. greentree | ½ | | | | | j. greenaway | ¾ | | | | | e. carrington | ½ | ¼ | | ½ | | s. greenaway | ½ | ½ | | | | m. key | | | | ¼ | | s. williams | | ½ | | ¼ | +---------------+-----------+-----------+------------+-----------+ | | £ ¾ | £ ½ | £ ¼ | £ ¼ | +---------------+-----------+-----------+------------+-----------+ these tables are also valuable on account of the light they throw upon the organisation of the bookbinding trade in the middle of last century. it will be seen for instance that the week indicated by "october " in table i was a specially busy week, and that in consequence the payments made to the home workers were much above those made for september th or th. under september th, twenty-eight home workers were engaged, and next week thirty-nine, but under october th the number had risen to fifty-seven. it is also worthy of note that e. such was an indoor worker under october th, but a home worker during the other two weeks, whilst m. a. joyce worked at home in the third week, but in the workshop during the other two. this condition of disorganisation has now fortunately almost disappeared from the trade. it should also be noted that slight errors of a few farthings in the additions have crept into the totals of some of the columns, but as they do not affect the accuracy of the wage figures the appendix has been copied exactly as it was published. appendix vii.--table from census, table from census, , stating the number of males and females employed in the trades enumerated at various ages in england and wales, and showing that the number of females employed between and is nearly twice as great as at any other age. +------------------------------------------------------------+ | paper manufacture. | +-----------+-------------------------------------+----------+ | | females. | | | age. +------------+-----------+------------+ males. | | | | married | | | | | unmarried. | or | total. | | | | | widow'd | | | +-----------+------------+-----------+------------+----------+ | - | | -- | | | | - | | -- | | | | - | , | | , | , | | - | , | | , | , | | - | | | , | , | | - | | | | , | | - | | | | , | | - | | | | | | - | | | | | | and | | | | | | upwards | | | | | +-----------+------------+-----------+------------+----------+ | total | , | , | , | , | +-----------+------------+-----------+------------+----------+ +-----------+------------+-----------+------------+----------+ | paper stainers. | +-----------+-------------------------------------+----------+ | | females. | | | age. +------------+-----------+------------+ males. | | | | married | | | | | unmarried. | or | total. | | | | | widow'd | | | +-----------+------------+-----------+------------+----------+ | - | | -- | | | | - | | -- | | | | - | | | | | | - | | | | | | - | | | | | | - | | | | | | - | | | | | | - | | | | | | - | | | | | | and | | | | | | upwards | | | | | +-----------+------------+-----------+------------+----------+ | total | | | | , | +-----------+------------+-----------+------------+----------+ +-----------+------------+-----------+------------+----------+ | stationery manufacture. | +-----------+-------------------------------------+----------+ | | females. | | | age. +------------+-----------+------------+ males. | | | | married | | | | | unmarried. | or | total. | | | | | widow'd | | | +-----------+------------+-----------+------------+----------+ | - | | -- | | | | - | | -- | | | | - | , | | , | | | - | , | | , | | | - | | | | , | | - | | | | | | - | | | | | | - | | | | | | - | | | | | | and | | | | | | upwards | | | | | +-----------+------------+-----------+------------+----------+ | total | , | | , | , | +-----------+------------+-----------+------------+----------+ +-----------+------------+-----------+------------+----------+ | envelope makers. | +-----------+-------------------------------------+----------+ | | females. | | | age. +------------+-----------+------------+ males. | | | | married | | | | | unmarried. | or | total. | | | | | widow'd | | | +-----------+------------+-----------+------------+----------+ | - | | -- | | | | - | | -- | | | | - | , | -- | , | | | - | | | | | | - | | | | | | - | | | | | | - | | | | | | - | | | | | | - | | | | | | and | | | | | | upwards | | | | | +-----------+------------+-----------+------------+----------+ | total | , | | , | | +-----------+------------+-----------+------------+----------+ +-----------+------------+-----------+------------+----------+ | paper box and bag makers. | +-----------+-------------------------------------+----------+ | | females. | | | age. +------------+-----------+------------+ males. | | | | married | | | | | unmarried. | or | total. | | | | | widow'd | | | +-----------+------------+-----------+------------+----------+ | - | | -- | | | | - | , | -- | , | | | - | , | | , | | | - | , | | , | | | - | , | , | , | | | - | | , | , | | | - | | | | | | - | | | | | | - | | | | | | and | | | | | | upwards | | | | | +-----------+------------+-----------+------------+----------+ | total | , | , | , | , | +-----------+------------+-----------+------------+----------+ +-----------+------------+-----------+------------+----------+ | other workers in paper, &c. | +-----------+-------------------------------------+----------+ | | females. | | | age. +------------+-----------+------------+ males. | | | | married | | | | | unmarried. | or | total. | | | | | widow'd | | | +-----------+------------+-----------+------------+----------+ | - | | -- | | | | - | | -- | | | | - | , | | , | | | - | | | | | | - | | | | , | | - | | | | | | - | | | | | | - | | | | | | - | | | | | | and | | | | | | upwards | | | | | +-----------+------------+-----------+------------+----------+ | total | , | | , | , | +-----------+------------+-----------+------------+----------+ +-----------+------------+-----------+------------+----------+ | printers. | +-----------+-------------------------------------+----------+ | | females. | | | age. +------------+-----------+------------+ males. | | | | married | | | | | unmarried. | or | total. | | | | | widow'd | | | +-----------+------------+-----------+------------+----------+ | - | | -- | | , | | - | | -- | | , | | - | , | | , | , | | - | , | | , | , | | - | | | | , | | - | | | | , | | - | | | | , | | - | | | | , | | - | | | | , | | and | | | | | | upwards | | | | | +-----------+------------+-----------+------------+----------+ | total | , | | , | , | +-----------+------------+-----------+------------+----------+ +-----------+------------+-----------+------------+----------+ | lithographers, copper and steel plate printers. | +-----------+-------------------------------------+----------+ | | females. | | | age. +------------+-----------+------------+ males. | | | | married | | | | | unmarried. | or | total. | | | | | widow'd | | | +-----------+------------+-----------+------------+----------+ | - | | -- | | | | - | | -- | | | | - | | | | , | | - | | | | , | | - | | | | , | | - | | | | , | | - | | | | , | | - | | | | | | - | | | | | | and | | | | | | upwards | | | | | +-----------+------------+-----------+------------+----------+ | total | | | , | , | +-----------+------------+-----------+------------+----------+ +-----------+------------+-----------+------------+----------+ | bookbinders. | +-----------+-------------------------------------+----------+ | | females. | | | age. +------------+-----------+------------+ males. | | | | married | | | | | unmarried. | or | total. | | | | | widow'd | | | +-----------+------------+-----------+------------+----------+ | - | | -- | | | | - | , | -- | , | | | - | , | | , | , | | - | , | | , | , | | - | , | | , | , | | - | | | , | , | | - | | | | , | | - | | | | | | - | | | | | | and | | | | | | upwards | | | | | +-----------+------------+-----------+------------+----------+ | total | , | , | , | , | +-----------+------------+-----------+------------+----------+ +-----------+------------+-----------+------------+----------+ | type cutters and founders. | +-----------+-------------------------------------+----------+ | | females. | | | age. +------------+-----------+------------+ males. | | | | married | | | | | unmarried. | or | total. | | | | | widow'd | | | +-----------+------------+-----------+------------+----------+ | - | | -- | | | | - | | -- | | | | - | | -- | | | | - | | -- | | | | - | | | | | | - | | | | | | - | | | | | | - | | | | | | - | | | | | | and | | | | | | upwards | | | | | +-----------+------------+-----------+------------+----------+ | total | | | | , | +-----------+------------+-----------+------------+----------+ index. ages of workers, apprenticeship, - bible society controversies, - birmingham, trades in, - blackbordering described, bond, mrs., bookbinders' agreement, - bookbinders and tea half-hour, bookbinding described, bookfolders' union, bookfolding, census figures, - , character in relation to work, , , (footnote), children's employment commission, - ... - compositors, women: apprenticeship, birmingham, edinburgh, , , (footnote), (footnote), (footnote), glasgow, historical, - legislation, , london, - miscellaneous places, perth, , - , work done by, , conditions of employment, ... - dining arrangements at works, employers and women's unions, , envelope-making described, factory law. _see_ legislation. family health and women's work, _see also_ health family life and women workers, , - "folding-houses," - gentility, girls _v._ women, , glasgow, trades in, - health, , , , , - , _see also sections under_ typical firms, - home-work, - , , , , nos. employed, , and legislation, - and machinery, , and organisation, hours in glasgow, , , , , hours in birmingham, , , _see also sections under_ typical firms, - illuminating described, job hands, , , , wages, legislation: conditions before legislation, - , - economic and industrial effects, - , , , , , , employers' opinions, - , - employees' opinions, - , forewomen's opinions, home-work, - , limitation of employment, , machinery, - married women, nightwork, , , , , , , provisions of the law, - wages, , , want of elasticity, - women compositors, _see also_ overtime. letterpress printing described, lithography described, health, london society of compositors and women, , - london trades council and women, machine-ruling described, machinery: effect of women's labour upon, (footnote), , effect on women's employment, , , - , , , , , , , , , , folding, , , , home work, machine-ruling, paper colouring, re-introduction of men's labour, , sewing, stamping, (footnote) typography, , manchester and salford society of women employed in bookbinding, marriage as an industrial influence, , married women as workers, , , - , , , , , , , family health, in birmingham, in bristol, in leeds and bradford, in london, - moral influence, nos. employed, wages, - , , men and women, , - as competitors, , , , - , , , bookbinders, , , (footnote), , compositors, , , , - division of work between, - , , , , , , effect of machinery, , (footnote) machine rulers, men's view, , - methods of work, (footnote) nightwork, , , paper colouring, relative skill, - , , , national bookfolders' union, nightwork, , , , , , , - , , _see also_ overtime. numbering described, organisation of women: bookbinders, - compositors, , miscellaneous trades, - , women's views upon, overtime, - , , , - , , and wages, , , _see also_ nightwork. paging described, paper-bag making, paper making described, paterson, mrs. emma, perforating described, perth dispute, piece rates of wages, premiums, , , - , printers' folding described, prospects, _see sections under_ typical firms, - regularity of employment, _see also sections under_ typical firms, - scottish typographical association, , , show card mounting described, society of women employed in bookbinding, - stamping, plain, etc., described, technical classes, , training for women, , time and piece wages, trade union congress, women at, , trade unionism and women: attitude of bookbinders, - conflicts with compositors, - , _see also_ organisation of women training for women, - , , , , , , , , lack of and marriage prospects, typefounding described, typical firms, conditions in, - typographical association, , , scottish, , , "use and wont" in women's work, wages, - birmingham, , , , bookbinders' ( - ), - , - earnings of individuals, - , - effect of legislation upon, , - ... (footnote) ... - ... glasgow, , , - , , , how far supplementary, - kept up without unions, learners, - married women's influence upon, - , , men's and women's, (footnote) time and piece rates, why low, , - , women _v._ boys, , , women's competitors, _see also_ men and women; women _v._ boys; girls _v._ women. women compositors. _see_ compositors, women. women workers, number, - , ages of, ambition, , , , domestic sphere predominant, gentility, irregularity, , women's work, characteristics of, , - transcriber's note: text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). text enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=). women in modern industry * * * * * "what is woman but an enemy of friendship, an unavoidable punishment, a necessary evil, a natural temptation, a desirable affliction, a constantly flowing source of tears, a wicked work of nature covered with a shining varnish?"--saint chrysostom. "and wo in winter tyme with wakying a-nyghtes, to rise to the ruel to rock the cradel, both to kard and to kembe, to clouten and to wasche, to rubbe and to rely, russhes to pilie that reuthe is to rede othere in ryme shewe the wo of these women that wonyeth in cotes."[ ] langland: _piers ploughman_, x. . "two justices of the peace, the mayor or other head officer of any city (etc.) and two aldermen ... may appoint any such woman as is of the age of years and under the age of years and unmarried and forth of service ... to be retained or serve by the year, week or day for such wages and in such reasonable sort as they shall think meet; and if any such woman shall refuse so to serve, then it shall be lawful for the said justices (etc.) to commit such woman to ward until she shall be bounden to serve."--_statute of labourers_, . "every woman spinner's wage shall be such as, following her labour duly and painfully, she may make it account to."--justices of wiltshire: _assessment of wages_, . "sometimes one feels that one dare not contemplate too closely the life of our working women, it is such a grave reproach."--miss anna tracey, _factory inspector_, . "the state has trampled on its subjects for 'ends of state'; it has neglected them; it is beginning to act consciously for them.... the progressive enrichment of human life and the remedy of its ills is not a private affair. it is a public charge. indeed it is the one and noblest field of corporate action. the perception of that truth gives rise to the new art of social politics."--b. kirkman gray. * * * * * women in modern industry by b. l. hutchins author of "conflicting ideals" and (with mrs. spencer, d.sc.) "a history of factory legislation" with a chapter contributed by j. j. mallon london g. bell and sons, ltd. preface. it may be well to give a brief explanation of the scheme of the present work. part i. was complete in its present form, save for unimportant corrections, before the summer of . the outbreak of war necessitated some delay in publication, after which it became evident that some modification in the scheme and plan of the book must be made. the question was, whether to revise the work already accomplished so as to bring it more in tune with the tremendous events that are fresh in all our minds. for various reasons i decided not to do this, but to leave the earlier chapters as they stood, save for bringing a few figures up to date, and to treat of the effects of the war in a separate chapter. i was influenced in taking this course by the idea that even if the portions written in happy ignorance of approaching trouble should now appear out of date and out of focus, yet future students of social history might find a special interest in the fact that the passages in question describe the situation of women workers as it appeared almost immediately before the great upheaval. moreover, chapter iva. contained a section on german women in trade unions. i had no material to re-write this section; i did not wish to omit it. the course that seemed best was to leave it precisely as it stood, and the same plan has been adopted with all the pre-war chapters. the main plan of the book is to give a sketch or outline of the position of working women, with special reference to the effects of the industrial revolution on her employment, taking "industrial revolution" in its broader sense, not as an event of the late eighteenth century, but as a continuous process still actively at work. i have aimed at description rather than theory. some of the current theories about women's position are of great interest, and i make no pretence to an attitude of detachment in regard to them, but it certainly appears to me that we need more facts and knowledge before theory can be based on a sure foundation. here and there i have drawn my own conclusions from what i saw and heard, but these conclusions are mostly provisional, and may well be modified in the light of clearer knowledge. i am fully conscious of an inadequacy of treatment and of certain defects in form. women's industry is a smaller subject than men's, but it is even more complicated and difficult. there are considerable omissions in my book. i have not, for instance, discussed, save quite incidentally, the subject of the industrial employment of married women or the subject of domestic service, omissions which are partly due to my knowledge that studies of these questions were in process of preparation by hands more capable than mine. there are other omissions which are partly due to the lack or unsatisfactory nature of the material. a standard history of the industrial revolution does not yet exist (monsieur mantoux's valuable book covers only the earlier period), and the necessary information has to be collected from miscellaneous sources. in dealing with the effects of war, my treatment is necessarily most imperfect. the situation throughout the autumn, winter, and spring - , was a continually shifting one, and to represent it faithfully is a most difficult task. nor can we for years expect to gauge the changes involved. with all our efforts to see and take stock of the social and economic effects of war, we who watch and try to understand the social meanings of the most terrible convulsion in history probably do not perceive the most significant reactions. that the position of industrial women must be considerably modified we cannot doubt; but the modifications that strike the imagination most forcibly now, such as the transference of women to new trades, may possibly not appear the most important in twenty or thirty years' time. even so, perhaps, a contemporary sketch of the needs of working women; of the success or failure of our social machinery to supply and keep pace with those needs at a time of such tremendous stress and tension, may not be altogether without interest. i have to express my great indebtedness to mr. mallon, secretary of the anti-sweating league, who has given me the benefit of his unrivalled knowledge and experience in a chapter on women's wages. i have also to thank miss mabel lawrence, who for a short time assisted me in the study of women in unions, and both then and afterwards contributed many helpful suggestions to the work she shared with me. to the labour department i am indebted for kind and much appreciated permission to use its library; to miss elspeth carr for drawing my attention to the "petition of the poor spinners," an interesting document which will be found in the appendix; and to many trade union secretaries and others for their kindness in allowing me to interview them and presenting me with documents. miss mary macarthur generously loaned a whole series of the trade union league reports, which were of the greatest service in tracing the early history of the league. i regret that mr. tawney's book on minimum rates in the tailoring trades; messrs. bland, brown, and tawney's valuable collection of documents on economic history; and the collection of letters from working women, entitled "maternity," all came into my hands too late for me to make as much use of them as i should have liked to do. b. l. h. hampstead, _september _. contents page part i chapter i sketch of the employment of women in england before the industrial revolution chapter ii women and the industrial revolution chapter iii statistics of the life and employment of women chapter iv women in trade unions chapter iva women in unions--_continued_ chapter v summary and conclusion of part i. part ii chapter vi women's wages in the wage census of chapter vii the effects of the war on the employment of women appendix to chapters ii., iv., and vii. authorities index introductory little attention has been given until quite recent times to the position of the woman worker and the special problems concerning her industrial and commercial employment. the historical material relating to the share of women in industry is extremely scanty. women in mediaeval times must have done a very large share of the total work necessary for carrying on social existence, but the work of men was more specialised, more differentiated, more picturesque. it thus claimed and obtained a larger share of the historian's attention. the introduction of machinery in the eighteenth century effected great changes, and for the first time the reactions of the work on the workers began to be considered. women and children who had previously been employed in their own homes or in small workshops were now collected in factories, drilled to work in large numbers together. the work was not at first very different, but the environment was enormously altered. the question of the child in industry at first occupied attention almost to the exclusion of women. but the one led naturally to the other. the woman in industry could no longer be ignored: she had become an economic force. the position of the industrial woman in modern times is closely related, one way or another, to the industrial revolution, but the relation cannot be stated in any short or easy formula. the reaction of modern methods on woman's labour is highly complex and assumes many forms. the pressure on the woman worker which causes her to be employed for long hours, low wages, in bad conditions, and with extreme insecurity of employment, is frequently supposed to be due to the development of industry on a larger scale. it is, in my view, due rather to the survival of social conditions of the past in an age when an enormous increase in productive power has transformed the conditions of production. new institutions and new social conditions are needed to suit the change in the conditions of production. it is not the change in the material environment which is to blame, so much as the failure of organised society so far to understand and control the material changes. the capitalist employer organised industry on the basis of a "reserve of labour," and on the principle of employing the cheapest workers he could get, not out of original sin, or because he was so very much worse than other people, but simply because it was the only way he knew of, and no one was there to indicate an alternative course--much less compel him to take it. much more guilty than the cotton-spinners or dock companies were the wealthy governing classes, who permitted the conditions of work to be made inhuman, and yet trampled on the one flower the people had plucked from their desolation--the joy of union and fellowship; who allowed a system of casual labour to become established, and then prated about the bad habits and irregularity which were the results of their own folly. organised society had hardly begun to understand the needs and implications of the industrial revolution until quite late in the nineteenth century, and the failure of statesmanlike foresight has been especially disastrous to women, because of their closer relationship to the family. there is no economic necessity under present circumstances for women to work so long, so hard, and for such low wages as they do; on the contrary, we know now that it is bad economy that they should be so employed. but the subordinate position of the girl and the woman in the family, the lack of a tradition of association with her fellows, has reacted unfavourably on her economic capacity in the world of competitive trade. she is preponderantly an immature worker; she expects, quite reasonably, humanly and naturally, to marry. whether her expectation is or is not destined to be fulfilled, it constitutes an element of impermanence in her occupational career which reacts unfavourably on her earnings and conditions of employment. the tradition of obedience, docility and isolation in the family make it hard for the young girl-worker to assert her claims effectively; both her ignorance and her tradition of modesty make it difficult for her to voice the requirements of decent living, some of the most essential of which are taboo--not to be spoken of to a social superior or an individual of the opposite sex. the whole circumstances of her life make her employment an uncertain matter, contingent upon all sorts of outside circumstances, which have little or nothing to do with her own industrial capacity. in youth, marriage may at any time take her out of the economic struggle and render wage-earning superfluous and unnecessary. on the other hand, the sudden pressure of necessity, bereavement, or sickness or unemployment of husband or bread-winning relative, may throw a woman unexpectedly on the labour market. it is a special feature of women's employment that, unlike the work of men, who for the most part have to labour from early youth to some more or less advanced age, women's work is subject to considerable interruption, and is contingent on family circumstances, whence it comes about that women may not always need paid work, but when they do they often want it so badly that they are ready to take anything they can get. the woman worker also is more susceptible to class influences than are her male social equals, and charity and philanthropy often tend in some degree to corrupt the loyalty and divert the interest of working women from their own class. these are some of the reasons why associations for mutual protection and assistance have been so slow in making way among women workers. the protection of the state, though valuable as far as it goes, has been inadequate: how inadequate can be seen in the reports of the women factory inspectors, who, in spite of their insufficient numbers, take so large a share in the administration of the factory act. their reports, however, do not reach a large circle. the insurance act has been the means of a more startling propaganda. the results following the working of this act shew that although women are longer lived than men, they have considerably more sickness. the claims of women for sick benefit had been underestimated, and many local insurance societies became nearly insolvent in consequence. a cry of malingering was raised in various quarters, and we were asked to believe that excessive claims could be prevented by stricter and more careful administration. this solution of the problem, however, is quite inadequate to explain the facts. there may have been some malingering, but it has occurred chiefly in cases where the earnings of the workers were so low as to be scarcely above the sickness benefit provided by the act, or even below it. in other cases the excess claims were due to the fact that medical advice and treatment was a luxury the women had previously been unable to afford even when they greatly needed it; or to the fact that they had previously continued to go to work when unfit for the exertion, and now at last found themselves able to afford a few days' rest and nursing; or, finally, to the unhealthy conditions in which they were compelled to live and work. as miss macarthur stated before the departmental committee on sickness benefit claims, "low wages, and all that low wages involve in the way of poor food, poor housing, insufficient warmth, lack of rest and of air, and so forth, necessarily predispose to disease; and although such persons may, at the time of entering into insurance, have been, so far as they knew, in a perfectly normal state of health, their normal state is one with no reserve of health and strength to resist disease." excessive claims may or may not, the witness went on to show, be associated with extremely low wages. thus the cotton trade, which is the best paid of any great industry largely employing women, nevertheless shows a high proportion of claims. miss macarthur made an urgent recommendation (in which the present writer begs to concur), that when any sweeping accusation of malingering is brought against a class of insured persons, medical enquiry should be made into the conditions under which those women work. if the conditions that produce excessive claims were once clearly known and realised, it is the convinced opinion of the present writer that those conditions would be changed by the pressure of public opinion, not so much out of sentiment or pity--though sentiment and pity are badly needed--but out of a clear perception of the senseless folly and loss that are involved in the present state of things. year by year, and week by week, the capitalist system is allowed to use up the lives of our women and girls, taking toll of their health and strength, of their nerves and energy, of their capacity, their future, and the future of their children after them. and all this, not for any purpose; not as it is with the soldier, who dies that something greater than himself may live; for no purpose whatever, except perhaps saving the trouble of thought. so far as wealth is the object of work, it is practically certain that the national wealth, or indeed the output of war material, would be much greater if it were produced under more humane and more reasonable conditions, with a scientific disposition of hours of work and the use of appropriate means for keeping up the workers' health and strength. a preliminary and most important step, it should be said, would be a considerable reinforcement of the staff of women factory inspectors. nor do conditions of work alone make up the burden of the heavy debt against society for the treatment of women workers. housing conditions, though no doubt greatly improved, especially in towns, are often extremely bad, and largely responsible for the permanent ill-health suffered by so many married women in the working class, by the non-wage-earning group, perhaps not much less than by the industrial woman-worker.[ ] two other questions occur in this connection, both of great importance. first, the question of the relation of the employment of the young girl to her health after marriage--a subject which appears to have received little scientific attention. only a minority of women are employed at any one time, but a large majority of young girls are employed, and it follows that the majority of older women _must have been employed_ in those critical years of girlhood and young womanhood, which have so great an influence on the constitution and character for the future. the conditions and kind of employment from this point of view would afford material for a volume in itself, but the subject needs medical knowledge for its satisfactory handling, and a laywoman can but indicate it and pass on. second, the need of making medical advice and treatment more accessible. this would involve the removal of restrictions and obstacles which, however necessary under a scheme of health insurance, appear in practice to rob that scheme of at least half its right to be considered as a national provision for the health of women.[ ] it will appear in the following pages that i see little reason to believe in any decline and fall of women from a golden age in which they did only work which was "suitable," and that in the bosoms of their families. the records of the domestic system that have come down to us are no doubt picturesque enough, but the cases which have been preserved in history or fiction were probably the aristocracy of industry, under which were the very poor, of whom we know little. there must also have been a class of single women wage-earners who were probably even more easy to exploit in old times than they are now, the opportunities for domestic service being much more limited and worse paid. the working woman does not appear to me to be sliding downwards into the "chaos of low-class industries," rather is she painfully, though perhaps for the most part unconsciously, working her way upwards out of a more or less servile condition of poverty and ignorance into a relatively civilised state, existing at present in a merely rudimentary form. she has attained at least to the position of earning her own living and controlling her own earnings, such as they are. she has statutory rights against her employer, and a certain measure of administrative protection in enforcing them. the right to a living wage, fair conditions of work, and a voice in the collective control over industry are not yet fully recognised, but are being claimed more and more articulately, and can less and less be silenced and put aside. the woman wage-earner indeed appears in many ways socially in advance of the middle and upper class woman, who is still so often economically a mere parasite. woman's work may still be chaotic, but the chaos, we venture to hope, indicates the throes of a new social birth, not the disintegration of decay. among much that is sad, tragic and disgraceful in the industrial exploitation of women, there is emerging this fact, fraught with deepest consolation: the woman herself is beginning to think. nothing else at long last can really help her; nothing else can save us all. there are now an increasing number of women workers who do not sink their whole energies in the petty and personal, or restrict their aims to the earning and spending what they need for themselves and those more or less dependent on them. they are able to appreciate the newer wants of society, the claim for more leisure and amenity of life, for a share in the heritage of england's thought and achievements, for better social care of children, for the development of a finer and deeper communal consciousness. this is the new spirit that is beginning to dawn in women. chapter i. sketch of the employment of women in england before the industrial revolution. the traces of women in economic and industrial history are unmistakable, but the record of their work is so scattered, casual, and incoherent that it is difficult to derive a connected story therefrom. we know enough, however, to disprove the old misconception that women's industrial work is a phenomenon beginning with the nineteenth century. it seems indeed not unlikely that textile industry, perhaps also agriculture and the taming of the smaller domestic animals, were originated by women, their dawning intelligence being stimulated to activity by the needs of children. professor karl pearson in his interesting essay, _woman as witch_, shows that many of the folklore ceremonies connected with witchcraft associate the witch with symbols of agriculture, the pitchfork, and the plough, as well as with the broom and spindle, and are probably the fossil survivals, from a remote past, of a culture in which the activities of the women were relatively more prominent than they are now. the witch is a degraded form of the old priestess, cunning in the knowledge of herbs and medicine, and preserving in spells and incantations such wisdom as early civilisation possessed. in thüringen, holda or holla is a goddess of spinning and punishes idle persons. only a century ago the women used to sing songs to holla as they dressed their flax. in swabia a broom is carried in procession on twelfth night, in honour of the goddess berchta. the "wild women" or spirits associated with wells or springs are frequently represented in legends as spinning; they come to weddings and spin, and their worship is closely connected with the distaff as a symbol. women are also the first architects; the hut in widely different parts of the world--among kaffirs, fuegians, polynesians, kamtchatdals--is built by women. women are everywhere the primitive agriculturists, and work in the fields of europe to-day. women seem to have originated pottery, while men usually ornamented and improved it. woman "was at first, and is now, the universal cook, preserving food from decomposition and doubling the longevity of man. of the bones at last she fabricates her needles and charms.... from the grasses around her cabin she constructs the floor-mat, the mattress and the screen, the wallet, the sail. she is the mother of all spinners, weavers, upholsterers, sail-makers." the evidence of anthropology thus hardly bears out the assertion frequently made (recently, _e.g._, by dr. lionel tayler in _the nature of woman_) that woman does not originate. a much more telling demonstration of the superiority of man in handicraft would be to show that when he takes over a woman's idea he usually brings it to greater technical perfection than she has done. "men, liberated more or less from the tasks of hunting and fighting, gradually took up the occupations of women, specialised them and developed them in an extraordinary degree.... maternity favours an undifferentiated condition of the various avocations that are grouped around it; it is possible that habits of war produced a sense of the advantages of specialised and subordinated work. in any case the fact itself is undoubted and it has had immense results on civilisation." man has infinitely surpassed woman in technical skill, scientific adaptation, and fertility of invention; yet the rude beginnings of culture and civilisation, of the crafts that have so largely made us what we are, were probably due to the effort and initiative of primitive woman, engaged in a hand-to-hand struggle with the rude and hostile forces of her environment, to satisfy the needs of her offspring and herself. i do not propose, however, to enter into a discussion of the position of primitive woman, alluring as such a task might be from some points of view. when we come to times nearer our own and of which written record survives, it is remarkable that the further back we go the more completely women appear to be in possession of textile industry. the materials are disappointing: there is little that can serve to explain fully the industrial position of women or to make us realise the conditions of their employment. but as to the fact there can be no doubt. nor can it be questioned that women were largely employed in other industries also. the women of the industrial classes have always worked, and worked hard. it is only in quite modern times, so far as i can discover, that the question, whether some kinds of work were not too hard for women, has been raised at all. _servants in husbandry._--it is quite plain that women have always done a large share of field work. the statute of labourers, edw. iii. , imposed upon women equally with men the obligation of giving service when required, unless they were over sixty, exercised a craft or trade, or were possessed of means or land of their own, or already engaged in service, and also of taking only such wages as had been given previous to the black death and the resulting scarcity of labour. in , the statute richard ii. c. , and , forbids any servant, man or woman, to depart out of the place in which he or she is employed, at the end of the year's service, without a letter patent, and limits a woman labourer's wages to six shillings per annum. it also enacts that "he or she which use to labour at the plough" shall continue at the same work and not be put to a "mystery or handicraft." in the statute henry vi. c. fixes the wages of a woman servant in husbandry at ten shillings per annum with clothing worth four shillings and food. in harvest a woman labourer was to have two pence a day and food, "and such as be worthy of less shall take less." thorold rogers says that in the thirteenth century women were employed in outdoor work, and especially as assistants to thatchers. he thinks that, "estimated proportionately, their services were not badly paid," but that, allowing for the different value of money, women got about as much for outdoor work as women employed on farms get now. after the plague, however, the wages paid women as thatchers' helps were doubled, and before the end of the fifteenth century were increased by per cent. a statute of fixed the wages of women labourers and other labourers at the same amount, viz. - / d. a day, or - / d. if without board. at a later period, - , according to thorold rogers, some accounts of harvest work from oxford show women paid the same as men. in the sixteenth century the statute of apprentices, eliz. c. , gave power to justices to compel women between twelve years old and forty to be retained and serve by the year, week, or day, "for such wages and in such reasonable sort and manner as they shall think meet," and a woman who refused thus to serve might be imprisoned. _textiles. wool and linen._--no trace remains in history of the inventor of the loom, but no historical record remains of a time without some means of producing a texture by means of intertwining a loose thread across a fixed warp. any such device, however rude, must involve a degree of culture much above mere savagery, and probably resulted from a long process of groping effort and invention. from this dim background hand-spinning and weaving emerge in tradition and history as the customary work of women, the type of their activity, and the norm of their duty and morals. the old anglo-saxon, scandinavian, and german words for loom are certainly very ancient, and pictet derives the word _wife_ from the occupation of weaving. in the northern mythology the three stars in the belt of orion were called frigga rock, or frigga's distaff, which in the days of christianity was changed to maria rock, rock being an old word for distaff. spinning, weaving, dyeing, and embroidering were special features of anglo-saxon industry, and were entirely confined to women. king alfred in his will distinguished between the spear-half and spindle-half of his family; and in an old illustration of the scripture, adam is shown receiving the spade and eve the distaff, after their expulsion from the garden of eden. this traditional distinction between the duties of the sexes was continued even to the grave, a spear or a spindle, according to sex, being often found buried with the dead in anglo-saxon tombs. in the church of east meon, hants, there is a curious old font with a sculptured representation of the same incident: eve, it has been observed, stalks away with head erect, plying her spindle and distaff, while adam, receiving a spade from the angel, looks submissive and abased. in an old play entitled _corpus christi_, formerly performed before the grey or franciscan friars, adam is made to say to eve: and wyff, to spinne now must thou fynde our naked bodyes in cloth to wynde. the distaff or rock could on occasion serve the purpose of a weapon of offence or defence. in the _digby mysteries_ a woman brandishes her distaff, exclaiming: what! shall a woman with a rocke drive thee away! in the _winter's tale_ hermione exclaims: we'll thwack him thence with distaffs (act i., sc. ii.). spinning and weaving were in old times regarded as specially virtuous occupations. deloney quotes an old song which brings out this idea with much _naïveté_: had helen then sat carding wool, whose beauteous face did breed such strife, she had not been sir paris' trull nor cause so many lose their life. or had king priam's wanton son been making quills with sweet content he had not then his friends undone when he to greece a-gadding went. the cedar trees endure more storms than little shrubs that sprout on hie, the weaver lives more void of harm than princes of great dignity. there is also a little french poem quoted and translated by wright, which runs thus: much ought woman to be held dear, by her is everybody clothed. well know i that woman spins and manufactures the cloths with which we dress and cover ourselves, and gold tissues, and cloth of silk; and therefore say i, wherever i may be, to all who shall hear this story, that they say no ill of womankind. spinning and weaving, as ordinarily carried on in the mediaeval home, were, mr. andrews thinks, backward, wasteful, and comparatively unskilled in technique. it is uncertain exactly at what period the spinning-wheel came into existence--certainly before the sixteenth century, and it may be a good deal earlier; but doubtless the use of the distaff lingered on in country places and among older-fashioned people long after the wheel was in use in the centres of the trades. thus aubrey speaks of nuns using wheels, and adds, "in the old time they used to spin with rocks; in somersetshire they use them still." yet weaving among the anglo-saxons had been carried to a considerable degree of excellence in the cities and monasteries. mr. warden says that even before the end of the seventh century the art of weaving had attained remarkable perfection in england, and he quotes from a book by bishop aldhelm, written about , describing "webs woven with shuttles, filled with threads of purple and many other colours, flying from side to side, and forming a variety of figures and images in different compartments with admirable art." these beautiful handiworks were executed by ladies of high rank and great piety, and were designed for ornaments to the churches or for vestments to the clergy. st. theodore of canterbury thought it necessary to forbid women to work on sunday either in weaving or cleaning the vestments or sewing them, or in carding wool, or beating flax, or in washing garments, or in shearing the sheep, or in any such occupations. tapestry, cloth of gold, and other woven fabrics of great beauty and fineness, besides embroidery, were produced in convents, which in the middle ages were the chief centres of culture for women. so much was this the case indeed, that the spiritual advisers of the nuns at times became uneasy, and exhorted them to give more time to devotion and less to weaving and knitting "vainglorious garments of many colours." in that curious book of advice to nuns, the _ancren riwle_, composed in the twelfth century, the writer showed the same spirit, and opposed the making of purses and other articles of silk with ornamental work. he also dissuaded women from trafficking with the products of the conventual estates. these injunctions seem to indicate that women were showing some degree of mental and artistic activity and initiative. royal ladies worked at spinning and weaving, and piers plowman tells the lovely ladies who asked him for work, to spin wool and flax, make cloth for the poor and naked, and teach their daughters to do the same. it is evident from old accounts that a good deal of weaving was done outside by the piece for these great households, and of course spinning and weaving were largely carried on in cottages as a bye-industry in conjunction with agriculture. bücher gives a very interesting account of spinning as an opportunity for social intercourse among primitive peoples. in thibet, he says, there is a spinning-room in each village; the young people, men and girls, meet and spin and smoke together. spinning in groups or parties is known to have obtained also in germany in olden times, and girls who now meet to make lace together in the same sociable way still say that they "go spinning." spinning-rooms exist in russia. in yorkshire spinning seems to have been done socially in the open air, in fine weather, down to the eve of the industrial revolution. spinning was one of the first works in which young girls were instructed, and thus spinster has become the legal designation of an unmarried woman, not that she always gave up spinning at marriage, but because it was looked upon as the young unmarried woman's chief occupation. old manuscripts also show women weaving at the loom, illustrations of which can be found in the interesting works of thomas wright. in a yorkshire woman spinner was summoned for taking "too much wages, contrary to the statute of artificers." in john notyngham, a rich grocer of bury st. edmunds, bequeathed to one of his daughters a spinning-wheel and a pair of cards (cards or carpayanum, an implement which is stated in the _promptorum parvulorum_ to be especially a woman's instrument). in agnes stebbard in the same town bequeathed to two of her maids a pair of wool-combs each, one combing-stick, one wheel, and one pair of cards. an illuminated ms. of the well-known french _boccace des nobles femmes_ has a most interesting illustration showing a queen and two maidens; one maiden is spinning with a distaff, another combing wool, the queen sits at the loom weaving. women often appear in old records as combers, carders, and spinners. chaucer says rather cynically: deceit, weeping, spinning god hath given to women kindly, whiles that they may liven. and of the wife of bath: of clothmaking she had such an haunt she passed them of ipres and of gaunt. the distaff lingered on for spinning flax. as late as an english poet writes: and many yet adhere to the ancient distaff at the bosom fixed, casting the whirling spindle as they walk; at home or in the sheep fold or the mart, alike the work proceeds. walter of henley says: "in march is time to sow flax and hemp, for i have heard old housewives say that better is march hards than april flax, the reason appeareth, but how it should be sown, weeded, pulled, repealed, watered, washen, dried, beaten, braked, tawed, heckled, spun, wound, wrapped and woven, it needeth not for me to show, for they be wise enough, and thereof may they make sheets, bordclothes (_sic_), towels, shirts, smocks, and such other necessaries, and therefore let thy distaff be always ready for a pastime, that thou be not idle. and undoubted a woman cannot get her living honestly with spinning on the distaff, but it stoppeth a gap and must needs be had." further on, in reference to wool (probably spun by wheel?), he draws the opposite conclusion: "it is convenient for a husband to have sheep of his own, for many causes, and then may his wife have part of the wool, to make her husband and herself some clothes.... and if she have no wool of her own she may take wool to spin of cloth-makers, and by that means she may have a convenient living, an many times to do other works." irish women were noted for their skill in dressing hemp and flax and making linen and woollen cloth. sir william temple said, in , that no women were apter to spin flax well than the irish, who, "labouring little in any kind with their hands have their fingers more supple and soft than other women of poorer condition among us." in the old shuttleworth accounts, reprinted by the chetham society, there are minute directions to the housewife on the management and manipulation of her wool. "it is the office of a husbandman at the shearing of the sheep to bestow upon the housewife such a competent proportion of wool as shall be convenient for the clothing of his family; which wool, as soon as she hath received it, she shall open, and with a pair of shears cut away all the coarse locks, pitch, brands, tarred locks, and other feltrings, and lay them by themselves for coarse coverlets and the like. the rest she is to break in pieces and tease, lock by lock, with her hands open, and so divide the wool as not any part may be feltered or close together, but all open and loose. then such of the wool as she intends to spin white she shall put by itself and the rest she shall weigh up and divide into several quantities, according to the proportion of the web she intends to make, and put every one of them into particular lays of netting, with tallies of wool fixed into them with privy marks thereon, for the weight, colour, and knowledge of the wool, when the first colour is altered. then she shall if she please send them to the dyer to be dyed after her own fancy," or dye them herself (recipes for which are given). "after your wool is mixed, oiled and trimmed (carded), you shall then spin it upon great wool wheels, according to the order of good housewifery; the action whereof must be got by practice, and not by relation; only this you shall be carefull, to draw your thread according to nature and goodness of your wool, not according to your particular desire; for if you draw a fine thread from wool which is of a coarse staple, it will want substance ... so, if you draw a coarse thread from fine wool, it will then be much overthick ... to the disgrace of good housewifery and loss of much cloth." _weaving and spinning as a woman's trade._--the employments carried on by women in the household may have yielded money occasionally, as we have seen from some of the foregoing quotations, but the work appears in these excerpts to have been carried on rather as a bye-industry, as a means of utilising surplus produce, than as a recognised trade for gain or profit. did women carry on the manufacture of woollen goods definitely as a craft or trade? the evidence on this head is not very clear. a statute of edward iii.[ ] expressly exempts women from the ordinance, then in force, that men should not follow more than one craft. "it is ordained that artificers handicraft people hold them every one to one mystery, which he will choose between this and the said feast of candlemas; and two of every craft shall be chosen to survey, that none use other craft than the same which he hath chosen.... but the intent of the king and of his council is, that women, that is to say, brewers, bakers, carders and spinners, and workers as well of wool as of linen cloth and of silk, brawdesters and breakers of wool and all other that do use and work all handy works may freely use and work as they have done before this time, without any impeachment or being restrained by this ordinance." the meaning of this ordinance is rather obscure, but the greater liberty conferred on women would seem to imply that they were not carrying on the trades mentioned as organised workers competing with men, but that they performed the various useful works mentioned at odd times, incidentally to the work of the household. miss abram says women were sometimes cloth-makers (see edw. iv. c. ), and often women cloth-makers, combers, carders, and spinners are mentioned in the parliamentary rolls. there were women amongst the tailors of salisbury, and amongst the yeoman tailors of london, also among the dyers of bristol and the drapers of london. women might join the merchant gild of totnes, and some belonged to the gild merchant of lyons. there appear to have been women members of the weavers' company of london in henry viii.'s time. again at bristol, in documents dating from the fourteenth century, we find mention of the "brethren and sistern" of the weavers' gild. in the next century, in the first year of edward iv., complaint was, however, made that many able-bodied weavers were out of work, in consequence of the employment of women at the weaver's craft, both at home and hired out. it was ordered that henceforward any one setting, putting, or hiring his wife, daughter, or maid "to such occupation of weaving in the loom with himself or with any other person of the said craft, within the said town of bristol" should upon proof be fined s. d., half to go to the chamber of bristol and half to the craft. this regulation was not, however, to apply to any weaver's wife so employed at the time it was made, but the said woman might continue to work at the loom as before. professor unwin quotes a rule of the clothworkers of london, in the second year of edward vi., imposing a fine of pence on any member employing even his own wife and daughter in his shop. at hull, in , women were forbidden working at the weaver's trade. but in the proviso was introduced that a widow might work at her husband's trade so long as she continued a widow and observed the orders of the company. the london weavers clearly recognised women members, for they enacted that "no man or woman of the said craft shall entice any man's servant from him." but another rule prohibited taking a woman as apprentice. the statutes of the weavers of edinburgh in the sixteenth century provided that no woman be allowed to have looms of her own, _unless_ she be a freeman's wife. probably it was felt in practice to be impossible to prevent a woman helping her husband, or carrying on his trade after his death, although there was evidently a desire to keep women out of the craft as much as possible. by the seventeenth century gervase markham writes as if women did no weaving at all. "now after your cloth is thus warped and delivered up into the hands of the weaver, the housewife hath finished her labour, for in the weaving, walking, and dressing thereof she can challenge no property more than to entreat them severally to discharge their duties with a good conscience." at norwich, in , the ordinance of weavers forbade women to weave worsted, "for that they be not of sufficient power to work the same worsteds as they ought to be wrought." records of rates of pay to journeymen weavers, tuckers, fullers, etc., ,[ ] ignore women as textile workers altogether; the only women mentioned in this assessment are agricultural workers and domestic servants. nevertheless, old accounts of the seventeenth century do show payments to women, not only for spinning, but for weaving and "walking" woollen cloth, and we can only conclude that while the progress of technical improvements had made weaving largely a men's trade, it was yet also carried on by women to a considerable extent. _apprenticeship._--it seems appropriate here to give some little space to the subject of apprenticeship. miss dunlop points out, in her recent valuable work on that subject, that the opposition of some of the gilds to women's work was not hostility to women as women, so much as distrust of the untrained, unqualified worker. "at salisbury the barber-surgeons agitated against unskilled women who medelled in the trade." "in the girdlers' company the officers forbade their members to employ foreigners and maids, not out of any animosity to the women, but because unscrupulous workmen had been underselling their fellows by employing cheap labour." at hull, as we have seen, the employment of women was forbidden, but so was the employment of aliens. according to miss dunlop, the great difficulty in the way of women was the onerousness of domestic work, which prevented girls undertaking apprenticeship to a skilled craft. it appears that women and girls were largely employed as assistants to the husband or father, and that the requirement of apprenticeship by the elizabethan statute did not check the practice, as it was so widespread and so convenient that the law was difficult to enforce. it is exceptional, miss dunlop remarks, to find a gild forbidding the practice, and in point of fact, the services of his wife and daughter were usually the only cheap casual labour a man could get. apprentice labour was cheap, but could not be obtained for short periods at a sudden pressure. "girl labour, therefore, had a peculiar value, and we may suppose that more girls worked at crafts and manufactures than would have been the case if they had been obliged to serve an apprenticeship." there was no systematic training and technical teaching of girls as there was of boys, though in some cases they were apprenticed and served their time, and in others, though unapprenticed, they may have been as carefully taught. "but apprenticeship played no part in the life of girls as a whole: they missed the general education which it afforded, and their training tended to be casual and irregular": on the other hand, their lives gained something in variety from the change of passing from household to industrial work and _vice versa_. the system must, however, have tended to keep women in an inferior and subordinate position. "for although they worked hard and the total amount of their labour has contributed largely to our industrial development, it was only exceptionally that they attained to the standing of employers and industrial leaders." the exceptions are rather interesting; it is evident that london was broad-minded in its delimitation of the woman's sphere of activity and there were many instances of girls being apprenticed. there were also women who, though unapprenticed, had the right of working on their own account, and this, though never very common, was not so unusual as to arouse comment or surprise. these were mostly widows who carried on the work of their deceased husbands; others were the daughters of freemen who claimed as such to be admitted to the gild or company, basing their claims on rights of patrimony. this taking up of independent work by no means implied that the women had themselves served apprenticeship in youth; it seems merely to have meant the inheritance of the goodwill and privileges along with the craftsman's shop. in the carpenters' company mary wiltshire and ann callcutt took up their freedom by right of patrimony, and there are other instances. _the development of capitalistic industry._--the growth and development of a capitalistic system of industry can be traced from the fifteenth century, and forms one of the most interesting and dramatic episodes in economic history. it is, however, not very easy to determine in what way the change influenced women's employment. the more prosperous among the weavers gradually developed into clothiers, employing many hands, but the majority tended to become mere wage-earners. a petition of weavers in stated that the clothiers had their own looms and weavers and fullers in their own houses, so that the master weavers were rendered destitute. "for the rich men the clothiers be concluded and agreed among themselves to hold and pay one price for weaving, which price is too little to sustain households upon, working night and day, holy-day and work-day, and many weavers are therefore reduced to the position of servants." the petition of suffolk clothiers, , says that the custom of their country is "to carry our wool out ... and put it to sundry spinners who have in their houses divers and sundry children and servants that do card and spin the same wool." in the north of england also large clothiers employing many hands were to be found as early as . the subsequent development of the industry, professor unwin tells us, took place in a very marked degree in those districts which were exempt from the operation of the statutes forbidding clothiers to set up outside market-towns. in other parts of the country the struggle was acute. "the protection of industry from all competition was the first and last word of the crafts. to employers and dealers the monopoly of trade chiefly meant their own monopoly of production and sale, while the wage-earner's predominant anxiety was to keep surplus labour out of the craft, lest the regular worker might be deprived of his comfortable certainty of subsistence." there was, however, a great expansion of trade and industry going on, and labour was needed. the master who had accumulated a little capital perhaps moved out to the valleys of yorkshire or gloucestershire in search of water-power for his fulling mills or finer wool for his weavers, or forsook the manufacturing town for some rural district where labour was plentiful and he could escape the heavy municipal dues which his business could ill afford to pay. the ordinances of worcester, for instance, contain regulations intended to prevent the masters giving out wool to the weavers in other parts so long as there were people enough in the city to do the work, "in the hindering of the poor commonalty of the same." the struggle between these two forms of industry, the craft carried on in the towns and the dispersed industry under a more definitely capitalistic organisation in the country, went on for centuries. from the earliest years of the reign of henry viii. to the accession of elizabeth, a constantly increasing amount of legislation was devoted to the protection of the town manufacture against the competition of the country. this legislation was interpreted by froude as a genuine endeavour to protect a highly skilled, highly organised industry of independent craftsmen against the evils of capitalism, but the closer researches of professor unwin show that this is idealism; the craftsmen were merely pawns in the hands of town merchants who dreaded to see some of the trade pass into the hands of a new class of country capitalists. this is an historical controversy too difficult to follow closely here; what we have to note is the part played by women in the change. we may as well admit that women's work during this industrial transition appears mostly as part of the problem of cheap unorganised labour. "the spinners seem never to have had any organisation, and were liable to oppression by their employers, not only through low wages, but through payment in kind, and the exaction of arbitrary fines." irregularity of employment was another trouble: in the play of _king henry viii._ the clothiers were shown making increased taxation a pretext for dismissing hands. the clothiers all, not able to maintain the many to them 'longing, have put off the spinsters, carders, fullers, weavers. to compensate their masters' greed and extortion they had recourse to petty dishonesties on their own part, and were frequently accused of keeping back part of the wool given out, or of making up the weight by the addition of oil or other moisture to the yarn. in a bill was presented to parliament which imposed penalties on frauds in spinning and weaving, but also pointed out that the workers were partly driven to fraud "for lack of sufficient wages and allowance," and proposed to raise the wages of spinners and weavers by one-third.[ ] this bill (which may be regarded as a kind of ancestor of mr. winston churchill's trade boards act, ) failed to pass. in the seventeenth century the rates of spinners' wages appear very low, even measured by contemporary standards. mr. hamilton has reproduced the wages assessed at quarter sessions by the justices of exeter in . weavers were to have - / d. a day with food or d. without. it is difficult to guess whether these weavers were supposed to be men or women; the rates fixed are less than those for husbandry labourers (which were fixed at d. and d.), but rather more than those for women haymakers, which were d. and d. spinsters, however, were to have "not above" d. a week with food or s. d. without. in at the same place spinsters were to have not above s. a week, or s. d. if without board, which again compares very unfavourably with the other rates mentioned. it is difficult to understand the extreme lowness of these rates of pay to spinsters, unless on the assumption that they were intended to apply to servants actually living and working in the clothiers' houses; or that spinning was supposed not to occupy a woman's whole time, which no doubt was often the case. but the rates fixed on that assumption should of course have been piece rates. altogether mr. hamilton's research here raises more questions than it can settle. no doubt the poor law helped in some degree to depress wages, for another form taken by this many-sided industry of wool was that of relief work under the poor law. spinning was the main resource of those whose duty under the poor law was to find work for the unemployed, and in institutions such as christ's hospital, ipswich, children were set to card and spin from their earliest years. such instances might be multiplied indefinitely. a charitable workhouse in bishopsgate used to give out wool and flax every monday morning to be spun at home to "such poor people as desire it and are skilful in spinning thereof."[ ] nevertheless we do occasionally get glimpses of women as an important factor in industry. for instance, in edward vi.'s time, there had been an attempt to require clothiers to be apprenticed. this law was repealed in the first year of queen mary, with the remark that "the perfect and principal ground of cloth making is the true sorting of wools, and the experience thereof consisteth only in women, as clothiers' wives and their women servants and not in apprentices." a still more remarkable development of female employment, perhaps, was the beginning of the factory system in the sixteenth century. these were chiefly in the west of england industry, and in wiltshire. leland in his _itinerary_ mentions a man called stumpe who had actually taken possession of the ancient abbey of malmesbury and filled it with looms, employing many hands. a still more celebrated instance was the factory of john winchcomb, a prudent man who married his master's widow and had a fine business at newbury, described in a ballad which shows him employing men weaving, each with a boy helper, and women carding wool: and in a chamber close beside two hundred maydens did abide in petticoats of stammel red and milk-white kerchiefs on their head. * * * * * these pretty maids did never lin but in that place all day did spin. in the weaver's gild of bristol prohibited its members from underselling one another in the prices of their work, and also forbade them to allow their wives to go for any work to clothiers' houses, which at least implies that there was some demand for their labour. now, although the growth of capital may have seriously affected the position of the male craftsmen, as professor unwin tells us, and reduced them to be mere wage-earners, it seems not impossible that the economic position of women may have been improved by the opportunity of work for wages outside the home. women had worked for the use and consumption of their own households, and, as wives of craftsmen, they had worked as helpers with their husbands. the new organisation of work by a capitalist employer opened up the possibility to women and girls of earning wages for themselves. the additional earnings of wife and children even if very small make a great difference in the comfort of a labourer's family. it is likely enough, indeed it is evident that their work was often grievously exploited, and the reduction of the craftsman to the position of a mere wage-earner may have diminished the spending power of the family. of all this we know little or nothing definitely, but it seems probable that the supersession of handicraft by a quasi-capitalistic form of organisation affected women less adversely than men. in the eighteenth century, the palmy days of the domestic system, some women in the industrial centres were earning what were considered very good wages. arthur young says of the cloth trade round leeds: "some women earn by weaving as much as the men." of norwich he says: "the earnings of manufacturers (_i.e._ hand-workers) are various, but in general high," the men on an average earning s. a week, and many women earning as much.[ ] it must be also remembered that each weaver kept several spinners employed, so that unless his family could supply him, he might easily be forced to have recourse to the services of women workers outside. mr. townsend warner quotes an estimate that weavers might require the services of spinners to keep them fully supplied with yarn. mantoux thinks this excessive, though it has to be remembered, as mr. townsend warner points out, that the spinners usually did not give their whole time. again, the description of the organisation of the trade, end of eighteenth century, quoted by bonwick, conveys the impression that women, in some cases at all events, were taking a responsible part. i went to york, to buy wool, and at that time it averaged about s. per pound. i then came home, sorted and combed it myself. after being combed, it was oiled and closed, that is, the long end of the wool and the short end were put together to form a skein. it took a number of skeins to make a top, each top making exactly a pound. then i took it to hand-spinners or miles distant. the mother or head of the family plucked the tops into pieces the length of the wool, and gave it to the different branches of the family to spin, who could spin about or hanks per day; for the spinning i gave one half penny per hank, and sometimes / d. for every hanks over. another interesting account is given by bamford: farms were most cultivated for the production of milk, butter and cheese.... the farming was mostly of that kind which was soonest and most easily performed, and it was done by the husband and other males of the family, whilst the wife and daughters and maid servants, if there were any of the latter, attended to the churning, cheese-making, and household work, and when that was finished, they busied themselves in carding, slubbing, and spinning of wool and cotton, as well as forming it into warps for the loom. the husband and sons would next, at times when farm labour did not call them abroad, size the warp, dry it, and beam it in the loom, and either they or the females, whichever happened to be least otherwise employed, would weave the warp down. a farmer would generally have or looms in his house. of course it is not to be inferred that the women thus employed were always free to control or spend their own earnings; in law they undoubtedly were not, if married. the domestic system so picturesquely described by defoe (in his _tour_), under which the family worked together, each, from the oldest to the youngest, doing his or her part, no doubt often involved a quite patriarchal distribution and control of the resulting earnings. still the mention of women as separate and individual earners that occurs often in eighteenth-century works on the subject must indicate that they were attaining a greater measure of individual recognition and self-determination than formerly.[ ] it is interesting also to notice that the cloth industry was sometimes carried on socially in the eighteenth century. bradford dale was covered with weavers and spinners, and the women and children of allerton, thornton, and other villages in the valley, used to flock on sunny days with their spinning wheels to some favourite pleasant spot, and work in company.[ ] _frame-work knitting._--the frame-work knitting trade has many points of resemblance with the woollen weaving trade. hand-knitting, we are told by felkin, was not introduced till the sixteenth century. it became extremely popular and was pursued by women in every class of life from the palace to the cottage. a kind of frame or hand-machine was invented in the seventeenth century by lee. it is said that lee invented this machine in a spirit of revenge and bitterness against a young lady he had fallen in love with, who was so intent on her knitting that she could never give him her attention when he made love to her. from watching her at work he acquired a mastery of the mesh or stitch, and anger at her being so engrossed with her employment impelled him to make a machine that would deprive her of her work. the frame-work knitters were incorporated under charles ii., and the company made rather drastic rules, trying to exclude women from apprenticeship, though they might become members on widowhood, as in so many of the old guilds. frame-work knitting also gave employment to women and children in seaming up the hose. in the eighteenth century the trade became sweated and underpaid. the hours of work were as much as fifteen a day. women, however, were paid at the same rates per piece, and were subject to the same deductions, and some of them were good hands and could earn as much as men. _silk._--the broad difference between linen and woollen on the one hand, and silk and cotton on the other, is that the two former, so ancient that their origins are lost to history, arose as household industries at the very early stage of civilisation in which the family is self-sufficient, or nearly so, providing for its own needs and consumption by the work of its own members; the two latter, on the contrary, appear chiefly as trades carried on not for use but for payment, and are also sharply differentiated from the more ancient industries by the fact that the raw materials--silk and cotton--are not indigenous to these islands, but have to be imported. in the manufacture of silk, women early appear as independent producers and manufacturers, for in the fifteenth century they were sufficiently organised to be able collectively to petition parliament for measures to check the importation of ribbons and wrought silk, and on their behalf was passed an act ( ) hen. vi. c. , which states that "it is shewed ... by the grievous complaint of the silk women and spinners of the mystery and occupation of silk-working, within the city of london, how that divers lombards and other strangers, imagining to destroy the said mystery and all such virtuous occupations of women in the said realm, to enrich themselves and to increase them and such occupations in other strange lands, have brought and daily go about to bring into the said realm such silk so made, wrought, twined, ribbands and chains falsely and deceitfully wrought, all manner girdels and other things concerning the said mystery and occupation, in no manner wise bringing any good silk unwrought, as they were wont to bring heretofore, to the final destruction of the said mysteries and occupations, unless it be the more hastily remedied by the king's majesty." the importation of silk, ribbons, etc., was forthwith prohibited, and we find similar prohibitions in edw. iv. c. and c. , edw. iv. c. , rich. iii. c. , and hen. vii. c. . henry vii. dealt with several silk women for ribands, fringes, and so forth, as recorded in his accounts. a statute of charles ii. ch. ii. c. says many women in london were employed in working silk. the manufacture of silk was introduced into derbyshire at the beginning of the eighteenth century. john lombe's silk mill was the first textile mill at work in that county. a rather considerable manufacture of piece silks and silk ribbons and braid grew up in derby and glossop, a large proportion of women and girls being employed. the numbers of operatives in this industry increased up to the census of and , when about operatives were employed, after which it began to go down, reaching the low figure of in the county in ; in , . in macclesfield silk-throwing mills were erected in , the manufacture of silk goods and mohair buttons having been already carried on for centuries. the silk throwsters of macclesfield for many years worked for spitalfields and supplied them with thrown silk through the london manufacturers. in , it is recorded, the wages paid to the millmen and stewards were s. a week, the women doublers s. d., children d. to s. the manufacture of broad silk was established at macclesfield in . we know by inference that many women must have been employed, but information is unfortunately scanty in regard to the social conditions of this trade, so specially adapted to industrial women. it is evident, however, that women kept their place in it, for the apprenticeship rules laid before the committee on ribbon weavers in expressly included women, both as apprentices and journeywomen. the inherent delicacy of many of the processes, and the fact that silk as a luxury trade is especially susceptible to changes of fashion, have retarded the use of machinery and preserved the finer fabrics as an artistic handicraft. but this, in itself a development to be welcomed, must also indicate that capital and labour can be more advantageously employed in the industries that have evolved more fully on modern lines, for the silk trade is undoubtedly declining in england. _other industries._--if information respecting the traditional employments of women in the linen and woollen trades is sparse and unsatisfactory, much more is it difficult to trace out their conditions in other industries of a less "womanly" character. yet even in such callings it is sufficiently evident that women were employed. traill's _social england_ tells us of women making ropes as early as the thirteenth century. women are known to have worked in the derbyshire lead mines, _temp._ edward ii. they washed and cleaned the ore at d. a day, and were assisted by four girls at / d. a day, men being employed at the same time at - / d. a day. mr. lapsley, in his account of a fifteenth-century ironworks, records that two women, wives of the smith and foreman respectively, performed miscellaneous tasks, from breaking up the iron-stone to blowing the bellows. in a parliamentary commission found that many of the surface workers employed in dressing the ore (_i.e._ freeing it from the earth and spar with which it was mixed) were women and children. an _account of mines_, dated , tells us that vast numbers of poor people at that time were employed in "working of mines, the very women and children employed therein, as well as the men, especially in the mines of lead." women worked in coal-mining at winterton, "for lack of men," in , and with children were employed in the "great coal-works and workhouses" started by sir humphrey mackworth at neath. they evidently worked underground, as several deaths of women in mine explosions are recorded. in arthur young found women working in lead mines and earning as much as s. a day, a man earning s. d. in birmingham trades, especially the making of buttons and other small articles, women were employed as far back as we can find any records. at burslem, young found women working in the potteries, earning s. to s. a week. near bristol he found women and girls employed in a copper works for melting copper ore, and making the metal into pins, pans, etc. at gloucester he found great numbers of women working in the pin manufacture. in the sheffield plated ware trade he found girls working, but does not mention women. of the sheffield trades generally he says that women and girls earn very good wages, "much more than by spinning wool in any part of the kingdom." it is unfortunate that we have, so far, very little information in regard to women's work in non-textile trades previous to the industrial revolution. it is tolerably safe to infer that the above scattered hints indicate a state of things neither new nor exceptional. there can be little doubt that women constantly worked in these trades, either assisting the head of the family, or as a wage-worker for an outside employer. but we know so little that we cannot attempt to enlarge on the subject. chapter ii. women and the industrial revolution. he! an die arbeit! alle von hinnen! hurtig hinab! aus den neuen schachten schafft mir das gold! euch grüsst die geissel, grabt ihr nicht rasch! das keiner mir müssig bürge mir mime, sonst birgt er sich schwer meines armes schwunge: * * * zögert ihr noch? zaudert wohl gar? zittre und zage, gezähmtes heer! wagner, _das rheingold_. the cotton trade is the industry most conspicuously identified with the series of complex changes that we call the industrial revolution. its history before that period is comparatively unimportant; we have therefore left it over from the previous chapter to the present. cottons are mentioned as a manchester trade in the sixteenth century, but it seems probable that these were really a coarse kind of woollen stuff, and not cotton at all. cotton wool had, it is true, been imported from the east for some time, but was used only for candle wicks and such small articles, not for cloth. in the poor law of elizabeth, cotton is not included among the articles that might be provided by overseers to "set the poor on work." the first authoritative mention of the cotton manufacture of manchester occurs in lewis roberts' _treasure of traffike_. it appears from this tract, which was published in , that the levant company used to bring cotton wool to london, which was afterwards taken to manchester and worked up into "fustians, vermilions, dimities, and other such stuffs." the manufacture had therefore become an established fact by the middle of the seventeenth century, but its growth was not rapid for some time. owing to the rudeness of the spinning implements used fine yarn could not be spun and fine goods could not be woven. in the second quarter of the eighteenth century, however, manchester and the cotton manufacture began to increase very markedly in size and activity, and the resulting demand for yarn served to stimulate the invention of machinery. "the weaver was continually pressing upon the spinner. the processes of spinning and weaving were generally performed in the same cottage, but the weaver's own family could not supply him with a sufficient quantity of weft, and he had with much pains to collect it from neighbouring spinsters. thus his time was wasted, and he was often subjected to high demands for an article on which, as the demand exceeded the supply, the spinner could put her own price." guest says it was no uncommon thing for a weaver to walk three or four miles in a morning, and call on five or six spinners, before he could collect weft to serve him for the remainder of the day, and when he wished to weave a piece in a shorter time than usual, a new ribbon or a gown was necessary to quicken the exertions of the spinner. the difficulty was intensified in by kay's invention of the fly-shuttle, which enabled the weaver to do twice as much work with a given effort, and consequently of course to use up yarn in a similar proportion. john hargreaves, a blackburn weaver, contrived a spinning machine which multiplied eightfold the productive power of one spinner, and was, moreover, simple enough to be worked by a child. subsequent developments and improvements were effected by paul wyatt and arkwright, and the latter being a good business man, unlike some other inventors, made money out of his ideas. the changes effected in rural social life by the industrial revolution are excellently described by w. radcliffe. in the year , when radcliffe was a boy nine or ten years old, his native township of mellor, in derbyshire, only fourteen miles from manchester, was occupied by between fifty and sixty farmers; rents did not usually exceed s. per statute acre, and of these fifty or sixty farmers, there were only six or seven who paid their rents directly from the produce of their land; all the rest made it partly in some branch of trade, such as spinning and weaving woollen, linen, or cotton. the cottagers were employed entirely in this manner, except at harvest time. the father would earn s. to s. d. at his loom, and his sons perhaps s. or s. each per week; but the "great sheet-anchor of all cottages and small farms," according to radcliffe, was the profit on labour at the handwheel. it took six to eight hands to prepare and spin yarn sufficient to keep one weaver occupied, and a demand was thus created for the labour of every person, from young children to the aged, supposing they could see and move their hands. the better class of cottagers and even small farmers also used spinning to make up their rents and help support their families respectably. from the year to a complete change was effected in the textile trade, cotton being largely used in substitution for wool and linen. the hand-wheels were mostly thrown into lumber-rooms, and the yarn was all spun on common jennies. in weaving no great change took place in these eighteen years, save the increasing use of the fly-shuttle and the change from woollen and linen to cotton. but the mule twist was introduced about , and the enormous variety of new yarns now in vogue, for the production of every kind of clothing--from the finest book-muslin or lace to the heaviest fustian--added to the demand for weaving, and put all hands in request. the old loom shops being insufficient, every lumber-room, even old barns, cart-houses, and out-buildings of every description were repaired, windows having been broken through the old blank walls, and all were fitted up for weaving. new weavers' cottages with loom-shops also rose up in every direction, and were immediately occupied. it is said that families at this period used to bring home s., s., s., s., or even s. a week. the operative weavers were in a condition of prosperity never before experienced by them. every man had a watch in his pocket, women could dress as they pleased, and as radcliffe records, "the church was crowded to excess every sunday." handsome furniture, china, and plated ware, were acquired by these well-to-do families, and many had a cow and a meadow. this prosperity was, however, ephemeral in duration. with the increased complexity and elaboration of machinery, a change came. the profitableness of the trade brought in larger capital, and led to the erection of mills, with water power as the motive force. in such buildings as these machinery could be set up, and labour could be drilled, organised and subdivided, so as to produce a far greater return on the invested capital than in the weavers' shops. these mills were built in places at some distance from towns, and often in valleys and glens for the sake of water-power; they were, however, kept as near towns as possible for the sake of markets and means of transport. the first mills were exclusively devoted to carding and spinning. the gradual increase of this system soon influenced the prosperity of the domestic manufacturer--his profits quickly fell, workmen being readily found to superintend the mill labour at a rate of wages, high, it is true, but yet comparatively much lower than the recently inflated value of home labour. the introduction of steam-power considerably hastened the evolution of the factory industry. the power-loom was invented, or rather its invention was initiated, or suggested, not by a manufacturer, or even by any one conversant with textile work, but by a kentish clergyman, named cartwright. he heard of arkwright's spinning machinery in from some manchester men whom he met, apparently quite by chance, at matlock. one of these remarked that the machines which had just been perfected would produce so much cotton that no hands could ever be found to weave it. cartwright replied that in that case arkwright must invent a weaving mill. the manchester men all declared this to be impossible, and gave cartwright all sorts of technical reasons for their belief. he, however, went home and rapidly thought out a rude contrivance which he employed a carpenter and smith to make under his orders, got a weaver to put in a warp, and found that the thing worked, though in a rough and unwieldy manner. unfortunately, like so many inventors, he had little or no business ability. his first factory was a failure. he made a second attempt, in , and erected considerable buildings. by this time the weavers were already up in arms. cartwright received threatening letters, and the factory was burnt. nevertheless, the change was progressing, and where one failed, others were destined to succeed. several weaving factories were started in scotland, at the end of the century, and in horrocks put up some iron automatic looms at stockport, which were soon copied in other towns of lancashire. the power-loom, however, was still imperfect in detail, and did not come into general use until about . the downfall of prices in weaving, which for the workers concerned was as tragic as it was astonishing, can be seen in a table in "social and economic history," _victoria county history, lancashire_, vol. ii. p. . miss alice law gives the prices for the whole series of years - ; as the work is fairly accessible i reproduce only samples, which show the trend sufficiently well. prices for weaving one piece of second or third calico. +------------------------------------------------------------------+ | | . | . | . | . | |--------------------------|---------|---------|---------|---------| | |_s._ _d._|_s._ _d._|_s._ _d._|_s._ _d._| |average price per piece. | | | | | |average weekly sum a | | | | | | good weaver could earn | | | | | |sum a family of , being| | | | | | weavers, could earn. | | | - / | | |indispensable weekly | | | | | | expenses for repair of | | | | | | looms, fuel, light. | | | | | |sum remaining to six | | | | | | persons for food and | | | | | | clothing per week. | | | - / | | +------------------------------------------------------------------+ subjected to the competition of power-looms, the hand-weavers were compelled either to desert their employment and seek factory work, as in fact the younger, more capable and energetic of them actually did, or to reduce their rates of pay, which in time reached the point of starvation. it is extremely difficult to find much definite information as to the condition of industrial women in this period. the technical changes, commercial and political controversies, the startling growth of wealth, and the conflicts of labour and capital that made up the more striking and dramatic side of the industrial revolution have naturally impressed the imagination of historians. little attention has been given to the state of women at this time. it is by inference from known facts rather than by actual documentary evidence that we can arrive at an estimate of the effects on women of these extraordinary changes. a certain proportion of women, no doubt a very small one, must certainly have arrived at wealth and prosperity through the rapid accession of fortune achieved by some of the weavers and yeomen farmers, who became employers on a large scale. this is scarcely the place to treat of this subject, though it is by no means destitute of interest.[ ] there were, further, women who distinctly benefited by the improved wages of men in certain industries, when the spending power of the family was increased by the new methods. this was the case temporarily in the weaving trade during the period of expansion through cheaper yarn noted above; dr. cunningham says that "the improved rates for weaving rendered the women and children independent, and unwilling to 'rival a wooden jenny.'"[ ] baines also tells us at a later date, that where a spinner is assisted by his own children in the mill, "his income is so large that he can live more generously, clothe himself and his family better than many of the lower class of tradesmen, and though improvidence and misconduct too often ruin the happiness of these families, yet there are thousands of spinners in the cotton districts who eat meat every day, wear broad cloth on the sunday, dress their wives and children well, furnish their houses with mahogany and carpets, subscribe to publications, and pass through life with much of humble respectability."[ ] the effects of the industrial revolution on women other than the two classes just indicated are more complicated. in the first place, the rural labouring class suffered considerably from the loss of by-industries, which in some districts had been a great help in eking out the wages of the head of the family. _decay of hand-spinning._--in regard to this subject the facts are fairly well known. towards the end of the eighteenth century spinning ceased to be remunerative, even as a by-industry. as the work became more specialised, as the machines came more and more into use, it became more and more difficult for a mere home industry to compete with work done under capitalistic conditions. numbers of families, previously independent, became unable to support themselves without help from the rates. sir frederick eden gives some concrete cases. at halifax he notes that "many poor women who earned a bare subsistence by spinning, are now in a very wretched condition." he ascribes this to the influence of the war in reducing the price of weaving and spinning, but no doubt the competition of the machine industry was already an important factor. at leeds, where the new methods had been largely introduced, the workers were better off. in another place he gives some instances of workers at kendal where the earnings of a whole family, the father weaving and the wife and elder children weaving, spinning, or knitting, were insufficient to maintain them without the aid of the poor law. in an article in the _gentleman's magazine_ (may , p. ), the writer remarks, as if noticing a new phenomenon, that the families of labourers are now dependent on the men's labours or nearly so; and adds rather brutally "they [the families] hang as a dead weight upon the rates for want of employment." the loss of these by-industries as a supplementary source of income was no doubt one of several causes that impelled the drift of labour from the country to the town. it is also worth noting that the women lost, not only their earnings, but something in variety of work and in manual training. _the hand-loom weaver's wife._--more miserable still was the fate of those hand-weavers who found the piece-rates of their work constantly sagging downwards, and were unable or unwilling to find another trade. it appears that there was a kind of reciprocal movement going on between the spinners and weavers during the transition, which is of interest as illustrating the kind of skill and intelligence that was required. the weavers, who had been enjoying a period of such unusual prosperity and might be expected therefore to have more knowledge of the progress of trade and to be possessed at least of some small capital, not infrequently abandoned the loom, purchased machinery for spinning, and gradually rose more and more into the position of an employer or trader rather than a mere craftsman. on the other hand, the spinner of the poorer sort, being unable to keep pace with the growing expense of the improved and ever more elaborate machinery, not infrequently threw aside the wheel and took to weaving, as the easier solution of the immediate problem of subsistence for a hand-worker who had neither capital nor business ability to enable him to succeed in the new conditions of the struggle. thus the ranks of the hand-weavers tended to be swollen by the failures of other industries and depleted of the most capable men, and as mantoux notes, "the fall in weavers' wages actually preceded the introduction of machinery for weaving." from the reduction of weavers' rates was constant. the weaving of a piece of velvet, paid at £ in , brought the worker only £ : s. in , £ in , £ : s. in . at the same time the quantity in a piece was increased. this violent depreciation of hand-work was caused at first by surplus labour, and was subsequently aggravated by machinism. the workers who were most capable cast in their lot with the new system and the new methods. but the misery of the slower, older, less energetic worker was terrible. in the coventry ribbon trade wages were lowered by the employment of young people as half-pay apprentices, who were taken on for two, three or five years, and bound by an unstamped indenture or agreement. these were principally girls; the boys, for the sake of the elective franchise, were generally bound for seven years. it was stated before peel's committee in , by the town clerk of coventry (p. ), that in , the demand for labour being very great, numbers of girls had been induced to leave their situations, for the sake of the higher wages in the ribbon trade. the boom collapsed, and many of them came upon the poor rates, or, as it was alleged, on the streets. weavers' earnings were reduced by one half. another witness, a master manufacturer, saw in the system a transition to the factory system, and prophesied that if the half-pay apprentice system were not done away with, it would "cut up the trade wholly, so that there will be no such thing as a journeyman weaver to be found.... we shall all build large manufactories to contain from fifty to a hundred looms or upwards, and we must all have these half-pay apprentices, and the journeymen will all be reduced, and they must come to us and work for so much a week or go to the parish." the effects of industrial change are felt by women directly as members of the family; the impoverishment of the male wage-earner whose occupation is taken away by technical developments means the anguished struggle of the wife and mother to keep her children from starving. the wife could often earn nearly as much as her husband, and the intensest dislike to the factory could not stand against those hard economic facts. the select committee on handloom weavers, , took evidence from disconsolate broken-hearted men, who showed that their earnings were utterly inadequate for family subsistence and must needs be supplemented by the wives working in factories. one poor irishman said that he and his little daughter of nine between them minded the baby of fifteen months. another weaver, a man of his acquaintance, must have starved if he had not had a wife to go out to work for him. the bitterness of the position was accentuated by the fact that the weaver's traditions and associations were bound up with the domestic system, and in no class probably was factory work for women more unwelcome. the change was resented as a break-up of family life. hargreaves' spinning jenny, cartwright's combing machine, jacquard's loom, to mention no others, were at different times destroyed by an angry mob. with desperate energy the unions long opposed the introduction of women workers. what drove the men to these hopeless struggles was the lowering of wages that they discerned to be the probable, nay, certain result of both changes. the tragedy of the man who loses his work, or finds its value suddenly shrunken by no fault of his own, is as poignant as any in history. it means not only his own loss and suffering, but the degradation of his standard of life and the break-up of his home. it is not simply man against woman, but man _plus_ the wife and children he loves against the outside irresponsible woman (as he conceives her) whose interests are nothing to him. _the factory._--the great inventions were not, as we so often are apt to imagine them, the effort of a single brain, of "a great man" in the carlylean sense. mechanical progress, in its early stages at all events, is often the result of the intelligence of innumerable workers, brought to bear on all kinds of practical difficulties, and mechanical problems. thus one of the many attempts at a spinning machine was set up in a warehouse in birmingham in ; the machine was set in motion by two asses walking round an axis, and ten or a dozen girls were employed in superintending and assisting the operation! this highly picturesque arrangement proved unworkable and was given up as a failure. again, at a later date, the first spinning machines that came into general use by the country people of lancashire were small affairs, and the awkward position required to work them was, as aikin tells us, "discouraging to grown-up people, who saw with surprise children from nine to twelve years of age manage them with dexterity." in these cases and others like them, we still call the work spinning, because the result is the same as from hand-spinning, viz. yarn; but in reality the process is new, the work is a rearrangement of human activity, rather than a transfer. we may very well admit, in the light of present day knowledge, that the transfer of the occupation from the home to the outside factory or workshop was by no means an unqualified loss, was indeed a social advance. the discomfort of using a small and restricted home as a work place, the litter and confusion that are almost inevitable, not to mention the depression of being always in the midst of one's working environment, are such as can hardly be realised by those who have not given attention to industrial matters. but this was not the aspect that the poor weavers themselves could see, or could possibly be expected to see. the break-up of the customary home life endeared to them by long habit and association was only a less misfortune than their increasing destitution. the family ceased to be an industrial unit. the factory demanded "hands." the machines caused a complete shifting of processes of work, a shifting which, i need hardly say, is going on even up to the present time. much work that had previously been regarded as skilled and difficult, demanding technical training and apprenticeship, became light and easy, within the powers of a child, a young girl, or a woman. on the other hand, work that had been done in every cottage, now was handed over to a skilled male operative, working with all the help capital and elaborate machinery could give him. the effects of the factory system were the subject of much keen and even violent controversy during the first half of the nineteenth century. during the first two or three decades child-labour was the most prominent question; women's labour appears to have been very much taken for granted (robert owen, for instance, says little about it) and it became a subject of controversy only about the time of the passing of the first effective factory act, in . baines, ure, and the elder cooke taylor, may be mentioned among those who took an extremely optimistic view of factory industry and devoted much energy and ingenuity to proving it to be innocuous, or even beneficial to health, and on the other hand were p. gaskell, john fielden, philip grant, and others, who violently attacked it. even in modern times schultze-gävernitz and allen clarke have presented us with carefully considered views almost equally divergent. the modern reader, who tries to reconcile opinions so extraordinarily antagonistic may well feel bewildered and despair of arriving at any coherent statement. how are we to account for the fact, for instance, that the development of the factory, with its female labour and machinery, was viewed with the utmost hostility by the workers, and yet on the other hand that the rural labourers streamed into the towns to apply for work in factories, and could seldom or never be induced to go back again? how are we to account for the extraordinarily different views of men of the same period, intelligent, kind-hearted, and with fair opportunities of judging the facts of social life? i am far from expecting to solve these questions entirely, but a few considerations may be helpful. in the first place we have to remember that the change brought about by the great industry and the factory system was so far-reaching and so complex that it was impossible for any one human brain at once to grasp the whole. thus it happened that one set of facts would appeal strongly to one observer, and another set, equally strongly, to another observer. each would overlook what to the other was of the greatest importance. political sentiment also counted for a good deal, the landed interest (mostly tories) being extremely keen-sighted to any wrongdoing of the manufacturers and their friends (mostly liberal), while these last were not slow to reciprocate with equally faithful criticism. by taking the optimists alone, or the reformers alone, we get a consistent but inadequate view of industrial conditions. by combining them we arrive at a contradictory, unsatisfactory picture, which may, however, be somewhat nearer the truth than either can give us alone. it is also necessary to bear in mind the unspoken assumptions, the background, so to speak, existing in any writer's brain. it would make a great difference in a man's view of social conditions in , say, if he was mentally contrasting them with the terrible scarcity and poverty that prevailed at the turn of the century, or if his recollections were mainly occupied with that bright period of prosperity enjoyed by the weavers some years earlier, a prosperity brief indeed, but lasting long enough to make a profound impression on the minds of those who shared in or witnessed it. another consideration which is of use in clearing up the chaos of historical evidence on these questions, is the immense variety in conditions from one factory to another. this is the case even at the present day, when the factory act requires a certain minimum of decency and comfort. the factory inspectors record the extraordinary difference still existing in these respects, and, as a personal experience, the present writer well remembers the extreme contrast between two match factories visited some years ago at a very short interval; the one crowded, gloomy, with weary, exhausted, slatternly-looking girls doing perilous work in a foul atmosphere; the other with ample space, light, and ventilation, the workers cleanly dressed, and supplied with the best appliances known to make the work safe and harmless. such an experience is some guide in helping the modern student to comprehend more or less why fielden wrote of _the curse of the factory system_, while ure could maintain: "the fine spinning mills at manchester ... in the beauty, delicacy and ingenuity of the machines have no parallel among the works of man nor _in the orderly arrangement_, and the value of the products." there is no doubt that the early factories were often run by men who, whatever their energy, thrift, and ability for business, did not mostly possess the qualities necessary to a man who is to have the control, during at least half the week, of a crowd of workers, many of them women and children. men like owen and arkwright were working out a technique and a tradition, not only for the mechanical side, but for the human side of this new business of employment on a large scale. but not all employers were owens or even arkwrights. p. gaskell writes: "many of the first successful manufacturers were men who had their origin in the rank of mere operatives, or who had sprung from the extinct class of yeomen.... the celerity with which some of these individuals accumulated wealth in the early times of steam spinning and weaving, is proof that they were men of quick views, great energy of character, and possessing no small share of sagacity ... but they were men of very limited general information--men who saw and knew little of anything beyond the demand for their twist or cloth, and the speediest and best modes for their production. they were, however, from their acquired station, men who exercised very considerable influence upon the hordes of workmen who became dependent upon them." here gaskell has brought out a point which is singularly ignored by the writers of what may be called the optimistic school. we may fully agree with these last in their contention that the working class benefited by the increased production, higher wages, and cheapened goods secured by the factory system, or "great industry," as it is called. but they overlook the point of the immense power that system put into the hands of individual masters, over the lives, and moral and physical health of workers. for the whole day long, and sometimes for the night also, the operative was in the factory; the temperature of the air he breathed, the hours he worked, the sanitary and other conditions of his work were settled by those in control of the works, who were not responsible in any way to any external supervising authority for the conditions of employment, save to the very limited extent required by the early factory acts, which were ineffectively administered. in a curious passage the elder cooke taylor, who was in many ways a most careful and intelligent observer, shows how completely he fails to grasp the position: a factory is an establishment where several workmen are collected together for the purpose of obtaining greater and cheaper conveniences for labour than they could procure individually at their homes; for producing results by their combined efforts, which they could not accomplish separately.... the principle of a factory is that each labourer, working separately, is controlled by some associating principle, which directs his producing powers to effecting a common result, which it is the object of all collectively to attain. factories are therefore a result of the universal tendency to association which is inherent in our nature, and by the development of which every advance in human improvement and human happiness has been gained. every sentence here is true; but the combined effect is not true. taylor ingenuously omits one important fact. the "associating principle" is the employer working for his own hand, and the "common result" is that employer's profit. marx saw that the subordination of the workman to the uniform motion of machines, and the bringing together of individuals of both sexes and all ages gave rise to a system of elaborate discipline, dividing the workers into operatives and overlookers, into "private soldiers and sergeants of an industrial army." but it is not necessary to call in the rather suspect authority of marx. richards, the factory inspector, who by no means took a sentimental view of mill work, had written quite candidly: a steam engine in the hands of an interested or avaricious master is a relentless power, to which old and young are equally bound to submit. their position in these mills is that of thraldom; fourteen, fifteen, or sixteen hours per day, is exhausting to the strength of all, yet none dare quit the occupation, from the dread of losing work altogether. industry is thus in bonds; unprotected children are equally bound to the same drudgery.[ ] this cast-iron regularity of the factory system was felt as a terrible hardship, especially in the case of women, and often amounted to actual slavery. wholesale accusations were brought against the factory system as being in itself immoral and a cause of depravity. southey said of the factory children, that: the moral atmosphere wherein they live and move and have their being is as noxious to the soul, as the foul and tainted air which they inhale is to their bodily constitution.... what shall we say then of a system which ... debases all who are engaged in it?... it is a wen, a fungous excrescence from the body politic. here we may as well admit that the agitators, though possibly right in their facts, did not represent them in a true perspective. perhaps the worst feature of working-class life at this time was the scandalous state of housing. the manufacturing towns had grown up rapidly to meet a sudden demand. the progress of enclosing, the decay of home industry, and the call of capital for labour in towns had caused a considerable displacement of population. the immigrants had to find house-room in the outskirts of what had but lately been mere villages. sanitary science was backward, and municipal government was decadent and could not cope with the rush to the towns. the immigrant population and the existing social conditions were of a type favourable to a rapid increase in numbers, economic independence at an early age not unnaturally tending towards unduly early marriage and irresponsibility of character. dr. aikin writes: as manchester may bear comparison with the metropolis itself in the rapidity with which whole new streets have been raised, and in its extension on every side toward the surrounding country; so it unfortunately vies with, or exceeds the metropolis, in the closeness with which the poor are crowded in offensive, dark, damp, and incommodious habitations, a too fertile source of disease.[ ] there is abundant evidence of equally bad conditions in other towns. such circumstances are inevitably demoralising, and they served to give the impression that the factory population, as such, was extraordinarily wild and wicked. but these particular evils were not specially due to the factory system. in the matter of sanitation and housing there can be little doubt that the rural population was no better, perhaps even worse cared-for than the urban or industrial, the main difference of course being that neglect of cleanliness and elementary methods of sewage disposal are less immediate and disastrous evils among a sparse and scattered population than they are in towns. much has been written and spoken about the evils of factory life in withdrawing the mother from the home, and causing neglect of children and infants. yet even this, an evil which no one would desire to minimise, is not peculiar to factory towns. a report on the state of the agricultural population says that: even when they have been taught to read and write, the women of the agricultural labouring class (viz. in wilts, devon, and dorset), are in a state of ignorance affecting the daily welfare and comfort of their families. ignorance of the commonest things, needlework, cooking, and other matters of domestic economy, is described as universally prevalent.... a girl brought up in a cottage until she marries is generally ignorant of nearly everything she ought to be acquainted with for the comfortable and economic management of a cottage ... a young woman goes into the fields to labour, with which ends all chance of improving her position; she marries and brings up her daughters in the same ignorance, and their lives are a repetition of her own. material progress had completely outdistanced the social side of civilisation. it was easy to see that old-fashioned restrictions on commerce needed to be swept away, as a trammel and a hindrance; but where was the constructive effort and initiative to shape the new fabric of society that should supply the people's needs? it was the misfortune of the factory system that it took its sudden start at a moment when the entire energies of the british legislature were preoccupied with the emergencies of the french revolution.... the foundations on which it reposes were laid in obscurity and its early combinations developed without attracting the notice of statesmen or philosophers.... there thus crept into unnoticed existence a closely condensed population, under modifying influences the least understood, for whose education, religious wants, legislative and municipal protection, no care was taken and for whose physical necessities the more forethought was requisite, from the very rapidity with which men were attracted to these new centres. to such causes may be referred the incivilisation and immorality of the overcrowded manufacturing towns.[ ] it is curious to compare the criminal neglect here indicated with the self-complacency of the governing classes of this country, and the immense claims for admiration and respect often put forth on account of their control of home and local administration. in this tremendous crisis in the social life of the country, the complex changes of the industrial revolution, the classes in power sat by, apathetic and uninterested, taking little or no pains to cope with the problem, or interfered merely with harsh or even cruel repression of the workers' efforts to combine for self-defence. although dr. percival and dr. ferrier had drawn attention to the disease and unhealthy conditions existing in factories as far back as and , it was not until that a factory act was passed containing any administrative provisions that could be deemed effective. public health measures came later still. much as the industrial employers were abused by the landowners, it is a fact that reforms and ameliorative projects were started originally by the former. sir robert peel, who owned cotton factories, was the pioneer of factory legislation, and robert owen gave the impetus to industrial reform by the humanity and ability that characterised his management of his own mill, and the generosity of his treatment of his own employees. _the woman wage-earner._--the initiation of the factory system undoubtedly fixed and defined the position of the woman wage-earner. for good or for evil, the factory system transformed the nature of much industrial work, rendering it indefinitely heterogeneous, and incidentally opening up new channels for the employment, first, unfortunately, of children, afterwards of women. in the case of spinning, the division of work between men and women was attended with considerable complications, and it appears that the masters confidently expected to employ women in greater proportions than was actually feasible. a comparison of the evidence by masters and men respectively given before the select committee on artizans and machinery throws some interesting sidelights on the question, though it does not make it absolutely clear. dunlop, a glasgow master, had frequent disputes with the "combination" as the union was then called. he built a new mill with machinery which he hoped would make it unnecessary to employ men at all. in a few years he was, however, again employing men as before, and his account of the matter was that this change of front was due to the violence of the men's unions. two of the operative leaders, however, came up at a later stage to protest against dunlop's version. they showed that the persistent violence attributed to the men really narrowed down to a single case of assault some years before, when there was not sufficient evidence to commit the men accused. they denied the alleged opposition to women's employment and declared that there was absolutely no connexion between the outrage complained of and the substitution of men for women, which had in fact been effected by dunlop's sons during his absence in america, and was due to the fact that the women could not do as much or as good work on the spinning machines as men could. dunlop also had given an exaggerated account of the wages paid, making no allowance for stoppage and breakdown of machinery, which were frequent. a few years later we find some interesting evidence as to the efforts of further developments in spinning machinery. a mr. graham told the select committee on manufactures and commerce that he was introducing self-acting mules, and did not yet know whether women could be adapted to their use, but hoped to get rid of "all the spinners who are making exorbitant wages," and employ piecers only, giving one of the piecers a small increase in wages. he was also employing a number of women upon a different description of wheels, and others in throstle spinning. according to him the women got about s. a week, a statement which it would probably be wise to discount. being asked whether the self-acting mules or the spinning by women would be cheapest, he replied that it was hoped the spinning by self-acting mules would be cheapest, as even the women were combining and giving trouble. in , doherty, a labour man, showed that although women were allowed to spin in manchester, "whole mills of them," the number was being reduced, the physical strength of women being insufficient to work the larger wheels which had come into use. it is useful to obtain some idea of the views of the employing class at a time of such complex changes, and it seems evident that some at least were almost taken off their feet by the exciting prospects opening out to them, and hoped to dispense very largely with skilled male labour, or even with adult labour altogether. at the present time though there have been great developments in machinery, spinning is the one large department of the cotton industry in which men still exceed women in numbers. the employment of women in ring-spinning is increasing, but there are special counts which can only be done on the mule, which is beyond the woman's strength and skill. between and male cotton-spinners increased in numbers per cent, female per cent. the totals were in respectively , and , . the introduction of the power-loom was a very important event in the history of women's employment. even in a woman working a power-loom could do "twice as much" as a man with a hand-loom, and the assistant commissioner who made this observation added the prophecy that in another generation women only would be employed, save a few men for the necessary superintendence and care of the machinery. "there will be no weavers as a class; the work will be done by the wives of agricultural labourers or different mechanics." gaskell, a writer who gave much thought and consideration to the problems before his eyes, and saw a good deal more than many of his contemporaries, also thought that machinery would soon reach a point at which "automata" would have done away with the need of adult workmen. he says, however, on another page, that "since steam-weaving became general the number of adults engaged in the mills has been progressively advancing inasmuch as very young children are not competent to take charge of steam-looms. the individuals employed at them are chiefly girls and young women, from sixteen to twenty-two." gaskell attributed the employment of women in factories, not so much to their taking less wages, as to their being more docile and submissive than men. out of weavers employed in one establishment, and which was ... composed indiscriminately, of men, women, and children--the one whose earnings were the most considerable, was a girl of sixteen.... the mode of payment ... is payment for work done--piece-work as it is called.... thus this active child is put upon more than a par with the most robust adult; is in fact placed in a situation decidedly advantageous compared to him.... workmen above a certain age are difficult to manage.... men who come late into the trade, learn much more slowly than children ... and as all are paid alike, so much per pound, or yard, it follows that these men ... are not more efficient labourers than girls and boys, and much less manageable.... adult male labour having been found difficult to manage and not more productive--its place has, in a great measure, been supplied by children and women; and hence the outcry which has been raised with regard to infant labour, in its moral and physical bearings. this passage, involved as it is in thought and expression, is not without interest as a reflection of the mind of that time, painfully working out contemporary problems. gaskell confuses women's labour with child labour, and it is difficult to discover from this book that he has ever given any thought to the former problem at all. the family for him is the social unit, and women are classed with children as beings for whom the family as a matter of course provides. he omits from consideration the woman thrown upon her own exertions, and the grown-up girl, who, even if living at home, must earn. it is not difficult to find other instances of similar _naïveté_; thus in the supplementary report on child labour in factories, it was gravely suggested that it may be wrong to be much concerned because women's wages are low. nature effects her own purpose wisely and more effectually than could be done by the wisest of men. the low price of female labour makes it the most profitable as well as the most agreeable occupation for a female to superintend her own domestic establishment, and her low wages do not tempt her to abandon the care of her own children. here again, there is apparently no perception of the case of the woman, who, by sheer economic necessity, is forced to work, whether for herself alone, or for her children also. it is hardly necessary to remark that the estimate quoted above, according to which the girl weaving on a power-loom could do twice as much as a man on a hand-loom, has since been enormously exceeded. schultz-gävernitz in thought that a power-loom weaver accomplished about as much as forty good hand-weavers, and no doubt even this estimate is now out of date. partly for technical, partly for other reasons, the woman's presence in the factory is now much more taken for granted. the girl who is to be a weaver begins work usually at twelve years old, the minimum age permitted by law, and may spend six weeks with a relation or friends learning the ways. she thus becomes a "tenter" or "helper," and fetches the weft, carries away the finished goods, sweeps and cleans. at thirteen or fourteen she may have two looms to mind, and will earn about s. a week. at sixteen she will be promoted to three looms, and later on to four, beyond which women seldom go; a man sometimes minds six looms, but needs a helper for this extra strain. the work needs considerable skill and attention. often a four-loom weaver will be turning out four different kinds of cloth on the four looms. it is also fatiguing, as she is on her feet the whole ten hours of her legal day, sometimes, unfortunately, lengthened by the objectionable practice known as "time-cribbing," which means that ten or even fifteen minutes are taken from the legal meal times, and added to the working hours. it takes some years to become an efficient weaver, and the drain on the weaver's strength and vitality is considerable. where steaming is used, colds and rheumatism are very prevalent. it is noticed by the weavers that the sickness rate is lower in times of bad trade, and indeed slack seasons are regarded as times for much-needed recuperation. women, although they equal or here and there even excel men in skill and quickness, fail in staying power. many get fagged out by three o'clock in the afternoon. the great increase in speed is also a factor in sickness. weavers are now said to be doing as much work in a day as in a day and a half twelve or thirteen years ago, and the wages have increased, but not proportionately. the work involves not only physical, but mental strain, and many cases of nervous break-down and anaemia are known to occur among weavers. it should not be forgotten that many women and girls have domestic work to do after their day's work in the mill is over, and the high standard of comfort and "house pride" in lancashire makes this a considerable addition. another large class of women cotton operatives are the card-room workers, officially described as "card-and blowing-room operatives." in this department men and women do different work. the men do the more dangerous, more unhealthy, and also the better paid work. women's work also is dangerous, and unhealthy from the dust and cotton fibre that pervade the atmosphere. an agitation is on foot to have a dust-extractor fixed to every carding-engine. the operatives suffer chiefly from excessive speed and pressure. they are continually pressed to keep the machines going, and not to stop them even for necessary cleaning, and i am assured by a card-room operative that in the card-room the highest percentage of accidents for the week occurs on friday, when the principal weekly cleaning takes place, and the lowest on monday, when cleaning is not required; also that the highest percentage of accidents during the day occurs on an average between a.m. and noon, when the dirtiest parts of the machinery are usually wiped over. the chief cause of these accidents is cleaning while the machinery is in motion. the present rate of speed produces extreme exhaustion in the workers, and some consider that card-room work is altogether too hard for women, and not suitable to their physical capacity. it is said to be done entirely by men in america. the male weaver is by no means extinct, as the prophets we have quoted seemed to expect. cotton-weaving offers the very unusual, perhaps unique example of a large occupation employing both man and woman, and on equal terms. the earnings of the male weaver are, however, very inferior to those of the spinner, and he cannot unaided support a family without being considerably straitened, according to the lancashire standard. but, in point of fact, a weaver when he marries usually marries a woman who is also working at a mill, and if she is a weaver her earnings are very likely as good as his. in this industry women attain to very nearly as great skill and dexterity as do men; in some branches even greater. in lancashire the standard of working-class life and comfort is high, and a woman whose husband is a weaver will not brook that her next-door neighbour, whose husband may be a spinner or machine-maker, should dress their children better, or have better window-curtains than she can. she continues to work at her own trade, and the two incomes are combined until the woman is temporarily prevented working at the mill. an interval of some months may be taken off by a weaver for the birth of her baby, but she will return to the mill afterwards, and again after a second; at the third or fourth child she usually retires from industry. later on the children begin earning. thus the male weaver's most difficult and troubled times are when his children are quite young, his wife temporarily incapacitated, and his earnings their sole support. when both husband and wife are earning, their means are good relatively to their standard; and again as the young people grow up, the combined income of the family may be even ample. the young children whose mother is absent at work are looked after in the day-time by a grandmother, or by a neighbour who is paid for the work. it was stated, half-ironically, perhaps, before the labour commission that there was a "standard list for this sort of business." opinions differ as to whether the children are or are not neglected under this system. there is, however, evidence to show that many lancashire women, at least among those who are relatively well paid, are good mothers and good housekeepers even though they work their ten hours a day. they go to work because their standard of life is high, and they cannot live up to it without working. _the industrial revolution in non-textile trades._--this subject, though sociologically of great interest, cannot here be treated at length; it must suffice to indicate a few points in regard to women, trusting that some later writer will some day paint for england a finished picture on the scale of miss butler's fine study "women and the trades," of pittsburgh, u.s.a. the factory system has now invaded one manufacturing industry after another, and the use of power and division of work in numerous processes have opened a considerable amount of employment to women. there have been two lines of development; on the one hand, occupations have been opened for women in trades with which previously they had nothing, or very little to do; on the other hand, industries hitherto almost entirely in the hands of women, and carried on chiefly in homes or small workrooms or shops, such as dressmaking, the making of underclothing, laundry work and so on, have been to some extent changed in character, and have in part become factory industries of the modern type. in the sub-commissioner who investigated birmingham industries for the children's employment commission, was struck by the extent of women's and children's employment. very large numbers of children were employed in a great variety of manufacturing processes, and women's labour was being substituted for men's in many branches. in all trades there were at the same time complaints of want of employment and urgent distress, involving large numbers of mechanics. mr. grainger saw women employed in laborious work, such as stamping buttons and brass nails, and notching the heads of screws, and considered these to be unfit occupations for women. in screw manufactories the women and girls constituted to per cent of the whole number employed. a considerable number of girls, fourteen and upwards, were employed in warehouses packing the goods, giving in and taking out work. non-textile industries were as yet quite unregulated, and many of the reports made to this commissioner indicate very bad conditions as to health and morals. the sanitary conditions were atrocious, except where the employers were specially conscientious and gave attention to the subject; there was little protection against accident, and child-labour was permitted at very early years. most of the abuses noted had to do either with insanitary conditions or with child-labour. the women and girls are described as having been often twisted or injured by premature employment, and as being totally without education. one witness who gave evidence considered that the lack of education was more disastrous for girls than for boys. in the children's employment commission found that the number and size of large factories had grown since , and the number of women in the birmingham district employed in metal manufactures was estimated at , . in , when the british association visited birmingham, mr. s. timmins prepared a series of reports on local industries, the index of which gives no less than thirty-six references to women, which is some indication how widely they were employed. in the steel pen trade, for instance, which had developed from a small trade in hand-made pens, costing several shillings each, into a large factory industry, numbers of girls and women were employed, and a comparatively small proportion of men. in , there were estimated to be men, women and girls employed in birmingham pen-works. women were employed extensively in the light chain trade, also in lacquering in the brass trade, and in many other occupations. successive censuses show very rapid increases in the employment of women in the metal trades generally, though, of course, they bear a much lower proportion to men in these trades taken as a whole than in the textile trades. similar developments are taking place in food and tobacco trades, soap, chemicals, paper and stationery. the boot and shoe trade is a good example of the rapid opening-out of opportunities for women's employment. at the time of the labour commission ( ) it was noted that bristol factories were mostly not up to date or efficient. since that time there has been a rapid extension of factory work for women, and the methods in the boot and shoe trade have been revolutionised by the introduction of the power sewing-machine, and by production on a large scale. the new factories in or near bristol have lofty rooms, modern improved sanitary and warming apparatus, and the best are carefully arranged with a view to maintaining the health and efficiency of the workers. in a committee of the economic section of the british association found in sheffield that machinery had been displacing file cutlery made by hand for fifteen years past, and some women were already finding employment on the lighter machines. in coventry the cycle industry employed an increasing number of women; watchmaking was becoming a factory industry, and the proportion of women to men had increased rapidly. women are even employed in some processes subsidiary to engineering, such as core-making. but it should be remembered that these openings for women do not necessarily mean permanent loss of work for men, though some temporary loss there no doubt very often is. the rearrangement of industry and the subdivision of processes mean that new processes are appropriated to women; and it is likely enough that among factory operatives women are, and will be, an increasing proportion. but therewith must come an increasing demand for men's labour in mining, smelting and forging metal, and in other branches into which women are unlikely to intrude. in the clothing trades the industrial revolution has made some way, and is doubtless going to make still more way, but it is unlikely that the older-fashioned methods of tailoring and dressmaking can ever be superseded as completely as was the hand-loom weaving in the cotton trade. dress is a matter of individual taste and fancy, and much as the factory-made clothing and dressmaking has improved in the last ten or twenty years, it is unlikely ever to supply the market entirely. stay-making is a rapidly developing factory industry at bristol, ipswich and elsewhere. in underclothing and children's clothing also the factory system is making considerable advances. it is startling to see babies' frocks or pinafores made on inhuman machines moved by power, with rows of fixed needles whisking over the elaborate tucks; but if the resulting article be both good and cheap, and the women operatives paid much better than they would be for the same number of hours' needlework, sentimental objections are perhaps out of place. in such factories as i have been permitted to visit, mostly non-textile, i have noticed that men and women are usually doing, not the same, but different kinds of work, and that the work done by women seems to fall roughly into three classes. my classification is probably quite unscientific, and indicates merely a certain social order perceived or conceived by an observer ignorant of the technical side of manufacturing and chiefly interested in the social or sociological aspect. in the first place, there is usually some amount of rough hard work in the preparing and collecting of the material, or the transporting it from one part of the factory to another. such work is exemplified by the rag-cutting in paper-mills, fruit-picking in jam factories, the sorting soiled clothes in laundries, the carrying of loads from one room to another, and such odd jobs. i incline to think that the arrangements made for dealing with this class of work are a very fair index to the character and ability of the employer. in good paper-mills, for instance, though nothing could make rag-cutting an attractive job, its objectionable features are mitigated by a preliminary cleansing of the rags, and by good ventilation in the work. in ill-managed factories of various kinds the carrying of heavy loads is left to the women workers' unaided strength, and is a most unpleasing sight to those who do not care to see their sisters acting as beasts of burden, not to mention that heavy weight-carrying is often highly injurious, provoking internal trouble. in the case of trays of boiling fruit, jam, etc., it may lead to horrible accidents. in well-managed factories this carrying of loads is arranged for by mechanical means or a strong porter is retained for the purpose. the second class of work noticed as being done by women is work done on machines with or without power, and this includes a whole host of employments and an endless variety of problems. machine tending, press-work, stamp-work, metal-cutting, printing, various processes of brass work, pen-making, machine ironing in laundries, the making of "hollow ware" or tin pots and buckets of various kinds; such are a few of the kinds of work that occur to me. many of them have the interesting characteristic of forming a kind of borderland or marginal region where men and women, by exception, do the same kinds of work. it is in these kinds of work that difficulties occur in imperfectly organised trades; it is here that the employer is constantly pushing the women workers a little further on and the male workers a little further off; it is here that controversies rage over what is "suitable to women," and that recriminations pass between trade unions and enterprising employers. these kinds of work may be very hard, or very easy, they may need skill and afford some measure of technical interest, or they may be merely dull and monotonous, efficiency being measured merely by speed; they may be badly paid, but on the other hand they include some of the best paid of women's industrial occupations. they are in a continual state of flux, responding to every technical advance, and change in methods; they represent the industrial revolution at its tensest and most critical point. and to conclude, it is here that organisation for women is most necessary and desirable in the interests of all classes. the third kind of work noted by the detached observer is more difficult to define in a word; it consists in the finishing and preparing goods for sale, and in the various kinds of work known as warehouse work. as a separate class it results mainly from the increasing size of firms and the quantity of work done. paper-sorting or overlooking in paper-mills is typical of this class of work; it consists in separating faulty sheets of paper from those that are good, and is done at great speed by girls who have a quick eye and a light touch. it is said to be work that men entirely fail in, not having sufficiently sensitive finger-tips. in nearly all factories there is a great deal of this kind of work, monotonous no doubt, but usually clean in character, and less hard and involving considerably less strain than either of the two former classes of work. in confectionery or stationery works, for instance, to mention two only, troops of girls are seen busily engaged at great speed in making up neat little packets of the finished article, usually with an advertisement or a picture put inside. in china or glass works girls may be employed wrapping the goods in paper, and similar jobs are found in many classes of work. in a well-known factory in east london where food for pet animals is made or prepared, i was told some years ago that no girls at all had been employed until recently, when about forty were taken on for the work of doing up the finished article in neat packets for sale. it is noticeable that the girls who are thus employed are usually of a social grade superior to the two former classes, though they by no means always earn better wages. they are very frequently the daughters of artisans earning good wages, and expect to marry in their own class and leave work. the women employed in the second class of work indicated, viz. chiefly on or about the machines, are on the whole more enterprising, and more likely to join unions. these again are socially superior to no. . no. class, those who do the rough hard kind of work, are mainly employed for the sake of cheapness, are often married women, and are probably doing much the same kinds of work that were done by women in those trades before the transformation of industry by machinery. (this is merely an inference of mine, and can scarcely be proved, but it seems likely to be true.) the more perfectly the industry develops and becomes organised, the more machinery is used and different processes are adapted to utilise different classes of skilled effort, the less need will there be for class no. work to be done at all. it should be noted before we leave this subject that no. class work is especially liable to change and modification, which means change in the demand for labour, and often means a demand for a different class of labour, or a different kind of skill. there are some who think pessimistically that improved machinery must mean a demand for a lower grade of skill. no doubt it often _has_ meant that, and still does in instances. but it is far from being universally true. as the hand-press is exchanged for the power-press, the demand occurs for a worker sufficiently careful and responsible to be trusted with the new and more valuable machinery. again, when a group of processes needing little skill is taken over by an automatic machine that performs the whole complex of operations, several unskilled workers will be displaced by one of a higher grade. the new automatic looms worked by electric power are, i am told, involving the employment of a class of young women superior in general intelligence and education to the typical weaver, though not necessarily so in manual skill. _conclusion._--frau braun sees in the machine the main cause of the development of woman's industrial employment.[ ] a more recent writer, mrs. schreiner, takes exactly the opposite view: the changes ... which we sum up under the compendious term "modern civilisation," have tended to rob woman, not merely in part, but almost wholly, of the more valuable of her ancient domain of productive and social labour; and where there has not been a determined and conscious resistance on her part, have nowhere spontaneously tended to open out to her new and compensatory fields. it is this fact which constitutes our modern "woman's labour problem." our spinning-wheels are all broken; in a thousand huge buildings steam-driven looms, guided by a few hundred thousands of hands (often those of men), produce the clothings of half the world; and we dare no longer say, proudly, as of old, that we, and we alone clothe our peoples.[ ] it is a striking instance of the extraordinary complexity of modern industry that two distinguished writers like frau braun and mrs. schreiner, both holding advanced views on the feminist question, should thus come to opposite conclusions as to the influence of the machine. in a sense, the opposition is more apparent than real. mrs. schreiner is thinking of production for use by the woman at home, and there is no question that production for use is being superseded by production for exchange. frau braun, in the passage quoted, is writing of wage-earning employment. there can be little question that the evolution of machinery has favoured woman's employment. woman has no chance against man where sheer strength is needed; but when mechanical power takes the place of human muscle, when the hard part is done by the machine, then the child, the girl, or the woman is introduced. the progressive restriction of child-labour has also favoured women, so that over the period covered by the factory statistics, the percentage of women and girls employed has increased in a very remarkable way. it is possible to exaggerate the extent of the change made by the industrial revolution in taking women out of the home. we must remember that domestic service, the traditional and long-standing occupation of women, is always carried on away from the home of the worker, and does in fact (as it usually involves residence) divide the worker from her family far more completely than ordinary day work. the instances given in chapter i. also show that not only agriculture, but various other industries, afforded employment to women, long before the industrial revolution, in ways that must have involved "going out to work." to the working classes it was nothing new to see women work, and, in point of fact, we do not find even the employment of married women exciting much attention or disapproval at the outset of the factory system. in the non-domestic industries the question of the wife taking work for wages was probably then, as mainly it still is, a poverty question. the irregular employment, sickness or incapacity of the male bread-winner that result in earnings insufficient for family maintenance, occurred probably with no less frequency in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries than now, and these are causes that at all times drive married women to work, if they can get work to do. the class that felt it most keenly as an evil and a wrong, were the hand-loom weavers whose earnings were so depressed that they could not maintain their families, and found at the same time that the labour of their wives and daughters was more in demand than their own. where the industry had been carried on by the family working together, and, for a time at least, had been sufficiently lucrative to afford a comparatively high standard of comfort, the disintegration of this particular type of organisation was, not unnaturally, resented as an outrage on humanity. the iron regularity of the factory system, the economic pressure that kept the workers toiling as long as the engines could run, the fixation of hours, were cruel hardships to a class that had formed its habits and traditions in the small self-contained workshop, and made continuous employment a terrible strain on the married woman. as the home centres round the woman, the problem for the working woman has been, and is, one of enormous difficulty, involving considerable restatement of her traditional codes and customs. whatever may have been the social misery and disorder brought about by the industrial revolution, one striking result was an increase in the earning power of women. proof in detail of this statement will be given in chapter vi.; for the present it will suffice to point to the fact. the machine, replacing muscular power and increasing the productivity of industry, does undoubtedly aid the woman in quest of self-dependence. in the era of the great industry she has become to an increasing extent an independent wage-earner. low as the standard of women's wages is, there is ample proof that it is on the whole higher under the factory system than under other methods, and as a general rule the larger and more highly organised factory pays higher wages than the smaller, less well-equipped. the cotton industry, which took the lead in introducing the factory system, and is in england by far the most highly organised and efficiently managed among trades in which women predominate, has shown a remarkable rise of wages through the last century, and is now the only large industry in which the average wage of women is comparatively high. another point is that factory dressmaking, which has developed in comparatively recent years, already shows a higher average wage than the older-fashioned dressmaking carried on in small establishments, and a much smaller percentage of workers paid under s. a week. monsieur aftalion, in a monograph comparing factory and home work in the french clothing trade, finds wages markedly higher under the factory system. yet another instance is offered by italy, where women's wages are miserably low, yet they are noticeably higher in big factories than in small. the development of the single young woman's position through the factory system has been obscured by the abuses incidental to that system, which were due more or less to historical causes outside industry. the absence of any system of control over industrial and sanitary conditions undoubtedly left many factories to become centres of disease, overwork and moral corruption, and the victims of this misgovernment and neglect are a reproach that can never be wiped out. on the other hand, later experience has shown that decent conditions of work are easier to secure in factories than in small work places, owing to greater publicity and facility for inspection. the very fact of the size of the factory, its economic importance, and its almost dramatic significance for social life, caused attention to be drawn to, and wrath to be excited by, evil conditions in the factory, which would have been little noticed in ordinary small work places. the initiation of the "great industry" resulted in a kind of searchlight being turned on to the dark places of poverty. state interference had to be undertaken, although in flat opposition to the dominant economics of the day, and the better sort of masters were impelled by shame or worthier motives to get rid of the stigma that clung to factory employment. now the girl-worker has profited by this movement in a quite remarkable degree. domestic service is no longer her only outlook, and the conditions of domestic service have probably considerably improved in consequence. her employment is no longer bound up with personal dependence on her own family, or personal servitude in her employer's. the wage contract, though not, we may hope, the final or ideal stage in the evolution of woman's economic position, is an advance from her servile state in the mediaeval working class, or parasitic dependence on the family. the transition thus endows her with greater freedom to dispose of or deny herself in marriage, and is an important step towards higher racial ideals and development. grievously exploited as her employment has been and still is, the evolution of the woman wage-earner, her gradual achievement of economic individuality and independence, in however limited a degree, is certainly one of the most interesting social facts of the time. the remarkable intelligence and ability of lancashire working people was noticed by mrs. gaskell in _mary barton_, as long ago as . and to this day the co-operative movement and the trade union movement flourish among lancashire women as they do not anywhere else. the workers' educational association draws many of its best students from these women who toil their ten hours in the mill and use their brains for study in the evening after work is over. chapter iii. statistics of the life and employment of women. no very detailed or elaborate statistics will be here employed, the aim of this chapter being merely to draw attention to certain broad facts or relations disclosed by the census and the registrar-general's report. _the surplus of women._--it is a well-known fact that in this country women exceed men in numbers. the surplus increased slightly but steadily from to , and remained almost stationary from to . in and there were in every persons males and females. the excess of females varies at different ages. the number of boys born exceeds the number of girls in a proportion not far from per cent, sometimes a little more, sometimes a little less. but boy infants run greater risks at birth and appear to be altogether more susceptible to adverse influences, for their death-rate is usually higher up to , or years old. the age-group to varies from time to time; in - the average mortality of girls was the higher: in the average mortality of boys was very slightly higher. from to the female death-rate is higher than the male. the age-group to shows very curious variations in the relative mortality of males and females. from onwards the males of that group have had a higher mortality than the females, whereas previous to that date the female mortality was the higher, in all years of which we have a record save two-- and . the registrar-general can suggest no explanation of this phenomenon.[ ] it may be remarked, however, that girls generally now obtain more opportunity for fresh air and physical exercise than in former years, which may account for some of their comparative improvement in this respect; also that in the industrial districts a great improvement has taken place in the administration of the factory act since the appointment of women inspectors and the general raising of the standard after the act of , and girls may naturally be supposed to have profited more by this improved administration than have youths of the other sex, who are not included under the act when over years, and in many cases pass into industries unregulated by law. the following table shows the death-rates per of male and female persons in england and wales, , and the ratio of male per cent of female mortality at age periods, as calculated by the registrar-general. death-rates at ages, . +----------------------------------+ |ages.| m. | f. |ratio m. per| | | | | f. | |-----|-------|-------|------------| | - | | | | | - | · | · | | | - | · | · | | | - | · | · | | | - | · | · | | | - | · | · | | | - | · | · | | | - | · | · | | | - | · | · | | | - | · | · | | | - | · | · | | | - | · | · | | | - | · | · | | |-----|-------|-------|------------| |total| · | · | | +----------------------------------+ as might be expected from these figures, the census shows that males are in excess of females in very early life, but are gradually overtaken, and in later years especially men are considerably outnumbered by women. the disproportion of women is mainly due to their lower death-rate, but also in part to the fact that so many men go abroad for professional or commercial avocations. some of these are accompanied by wives or sisters, but a large proportion go alone. the disproportion of women is more marked in town districts than in rural ones. this may be partly due to the lower infant death-rate in the country, for a high rate of infant mortality on an average affects more boys than girls. but no doubt the large demand for young women's labour in factories and as domestic servants is another cause of the surplus of women in towns. in rural districts there is a surplus of males over females up to the age of . the disproportion of women does not show any marked tendency to increase except among the elderly, the preponderance becoming increasingly marked towards old age. it would overload this chapter too much to give figures illustrating the changes in the last half century; those who wish to make themselves acquainted with the matter can refer to the very full and interesting tables given near the end of vol. vii. of the census, . _marriage._--the preponderance of young women, though not very considerable in figures, is, however, in fact a more effective restriction of marriage than might be expected, because women are by custom more likely to marry young than men, and thus the numbers of marriageable young women at any given date exceed the corresponding numbers of men in a proportion higher than the actual surplus of young women in particular age-groups. the old-fashioned optimistic assumption that women will all get married and be provided for by their husbands, cannot be maintained. it is possible, however, to be needlessly pessimistic on this head, as in a certain weekly journal which recently proclaimed that "two out of every three women die old maids." if we are to regard marriage as an occupation (an idea with which, on the whole, i disagree), it is still the most important and extensively followed occupation for women. in over - / millions of women in england and wales were married, or rather more than one-half the female population over ; and considerably more than one-half of our women get married some time or other. in middle life, say from to , three-fourths of all women are married. in early life a large proportion are single; in later life a large proportion are widows. or we might put it in another way. from the age of to , only two out of every four women are married, nearly all the rest being still single, and a very small proportion widowed; from to , three in every four women are married; over , less than two in every four are married, most of the others having become widows. the proportion of women married has increased since the previous census, but has decreased slightly at all ages under . the following table displays the proportion married and widowed per cent of the different age-groups. +-------------------------------------+ | ages. | single.| married.| widowed.| |--------|--------|---------|---------| | - | | | | | - | | | | | - | | | | | - | | | | | - | | | | | - | | | | | - | | | | | | | | | |all ages| | | | +-------------------------------------+ if the figures were drawn in curves, it would be seen that the proportion of single women falls rapidly from youth onwards, and is quite small in old age; that the proportion married rises rapidly at first, remaining high for or years, and falls again, forming a broad mound-shaped curve; while the proportion widowed rises all the way to old age. it will be seen that, even on the assumption that all wives are provided for by their husbands, which is by no means universally true, a very large proportion of women before and after are not thus provided for, and that an unknown but not inconsiderable proportion never marry at all. in the case of the educated middle class, as miss collet pointed out in , the surplus of women over men is considerably above the average, and consequently the prospect of marriage is less in this than in the working class. "granted an equal number of males and females between the ages of and , we have not therefore in english society an equal number of marriageable men and women. wherever rather late marriage is the rule with men--that is, wherever there is a high standard of comfort--the disproportion is correspondingly great. in a district where boy and girl marriages are very common, everybody can be married and be more or less miserable ever after: but in the upper middle class equality in numbers at certain ages implies a surplus of marriageable women over marriageable men."[ ] in some quarters the adoption of professions, even of the teaching profession, by women, is opposed on the ground that women are thereby drawn away from marriage and home-making. it is difficult to understand how such an objection can be seriously raised in face of the facts of social life. the adoption of occupations by women may in a few cases indicate a preference for independence and single blessedness; but it is much more often due to economic necessity. it is perfectly plain that not all women can be maintained by men, even if this were desirable. the women who have evolved a theory of "economic independence" are few compared with the many who have economic self-dependence forced upon them. human nature is far too strong to make it credible that any large number of women will deliberately decline the prospect of husband, home and children of their own for the sake of teaching little girls arithmetic or inspecting insanitary conditions in slums. if a woman has to choose between marrying a man she cares for and earning her own bread, i am sentimental enough to believe that nearly all women would choose the former. the choices of real life are seldom quite so simple. when a woman has to choose between an uncongenial marriage and fairly well-paid work, it is quite likely that nowadays she frequently chooses the latter. in former days the choice might easily have been among the alternatives of the uncongenial marriage, the charity, willing or unwilling, of friends and relations, and sheer starvation, not to mention that even the bitter relief of the uncongenial marriage, usually available in fiction, is not always forthcoming in real life. the case grows clearer every year, that women need training and opportunity to be able to support themselves, though not all women will do so throughout life. _occupation._--if we have any doubt of the fact that there is still "a deal of human nature" in girls and women, we have only to compare the census statistics of occupation and marriage. we have already seen that the numbers married increase up to . as the number married increases the number occupied rapidly falls off. the percentage of women and girls over who are occupied was, in , . ; an increase of . since . this does not, however, mean that only a little more than one-third of all women enter upon a trade or occupation. in point of fact a very large proportion are workers in early youth, as the following tables show. in order to illustrate the relation of occupation to marriage, we place the two sets of figures side by side. +---------------------------------------+ | |percentage|percentage| | | occupied.| married. | |-----------------|----------|----------| |girls aged - | · | .. | | " - | · | .. | | " - | · | .. | | " - | · | } | | " - | · | } | | " - | · | } · | | " - | · | } | | " - | · | } | |women aged - | · | · | | " - | · | · | | " - | · | · | | " - | · | · | | " - | · | · | | " - | · | · | +---------------------------------------+ the highest percentage of employment therefore occurs at the age of . the next table shows the proportions of workers in age-groups. women and girl workers over ten years old. +--------------------------------------+ | | number. |per cent of total.| |-------|-----------|------------------| | - | , | · | | - | , , | · | | - | , , | · | | - | , , | · | | - | , | · | | - | , | · | | - | , | · | | |-----------|------------------| | | , , | · | +--------------------------------------+ over per cent of the total are under , and are therefore in ordinary speech more commonly termed girl than women workers. the rise in the proportion married compared with the drop in the proportion occupied as age advances, indicates how strong the hold and attraction of the family is upon women. conditions in factories are undoubtedly improved; many a girl of or , perhaps earning s. a week, with her club, her classes, her friends, and an occasional outing, has by no means a "bad time." on the other hand, the life of the married woman in the working class is often extremely hard, taking into account the large amount of work done by them at home, cooking, cleaning, washing, mending and making of clothes, in the north also baking of bread, tendance of children and of the sick, over and above and all but simultaneously with the bringing of babies into the world. moreover, the working girl is not under illusions as to the facts of life, as her better-off contemporary still is to some extent. taking all this into consideration, the census results shown above form an illuminating testimony to the strength of the fundamental human instincts. the distribution of women in occupations illustrates both the deeply rooted conservatism of women and, at the same time, the modifying tendency of modern industry. the largest groups of women's trades are still their traditional activities of household work, the manufacture of stuffs, and the making of stuffs into clothes. two-thirds of the women occupied are thus employed. +------------------------------------------------------+ | | number. | per cent of | | | |total occupied.| |----------------------------|---------|---------------| |domestic offices and service| | | | (including laundry) | , , | · | |textiles | , | · | |dress | , | · | +------------------------------------------------------+ it is convenient to picture to oneself the female working population as three great groups: the domestic group, the textile and clothing group, and the other miscellaneous occupations, which also form about one-third of the total. now, while it is true that the two former groups, the traditional or conservative occupations of women, are still the largest, they are not, with the exception of textiles, increasing as fast as population, whereas some of the newer occupations, the non-textile industrial processes that have been transformed by machinery and brought within the capacity of women, are, though much smaller in numbers, increasing at a rapid rate. the following table shows the change from to in the most important industrial groups including women. it should be read bearing in mind that the increase of the female population over in the same period is · per cent. england and wales, - . +------------------------------------------------------------+ | | numbers. | | | occupations of women |-------------------|percentage| | and girls. | . | . | change. | |-----------------------------|---------|---------|----------| |domestic offices and service | , , | , , | + · | |textiles | , | , | + · | |dress | , | , | + · | |dressmakers | , | , | - · | |tailoresses | , | , | + · | |food, drink, and lodging | , | , | + · | |paper, books, and stationery | , | , | + · | |metals, machines, etc. | , | , | + · | |increase of female population| | | | | over | .. | .. | + · | +------------------------------------------------------------+ but even with the occupations i have dubbed "conservative," or traditional, modern methods are transforming the nature of the work done by women. the statistical changes in the so-called domestic group are an interesting illustration of the changes we can see going on in the world around us. note especially the tendency towards a more developed social life outside the home indicated by the large percentage increase in club service, hotel and eating-house service; the tendency to supersede amateur by expert nursing, shown in the large increase in hospital and institutional service; and the slight but perceptible tendency for household work to lose its domestic character. not only do the charwomen show an increase much larger than that of the group total, while the domestic indoor servant has decreased, but a new sub-heading, "day servants," has had to be introduced. the laundry is fast becoming a regular factory industry, and shows a decrease in numbers, no doubt due to the introduction of machinery and labour-saving appliances. changes in employment of women in certain domestic occupations. +---------------------------------------------------------------+ | | | | | | numbers. | | | | | | | occupation. |--------------------|percentage| | | | | change. | | | . | . | | | | | | | |-------------------------------|---------|----------|----------| |hotel, eating-house, etc. | , | , | + · | |other domestic indoor servants}| , , | , , }| + · | |day girls }| | , }| | |college, club, etc. | , | , | + · | |hospital, institution, etc. | , | , | + · | |caretakers | , | , | + · | |cooks, not domestic | , | , | + · | |charwomen | , | , | + · | |laundry | , | , | - · | +---------------------------------------------------------------+ textiles, which as a whole have increased exactly in proportion to population, show a great variety in movement. the following shows the movement in the numerically more important groups. +-------------------------------------------------------+ | | numbers. | percentage | | |-------------------| change. | | | . | . | | |----------------------|---------|---------|------------| |cotton-- | | | | | card-room operatives| , | , | + · | | spinning | , | , | + · | | winding, warping | , | , | - · | | weaving | , | , | + · | |wool-- | | | | | spinning | , | , | + · | | weaving | , | , | + · | |hosiery | , | , | + · | |lace | , | , | + · | +-------------------------------------------------------+ in "dress" the most noticeable feature is that in a decade of rapidly increasing wealth and certainly of no diminution in the feminine tendency to adornment and display, the numbers of dressmakers decreased by a few hundreds. tailoresses, on the other hand, increased considerably more than the increase in the whole group, and "dealers" also show a large increase. the census unfortunately throws very little light so far on the development of the various factory industries for making clothes, and the factory department statistics are now so considerably out of date as to be of little value. in default of further information we may guess that a very considerable economy of methods has been effected in the making of women's clothes by the introduction of machinery and the factory system, and that some of the large mass of customers of moderate incomes are tending to desert the old-fashioned working dressmakers and buy ready-made clothes, which have noticeably improved in style and quality in recent years. but the older-fashioned methods probably hold the larger part of the field, even now. the increasing employment of women in metal trades is certainly a very remarkable feature of the present census, the numbers having jumped up from , to , in ten years. the cycle and motor manufactures, which employed less than women in , employed not far short of in . nearly all the small groups and subdivisions of metal work show an increase of female employment. for instance, women employed in electrical apparatus-making increased from in to over in . the whole subject is one of great interest, as illustrating the progress of the industrial revolution in the trades affected, but is impossible to treat here at length. _the reaction of status on industry._--in spite of the increased range of occupations open to women, it must be added that the position of woman is a highly insecure one, and that she is considerably handicapped by the reaction of status on occupation. we have seen that while most women work for wages in early life, their work is usually not permanent, but is abandoned on marriage, precisely at the time of life when the greatest economic efficiency may be looked for. on the other hand, the superior longevity of women and the greater risks to which men are exposed, leave many women widows and unprovided for in middle or even early life. some women are unfortunate in marriage, the husband turning out idle, incompetent, of feeble health or bad habits, and in such circumstances women may need to return to their work after some years' cessation. but factory industries and indeed nearly all women's occupations make a greater demand for the young than for the middle-aged or old. wages are supposed to be based upon a single woman's requirements. even if the destitute widow or the deserted wife can succeed in obtaining fairly well-paid work, there emerges the difficulty of looking after her home and children simultaneously with doing work for wages. the ordinary view of the subject is that a woman need not be paid as much as a man, because her requirements are less, and she is likely to be partially maintained by others. the question of wages will be discussed in a later chapter, but it may here be pointed out that the facts revealed by the census show that the status of women is a very heavy handicap to their economic position. normally, women leave their occupation about the time when they might otherwise expect to attain their greatest efficiency, and those who return to work in later years are under the disadvantage of having spent their best years in work which by no means helps their professional or industrial efficiency, though it may be of the greatest social usefulness. if a woman cannot expect to be paid more than the commercial value of her work when she has children entirely dependent on her, it seems inconsistent that she should be expected to take less than the value of her work when she is partially maintained at home; surely the wiser course would be to strive to raise the standard of remuneration so as to benefit those who have the heavier obligations. the same kind of thoughtless inconsistency is seen in dealing with the problem of married women's work. many observers of social life are struck by the fact that it is sad and in some cases even disastrous for a woman to go out to work and leave her infant children unprotected and untended. the proposal is constantly forthcoming to prohibit married women's employment. but many persons, even those who dislike the employment of married women, think that when a woman is left a widow, the best thing is to take her children away from her and get her into service.[ ] in point of fact, the young children of a widow need quite as much care and attention as those who have a father living; and neither a married woman nor a widow can give her children that care and attention if she is without the means of subsistence. the pressure on widows to seek employment, whatever their home ties, is seen with tragic pathos even in the bald figures of the census. +-----------------------------------------------------+ | |single.|married.|widowed.|total.| |--------------------|-------|--------|--------|------| |percentage of women | | | | | | and girls occupied| · | · | · | · | +-----------------------------------------------------+ although widows in the very nature of the case are older on an average than married women, although the whole tendency of modern industry is towards the employment of the young, yet the percentage of widows occupied is three times as great as the percentage of married who are occupied. there are no short and easy paths to the solution of the difficulties of woman, but those who uphold such measures as the prohibition of employment to married women, are bound to consider, firstly, how the prohibition should be applied in cases where the male head of the family is not competent or sufficiently able-bodied to support it; secondly, whether the children of widows can flourish on neglect any better than the children who have a living father, and, if not, why it is more desirable for the widow than for the married woman to go to work outside her home and away from her children. _conclusion._--the following points summarise the results obtained from a study of the statistics in regard to women, supplemented by facts of common knowledge. women outnumber men, especially in later life. not all women can marry. a large majority of girls and a small minority of adult women work for wages. a large majority of women marry some time or other. the majority of young women leave work when they marry. some women depend upon their own exertions throughout life, and some of them have dependents. some women, after being maintained for a period by their husbands, are forced again to seek work for wages; and many of these have dependents. chapter iv. women in trade unions. _early efforts at organisation._--it is probably not worth while to spend a great deal of time in the endeavour to decide what part women played in the earlier developments of trade unionism, very little information being so far obtainable. it seems, however, not unlikely that some of the loose organisations of frame-work knitters, woollen weavers, etc., that existed in the eighteenth century and later, may have included women members, as the manchester small-ware weavers certainly did in , and professor chapman tells us that women were among the members of the manchester spinners' society of . at leicester there appears to have been an informal organisation of hand-spinners, called "the sisterhood," who in stirred up their male friends and acquaintances to riot as a demonstration against the newly introduced machines.[ ] we find some women organised in the unions that sprang up after the repeal of the anti-combination act in . the west riding fancy union was open to women as well as men, and although the general association of weavers in scotland expressly excluded female apprentices from membership it added the proviso, "except those belonging to the weaver's own family." in december the lancashire cotton spinners called a conference at ramsey, isle of man, to consider the question of a national organisation. the immediate motive of the conference was the failure of a disastrous six months' strike at hyde, near manchester, which convinced the leaders that no local unions could succeed against a combination of employers. at the ramsey conference, after nearly a week's discussion, it was agreed to establish a "grand general union of the united kingdom," which was to be subject to an annual delegates' meeting and three national committees. the union was to include all male spinners and piecers, the women and girls being urged to form separate organisations. the general union lasted less than two years.[ ] a few years later, in , an attempt which met with limited success was made by glasgow spinners to procure the same rates of pay for women as for men, in spite of the masters' protest that the former did not turn out so much or so good a quality of work as the latter. no doubt the men's action was taken chiefly in their own interests. many of the male operatives objected altogether to the employment of women as spinners and for a time hindered it in glasgow, though shortly after the great strike of as many women were spinning there as men. in manchester women were spinning in , and, indeed, had done so from early times. one regrets to note that they acted as strike-breakers (along with five out of thirty-three male spinners) in a mill belonging to mr. houldsworth, as the latter reported in evidence to the committee on combinations of workmen. a representative of the spinners' association, glasgow, j. m'nish, gave some rather interesting evidence before the same committee. he said it was not the object of the association that the employment of women should cease, although they were "not fond of seeing women at such a severe employment," but it was their object to prevent the women from being "paid at an under rate of wages, if possible." although the women spinners were not members of the association, they were in the habit of appealing to it for advice in the complicated business of reckoning up their rates of pay, and the association had occasionally advised them to strike for an advance.[ ] some years later women were to be found among the members of the spinners' unions in lancashire. objections were raised to their employment on the grounds of health and decency, as the spinning-rooms were excessively hot and work had to be done in the lightest possible attire. probably the strongest objection was the danger to wages and to the customary standard of life through women's employment. the feeling was that women would not resist the encroachment of the masters, that their customary wage was low, and that many of them were partially supported at home, consequently that when men and women were employed together on the same kind of work, the wages of men must fall. the hand-loom weavers of glasgow would not admit adult women to their society, though many were in fact working; and the warpers discouraged women warpers. in , however, the glasgow women power-loom weavers are said to have had a union under the direction of the male operatives.[ ] the great outburst of unionism in - fostered by owen, the formation of a "grand national consolidated trades union" did not leave the women untouched. a delegates' meeting was held in february at which it was resolved that the new body should take the form of a federation of separate trade lodges, usually of members of one trade, but with provision for "miscellaneous lodges," in places where the numbers were small, and even for "female miscellaneous lodges." within a few weeks or months this union obtained an extraordinary growth and expansion. about half a million members must have joined, including tens of thousands of farm labourers and women, and members of the most diverse and heterogeneous classes of industry. among the women members we hear of lodges for tailoresses, milliners and miscellaneous workers. some women gardeners and others were prominent in riots at oldham. at derby women and children joined with the men in refusing to abandon the union and were locked out by their employers. the grand national endeavoured to find means to support them and find employment, but the struggle, though protracted for months, ended in the complete triumph of the employers. the grand national did not long survive. in some of the strikes and disturbances that took place in the following years there is clear evidence that women took part, but very little can be ascertained as to their inclusion in unions beyond the bare fact that the cotton power-loom weavers' union, as is generally stated, has always had women members. in cotton weaving the skill of women is almost equal to men's, in some cases even superior; and as the power-loom came more and more into use, women were more and more employed, as we have seen. the men had thus in their industry an object lesson of the desirability of association and combination in the interests of both sexes. a weavers' union of great britain and ireland was formed in on the occasion of the stockport strike. but the establishment of unions on a sound basis was a little later, about the middle of the century. _cotton weavers._--numerous strikes occurred in lancashire about the middle of the nineteenth century, and several unions of cotton weavers formed in those years are still in existence. the first sound organisation of power-loom weavers was established at blackburn in , but the padiham society and the radcliffe society can trace their existence back to . the organisation of cotton weavers thenceforward proceeded rapidly. the chorley weavers date from , the accrington society from , darwen and ramsbottom from , preston, , great harwood and oldham and district, . the east lancashire amalgamated society was also formed in , and was afterwards known as the north-east lancashire amalgamated society. for many years, however, contributions were too small to admit of forming an adequate reserve, and before the unions were not really effective. a number of local strikes about that date led the union officials to perceive that higher contributions were necessary for concerted action, and cases of victimising of officials brought home the need for larger unions with officials who could be placed beyond the risk of victimisation. the new demands made upon the workers no doubt caused some dismay. some members were lost at first, but most of these returned after a few months. in course of time the weavers have built up an organisation which as far as women are concerned is without parallel in this country. the weavers' amalgamation was formed in . it includes districts in lancashire and yorkshire, and one or two in derbyshire, with nearly , members, the majority being women. in one or two districts political forces have favoured the growth of rival unions outside the amalgamation, and these also include a large proportion of women. this division in the weavers' camp is greatly to be regretted, but the rival societies do not appear so far to have done any great harm to the great amalgamation, whose lead they usually follow, save in political matters, and from whose influence they, of course, indirectly benefit considerably, though they pay no contributions to its funds. piece rates in textile trades are extremely complicated. the lists and exceptions are indeed so technical in their nature that many of the operatives themselves do not understand them, and it is quite possible that some employers do not fully grasp the working of the lists. the weaving operation begins when the warp, or the longitudinal threads of the piece to be woven, has been fixed in position on the loom. the threads used for the warp are what in spinning are called "twist." these long threads, or "ends" as they are sometimes called, when placed on the loom pass through the openings of the "reed," a sheet of metal cut like a comb into spaces of the width required for the special coarseness or fineness of the material to be woven. the twist also passes through loops known as "healds." thus the first element to be taken into account is the thickness of the threads of the warp, the number of threads going to make up an inch of width, and the total width of the piece to be woven. the work of the loom is to throw across the warp the cross threads or "weft." these threads are carried in the shuttle which flies to and fro and passes over and under the warp threads alternately, or at such angles and intervals as are provided for by the arrangement of the warp in the "healds" and "reed." the weft or cross threads are termed "picks." thus the second element in determining the price is the fineness and closeness of the weft. the fineness is determined by the number of counts of the yarn. the closeness may be determined by counting the number of threads or picks in a given length actually woven, or by a calculation based upon the mechanical action of the machine. in many cases the number of picks can be easily settled by counting, but in almost every instance the most exact method is by calculation, based upon the sizes and divisions of the wheels and of the "beam" in the loom. the "beam" is the bar or pole round which the cloth is rolled in process of weaving. the third element is the total length woven, and a fourth is the nature and quality of the material used. this latter is an especially important element in price. the smaller the openings in the "reed" through which the threads pass, the finer and closer the crossing of the weft, the greater in number and more delicate are the threads to be watched by the weaver, and the greater is the liability to breakage of threads. closer attention and greater dexterity are needed in the weaving of fine than of coarse materials, but on the other hand the weaving of the coarser yarns may mean harder physical labour though not requiring so much skill. the harder work is paid for at an increased rate, though less wages may be earned by the operative. the weavers' work is to fetch the cops of weft (unless they have tenters or assistants to do the fetching and carrying), keep the shuttles full, and repair broken threads. the standard upon which the uniform list is based is calculated on the capacity of an ordinary loom, forty-five inches in the reed space, weaving according to certain particulars given in the list, which are somewhat too technical to set down here. the standard conditions are in practice varied in every conceivable way, and exceptions of every kind have to be provided for by making additions and deductions per cent. there are also subsidiary lists for special kinds and qualities, and local lists for special characters of goods made in certain districts. to find the price of weaving the various allowances have to be deducted or added one by one. a minute fraction of a penny per yard may make a perceptible difference in a weaver's earnings. these lists are a comparatively modern development, and date from the time of the labour troubles mentioned above. in the blackburn society prepared a list of uniform prices for weavers as a basis for a permanent agreement. this list was based upon prices previously paid at the various mills in the town, on an average of a month's earnings. the blackburn list was in operation till , and was the most important of all the lists regulating weavers' wages. it was then, with many others, replaced by the uniform list, which is now generally recognised throughout lancashire, but rates for some subsidiary processes are still regulated by local lists. the complication of these lists has necessitated a high degree of specialised skill in the secretaries, who must possess practical and intimate experience of the work and a competent knowledge of arithmetic for elaborate calculations. subjects of complaint and suspected miscalculations can be referred to the secretary, who immediately inquires into the matter. if he considers the complaint justified or the calculations incorrect, he visits the mill and puts the case before the employer. the matter can very likely be settled amicably, as in point of fact these matters often are, but if dispute occurs, it is referred first to the local association, and may be settled by negotiation. in case of failure there is a machinery needless to detail here by which meetings of employer and employed can be arranged through successively higher grades of representative authority, until in the last resort, if all attempts at settlement fail, a strike is called. the impressive feature about all this negotiation from our present point of view is that the whole strength of the union, the brains and time and care of the secretary, can be invoked for the protection of the woman, the youthful or childish worker, as much as for the adult skilled worker at a craft. cases of wrongful withholding of earnings, as for instance unfair fines, can be taken into the county courts. in at least one district the secretary has successfully asserted the right to visit the mill and inspect cloth, when the employer claims deductions. the cotton weavers' secretaries have in fact to play a part not unlike that of the solicitor in other social grades. they have to look after their clients' interests, protect them from fraud and injury, and advise them in cases of doubt as to their legal rights and position. a fertile source of trouble is in bad cotton. most of us have probably laughed over the story of the pious weaver in the cotton famine who prayed for supplies of raw material, "but, o lord, not surats!" the matter is far from amusing to the workers themselves. every breakage of a thread means that their wages are stopped by so much, and defective material means that they have to work harder and with more harass and interruption, and accomplish less in the time. if inferior material is persistently supplied, the cotton-workers consider themselves entitled to an increase of per cent or - / per cent on earnings, and it is the secretaries' duty to get it for them. it is perhaps worth while to note the peculiar sense given in lancashire speech to the expression "bad work." in lancashire "bad work" means bad cotton, and is actually so used in the terms of an agreement between employer and employed as a subject for compensation to the worker. constant anxious care is needed to safeguard the payment of wages. a weavers' local association advises their members that "whenever the earned wages of a female or young person is being detained for being absent or leaving work, except to the amount of damage their employer has sustained in consequence, such a young person should at once lay their case before the committee."[ ] even at the present time it is not unknown for a girl to be fined to the amount of a whole week's earnings, but, as my informant added, such a case is now rare. as a rule the trade union secretary will be appealed to, will take the steps necessary, and the fine will be returned or considerably reduced. any one who is used to considering the case of the girl and women worker in the unorganised trades of london or other great towns, any one who has read in the women factory inspectors' reports of the difficulty of enforcing the truck act and of the special proneness of the woman worker to be oppressed and cheated out of what is morally or even legally her due, will appreciate at once the extraordinary difference between her position and that of the cotton weaver who is backed up by her association, and has an expert adviser to appeal to. the position of women (and of course of other members also) has been greatly improved since the early days of power-loom weaving by the greater financial strength and security of the unions. the history of the burnley weavers is instructive on this point. the union dates from about , and started with a few hundred members on penny contributions. numbers, however, increased, in spite of some troubles and persecution from individuals of the employing class. in , lancashire, as we have seen, was involved in a great industrial struggle. the burnley society, on its penny contributions, was unable adequately to sustain its members through the crisis, and only survived the crisis after a very severe strain. it was decided to adopt a sliding scale of payments and higher contributions, with the result that a good reserve was established, and benefits were granted on a higher scale. considerable sums are paid not only in this, but in other unions for breakdown or stoppage of work from various causes, such as fire, accident, or failure of trade, stoppage of machinery for repairs, dissolution of partnership, etc. the weavers give benefit to members losing work through scarcity of cotton, or waiting for wefts or warps. whether it is altogether wise from the tactical point of view for trade associations to devote so much of their funds to provident purposes of this nature is not a question i propose to discuss; the relevant point is the economic security given to the worker. the following shows the contributions graded according to benefit, and the benefit accruing either for strikes brought on by the society's action, or for stoppage of work at the mill. chorley weavers. weekly payments. benefits. d. per week (tenters). / per week. d. " / " d. " / " d. " / " d. " / " the weavers' unions do not, as a rule, pay sick or maternity benefit save under the insurance act. on the other hand, funeral benefit appears to be the invariable custom, and disablement through accident also entitles members to benefit. a penny per member per week is paid to the amalgamation towards a central strike fund, the remainder of the contributions being in the hands of the local branch. * * * * * the unusual strength of this union, combining men and women in a single organisation, seems to be due in the first place to the increasing local concentration of the industry. in towns where many large mills are placed near together the ease and rapidity with which a secretary can call a meeting is surprising. in the second place, it must be remembered that the organisation of women has been of great importance to the men, the women forming the majority of the workers. it has been worth the men's while to consider the women, and so far at least as the economic position is concerned, they have done it with considerable effectiveness. the organisation is utterly dependent on the membership and solidarity of women, and it has successfully safeguarded their economic interests, but it has been built up mainly by the initiative and under the control of a minority of men. as a general rule, in spite of the exceptional success of the weavers' unions in retaining the continued membership of women, the fact remains that it is still unusual for women to be actively interested in the work of organisation. as a general rule the women rarely attend meetings unless they have a special grievance to be removed, and they seldom nominate one of themselves for the committee. there are places where no woman has ever been nominated at all. this is a subject of regret and surprise, not only to the secretaries, but to those women here and there who are themselves keenly interested. these would fain see women representatives on the committee, and some proportion of women acting as secretaries and collectors. such women feel strongly that "we need the two points of view," and it is disheartening and incomprehensible to them to find that they cannot get their women friends to turn up at meetings and support the nomination of a woman. there appears to be little ground for the supposition that men would object to share their committee labours with women, and even if they did, it is obvious that in an industry where women predominate, the latter could have no difficulty in packing the committee with their own representatives. in all these weavers' unions the women have precisely the same rights and privileges as men. all positions are open to women, and women command a majority of votes. it is not the men's fault that the management so often is mainly left in their hands. if we enquire as to the reasons for this apathy among women-workers, a great many can be given. one is the danger of victimisation, which may fall very hardly on collectors and committee members. another is the fatigue of the long day in the mill, the natural desire for a little amusement, or the amount of house-work to be done. lancashire women are "house-proud" to an extraordinary degree, and cannot be satisfied without a high standard of comfort in such matters as cleanliness, food, and furniture. all this means work, and though the high wages current in the cotton towns might seem to make it possible to pay for household help, such help is not very easy to come by. domestic service has hitherto been demanded only by a limited class in the community, because very few outside that class could afford to pay for it. a highly paid industry like the cotton trade makes servants scarce, and anything like a general demand for domestic help on a broad democratic scale could not possibly be satisfied as things are now. even help in washing is not easily had. so the lancashire woman or girl contrives to work her ten hours in the mill, and come back to a second day's work in the evening, with such assistance as may be given by the older members of the family. lancashire is really suffering from the service question in an acute form, so acute that it is taken for granted it cannot be answered. a surprising part of the matter is that a class of women so intelligent, so industrious, and comparatively so well-paid, should not ere this have made a concerted demand for better labour-saving devices in their houses. but after all the domestic difficulty does not explain the whole problem of woman's apathy and indifference in trade unions. supposing the meeting occurs only once a quarter, as in some places, house-work cannot be an insuperable obstacle to attendance at such rare intervals. one weaver told me she had been "bread-winner, nurse, and cleaner" at home, and yet had found time to attend meetings. probably the real explanation of the attitude of women generally towards the union is to be found in their education and outlook. lloyd jones, in his life of robert owen, explained the failure of the early co-operative societies by the fact that at that time the working-class had no habit of association. the old forms had gone; the new had been legally suppressed. under the changed conditions of modern life the working-class has had to evolve a new set of social habits and a new code of social duty. the habit of association has developed more slowly among women than among men, because to some extent it does undeniably come in conflict with the traditional moralities of women. to a great many women the idea of home duty means duty within the home; they are only beginning to find out by slow degrees that their home is largely dependent for its very existence on outside impersonal forces about which it is incumbent on the home-maker to know something, even if she has to go outside to get knowledge. the weavers' secretary, even in lancashire, still finds that "females are a deal more arduous to organise than males"; he supposes, because "they've been brought up to be different." they cost more in collecting expenses, and the propensity of girls to get married, to leave work or change their occupation is a constant source of anxiety. "they are always on the move," and perpetual watchfulness is needed to enrol the young ones as they enter the mill. tact and diplomacy are expended in inducing the women-workers to keep an eye on the younger members, to bring them in as early in their industrial careers as possible. even such homely arguments as "it saves your money from stamps," are not disdained in the effort to persuade the women to use their own personal influence to keep the flame alive. small commissions are given to a member of a union who brings in a new member. but without commissions women do a good deal of recruiting in the mills. the lancashire cotton unions do not run themselves; their efficiency is very largely the result of constant watchfulness and patient effort on the part of the officials, backed up by the pluck, tenacity, and high standard of comfort of the lancashire woman herself. a strong feeling, however, is now arising that there is a need for organisation of women within the union, to induce them to come out more, to take more pains to understand the civic machinery of life which so largely controls their work, their livelihood, and the possibilities of health and strength both for themselves and their children. there is always a splendid remnant in lancashire who feel themselves to be citizens; but a more general movement seems now to be beginning. this movement is partly due to economic changes in the distribution of the industry. some mills nowadays employ scarcely any men. such are mills or sheds for ring-winding, cop-winding, reeling and beaming, occupations exclusively appropriated to women. in such mills there will be a man employed as overlooker, and a mechanic to repair or look after the machines, and there is or should be a man or strong lad to carry the "skips," but the industry itself is here carried on by women, and in such cases women often develop powers hitherto latent for undertaking the committee work and management of the union. the same thing happens in districts where the demand for male labour in other occupations is sufficiently urgent to draw men away from weaving altogether. at wigan the committee is wholly staffed by women. at stockport all but the president, secretary, and one member are women. at oldham about half the committee are women. in the largest centres of the industry things are moving more slowly. in one very large and important union the first woman representative has recently been elected to the committee. at blackburn two places on the committee are now appropriated to the winders and warpers, who are all women; this has the effect of reserving two places exclusively for women. here also the practice obtains of appointing a worker in each mill as a representative of the union, to keep the secretary in touch with what is going on, and about twenty women, chosen chiefly from the winders, now fill the post of mill representative. the insurance act also has had the indirect effect of bringing in a certain number of women as sick visitors or pay stewards. women are thus gradually being drawn forward, with results that indicate that custom is to blame for their previous isolation, rather than any inherent incapacity or unwillingness on their part. there is a good deal that men might do to meet the women half-way. the secretary may regretfully remark that the women members make no use of the handsome institute and comfortable rooms that are at the disposal of all members of a union, but the women complain privately that there is no room appropriated to their use. this is felt as a difficulty by women, while it is unnoticed and unconsidered by men. however heartily one may agree that men and women would be better for the opportunities of social intercourse such as an institute provides, however much one may wish to see women making use of its amenities yet, as a beginning, perhaps always, it would obviously be advisable to set apart for them a sitting-room of their own. women would like to go in to look at the papers and so on, but are deterred by the idea that they are not expected, or not wanted, or that their appearance may cause surprise in the minds of their male colleagues. "they did stare a bit, but they weren't a bit disagreeable," one woman weaver remarked after having valiantly entered her own institute and read her own magazines. pioneers may do these doughty deeds; the average young woman, even in lancashire, is singularly shy in some ways, however much the reverse she may appear in others. there is no doubt that social life in england suffers from the unwholesome segregation of women from the affairs of the community. they are too much cut off from the interests of men, most of which ought rather to be the interests of human beings. the beginnings of better things are now being made, but comradeship and consideration on both sides are needed. a movement for shorter hours is going on in the cotton operatives' unions, and has been sympathetically regarded for many years by the women factory inspectors, who realise the intensity of the work in cotton factories as few outsiders can do. the actual operations of joining threads, removing cops, replacing shuttles and so forth are not in themselves very laborious. the strain occurs in the long hours the women are at work, most of them having to stand all the time, and the close attention that has to be given. every broken thread means _pro tanto_ a stoppage of wages, and eyes and fingers have to be constantly on the alert to see and do instantly what is necessary. all this time, in most cases, the women are on their feet; all this time, in many cases, breathing an unnaturally heated air, sickened by the disagreeable smell of the oil and size, the ceaseless din of machinery in their ears, dust and fluff continually ready to invade the system. in recent years the increased speed has enormously increased the strain of work. it would seem that here is a clear case for shorter hours by law, but strange to say in practice some women are found to be rather nervous about such a measure. i know one highly intelligent girl who fears that shorter hours may mean increased speed, and thinks that that would be "more than flesh and blood could bear." others fear a loss in earnings. these fears, however, are not shared by all, and after considerable discussion with different persons, i incline to hope that they are not justified. it is, of course, true that in the cotton trade conditions are very different from those in certain trades where shorter hours have resulted in an actual increase of output. the machinery is of enormous value, and is already speeded up to such an extent that no great increase of output on the present machines seems possible or thinkable. on the other hand, there might quite possibly be a very much smaller deficit on shorter hours than the uninitiated would expect. one result would probably be a greater regularity of output through the day. girls will own that they literally cannot keep going all the time, that they are forced to relax at intervals, and they add; "if we had shorter hours we should be able to work right through." there are masters who think the early morning hours' work is hardly worth the trouble. the trade union secretaries with many years' knowledge and experience of the working of the factory acts behind them, do not fear any permanent reduction of wages. a forty-eight hours' week, or an eight hours' day would quite likely result in diminished earnings for the first few weeks or months. but given time to work itself out, it would regularise production and tend to smooth out alternatives of "glut" and slack time. a second probable result would be some increase in piece rates, and the workers would in no wise be worse off. no doubt this change will meet with considerable resistance, but judging by past history, it will probably not cause any permanent injury to the interests of either labour or capital. _winders._--winding is the process of running the yarn off the spinner's cop on to a "winder's bobbin." there are two processes, "cop-winding" and "ring-winding," the latter being a comparatively new process. the winders, though included usually in the same unions with weavers, are far less strongly organised. neither process has as yet a uniform list, but the cop-winders have lists which cover large areas. the ring-winders are still less protected, and as a result they are underpaid. increasing discontent among the winders at blackburn lately caused a demand for direct representation on the committee. the position is curious, there being a woman winder and a warper now serving on the committee while the weavers, a larger and better paid body of women, are represented only by men. winding is said to be harder and worse paid than weaving, and "driving" has been introduced in recent years. "if there is one operative who earns the money she receives it is the winder."[ ] nevertheless, there are some women who cannot stand the strain of weaving, and take to winding. further enquiry into this apparent inconsistency elicited the fact that winding, although hard and monotonous work with its continual removing cops and joining threads, is in some ways a less continuous, unremitting strain than weaving.[ ] winders do not often work on saturday morning, and they may occasionally have short intervals of rest. they also have the chance of promotion to be a warper, a post which admits of much more sitting down than either of the other two, and is consequently coveted. the defective organisation of the winders appears to be due to the absence of men among the ranks. the close community of interests which produced the exceptional success of the weavers' union has been lacking, and the winders appear to have been overlooked. faults in quality or mistakes made in the spinning-room are often credited to the winder, beamer or reeler. it is, however, constantly pointed out in the reports of the amalgamation that they have the remedy in their own hands, and should organise more strongly to get the advantages enjoyed by the weavers. the recent awakening at blackburn, indicated above, is a most hopeful sign. at stockport also, the secretary is making a special effort to organise the winders, and at padiham it has recently been proposed to give them special representation on the committee as at blackburn. _card-room operatives._--unions of card- and blowing-room operatives began to accept women members about , or a little later. women are now organised in the same union with men, and form about per cent of the workers. the work forms part of the process of preparing cotton for spinning, and is heavy and dangerous in character. the conditions under which, and the purposes for which, benefit is granted resemble those of the weavers' unions. the organisation of card-room operatives was greatly improved from to or , and may be now considered to have reached a condition of comparative permanence and stability. the usual complaint is, however, made that women are apathetic and take little interest in union affairs. this state of things is keenly regretted by the secretary, who would gladly see women members on the committee. the difficulties in effective organisation of industries with so large a proportion of young and irresponsible workers are seen in a recent report of a card-room operatives' society. "ring-room doffers are about the most difficult class we have to deal with in the matter of keeping them organised, and we can only assume, as most of them are young persons, that it is mostly their parents who are to blame for this apparent carelessness. so we appeal to the parents of this class of operative to take a keener interest in the welfare of those for whom they are responsible, and would remind them that the writer of this article well remembers the time when this class of operative was looked upon as well paid at s. d. per week, while at the present time the lowest wage paid to our knowledge is s. d., an advance of s. d. per week. surely the few coppers required could easily be spared from this advance, and the benefits returnable are as good an investment as it is possible to find." card-room operatives have usually been regarded as socially somewhat inferior to the weavers, the work being more arduous and done in more dangerous conditions and the women usually of a rougher class. it seems, however, probable that this condition is changing. card-room work is becoming more popular as comparatively good wages come at an earlier age than in weaving. it is impossible to exaggerate the importance of effective organisation to this class of workers. in its absence the large proportion of women can be taken advantage of to lower conditions of work all round. closer co-operation with unions of other classes of workers might be very useful, especially on the question of speeding up. the card-room operatives are speeded and "rushed," working under high pressure, and at the same time the winder, beamer and warper complain of bad cotton, and the weaver strikes on account of the same grievance. surely the remedy is obvious. ring-spinners are often included in the same union with card-room operatives, and quite recently a special effort has been made to improve the organisation of ring-room workers. a "universal list" was obtained in .[ ] _other workers._--outside the cotton operatives there are a comparatively small number of women organised with men in unions of varying strength and effectiveness. as regards linen and jute there is a union at dundee which includes over women, but appears to have made little progress in numbers in quite recent years. the secretary states that the majority of women in the jute trade have very little conception of what trade unionism really means, but that the same applies also to many of the men. he considers that the women's outlook has become broadened within recent years. there are some women now serving on the committee, and the women generally are reported to take a "fair amount of interest" in the work of the society. the other unions belonging to this industry are scattered over ireland and scotland. wool and worsted is backward in organisation, both for men and women. the union at huddersfield includes women, but a correspondent writes that the general union, which has branches in all the important textile centres of the west riding, in actual strength is scarcely one in ten of its possible membership. the apathy of the women, in the huddersfield district at all events, cannot be due to poverty, for the subscriptions are low while the women's average wage is high. nor is it due to the temporary nature of women's work, for in this district many continue work after marriage. the yorkshire women are said by one correspondent to take little interest in public affairs in any way; by another, "not as much as they should, but more than they used to do. it's a big work organising and keeping women in. marriage, flightiness, lack of vision, lack of help and encouragement from fathers and brothers all tend to make it hard. the lower the wages, the harder the task of making them into unionists." the difficulty of organising them is great, and outside huddersfield they are extremely badly paid--so badly, indeed, that in our correspondent's opinion the trade needs to be scheduled under the trade boards act. at bradford considerable efforts have been made from time to time to get the women into the union, but these have failed; and even during the last boom, due to the flourishing state of trade and to the insurance act, very little progress has been made. the clothing unions are making rapid progress, including nearly , women in , and the trade boards will assist the movement. in leeds there has been some natural indignation at the low minimum fixed, which has impelled to organisation. the unions follow the lancashire pattern in organising women along with men. the standard rate for women in the amalgamated society of clothiers operatives at leeds is d. an hour, which is held to be achieved if the piece rates yield as much to per cent of any section or grade of work. in the boot and shoe unions a considerable percentage increase was registered for to , and the numbers reached in the latter year. printing offers some of the most difficult problems connected with the organisation of women.[ ] men in these trades have undeniably offered serious obstacles to the inclusion of women. in a conference of typographical societies of the united kingdom and of the continent, held in london, being "of the opinion that women are not physically capable of performing the duties of a compositor," resolved to recommend their admission to societies upon the same conditions as journeymen, to be paid strictly the same rate. this resolution was adopted by the london society of compositors, and it became practically impossible for a woman to join the society, as women could not keep up to the standard and efficiency of men. one woman joined in , but subsequently left. the women were practically excluded from the compositors' union by the fixing of equal rates of pay. this was not so much discrimination against women because they were women, as a demonstration against the black-leg competition of the unskilled against the skilled. it is stated that women compositors are regarded as so inferior to men that only among employers in a small way of business, working with small capital, where low wages constitute an advantage sufficient to counter-poise the lack of technical skill, can they find employment. in a militant union of women was organised, and struck for increased wages and improved conditions, the women going out to show their sympathy with the men, who had been locked out. in recognition of the women's sympathy the men gave some help and support to this union, which, however, after increasing to began to decline. it was subsequently recognised as a branch of the printers, stationers, and warehousemen. in the cigar trade, as in printing, it has to be owned that women came in "not for doing more, but for asking less." their labour was at first employed chiefly for the less skilled branches, a small number only being employed in skilled work; but in both divisions they worked for a lower rate than men. it was not until that a union for women was established. they still, unfortunately, continued to undersell men, until at last the men, who at first were hostile to their female competitors, saw that it was hopeless to try and keep them out, and that for their own sakes amalgamation was the wiser course. the adjustment of the wage-scale was a problem of some delicacy. to raise the scale of women's wages to the same as men's would probably have meant driving the women from the trade; to leave them on the lower scale would mean that women would contrive to undersell men. it was finally decided to take the highest existing rates of pay for women as the basis of the women's union rates. after the amalgamation had been achieved, women's wages rose per cent, and the recognised policy of the union was to make advantageous terms with each employer opening a new factory. women are not, on the whole, such valuable workers as are men; they are slower, and often do not remain very long in the trade.[ ] lower rates of pay, as long as they are not permitted to fall indefinitely, are a distinct advantage to women in getting and keeping employment. the numbers in unions in food and tobacco were only in , and have since fallen slightly. there are also a good many small unions of women only, some of which are affiliated to the women's trade union league. the numbers of women organised in the trades especially their own, such as dressmaking, the needle trades, and domestic work, are disappointingly small. it has to be remembered, however, that such occupations as these are still for the most part carried on either in the employers' or the workers' homes. the factory system has begun to make some way in dressmaking, but not to a considerable extent. it is not surprising that the workers in these industries are behind the factory workers in learning the lesson of combination for mutual help and protection. unions in the lower grade industries, which till lately have been unorganised, will be treated in a later section. _the women's trade union league._--the society now known as the women's trade union league was founded mainly by the efforts of a remarkable woman named emma smith, afterwards mrs. paterson ( - ). she was the daughter of a schoolmaster and became the wife of a cabinet-maker. her life from the age of eighteen was devoted to endeavours on behalf of the working class and especially of women. being a woman of natural ability and remarkable concentration of purpose, she succeeded in starting pioneer work of a difficult and unusual kind. she was secretary for five years to the workmen's club and institute union, and afterwards secretary to the women's suffrage association. she was the first woman admitted to the trade union congress, and attended its meetings from until , with the exception only of one year, in which her husband's last illness prevented her attendance. although the name of the league has been altered, and its policy considerably widened and in some measure modified, it is pleasant to note that it still keeps up a continuity of tradition with mrs. paterson's protective and provident league. her portrait, as foundress, hangs upon the office wall, and the annual reports are numbered continuously from the start in . sick benefit was the main feature of the propaganda initiated by the league in its early years. the first society formed was for women employed in the printing trade. the need of a provident fund had been badly felt by these women during a trade depression three years previously, and there was no provision for the admission of women as members of the men's societies, even if women's wages had been (as they were not) sufficient to pay the necessary subscription to the men's society. mr. king, secretary of the london consolidated society of bookbinders, however, promised to support and assist the efforts to organise women in this trade. the appeal for a separate organisation of women met with a ready response. some hundreds of women employed in folding, sewing, and other branches of the bookbinding trade, attended the first meeting, held in august ; a provisional committee was formed, and in october the society was formally established with a subscription of d. per week, and an entrance fee of s. its history, however, was uneventful. it refused to join with men in making demands upon the employers, and its representatives at trade union congresses and elsewhere were imbued with mrs. paterson's prejudice against the factory act, and resisted legal restrictions upon labour. employers have been known to urge the formation of "a good women's union," on the ground that the fair-minded employer was detrimentally affected by the "gross inequalities of price" that existed. the backwardness and narrow views of the women's union were resented by the men, and in the time of the eight hours agitation, - , would not take part, and there was considerable ill-feeling between the two sections. this society was mainly a benefit club, and the same remark holds good of other early societies established by the women's protective and provident league, which included societies for dressmakers, hat-makers, upholsterers, and shirt- and collar-makers. the foundress, although a woman of unusual energy and initiative, whose efforts for the uplifting of women-workers should not be forgotten, was in some degree hampered by the narrow individualism characteristic of what may be designated as the right wing of the women's rights movement. she was an opponent of factory legislation for grown women, and did not lead the unions under her control to attempt any concerted measures for improving the conditions of their work. the first report of the league indicates her attitude in the remarks which she reports (evidently with sympathy) from a conference held in april : "it was agreed" (viz. at this conference) "that any further reduction of hours, if accompanied by a reduction of wages, _as it probably would be if brought about by legislation_, would be objectionable." (italics added.) in the same report (pp. - ) the writer, doubtless mrs. paterson herself, sums up the advantages to be obtained for women through union. the league is to be a "centre of combined efforts" to "improve the industrial and social position of ... women"; it is "to acquire information which will enable friends of the working classes to give a more precise direction than at present to their offers of sympathy and help. _without interfering with the natural course of trade_, the societies will furnish machinery for regulating the supply of labour...." (italics added.) "the object of the league is to promote an _entente cordiale_ between the labourer, the employer, and the consumer; and revision of the contract between the labourer and employer is only recommended in those cases in which its terms appear unreasonable and unjust to the dispassionate third party, who pays the final price for the manufactured goods and is certainly not interested in adding artificially to their cost." no direct action for raising wages is suggested. delegates from three women's societies--shirt-makers, bookbinders, and upholsterers--were admitted to the th annual trade union congress, held at glasgow, october .[ ] at the meeting of the t.u. council in , five women representing unions were not only present but took an active part in the proceedings, successfully moving a resolution for additional factory inspectors, and for the appointment as such of women as well as men. in , the amalgamated society of tailors having been asked by one of its branches to resist the increasing employment of women in that trade, resolved instead that the work of women should be recognised, and the women organised and properly paid. the league was asked to co-operate in forming a union, and a tailoresses' union was subsequently formed. at brighton a union of laundresses was formed. various other societies were formed in these early years, many of which are now defunct. mrs. paterson died in , at the sadly early age of thirty-eight. during the years following, the policy of the league was enlarged and developed in a very considerable degree. miss clementina black was secretary for a few years, and her second report ( ) contains interesting remarks on the position of women: "all inquiry tends to show more and more that disorganised labour is absolutely helpless; good wages, lessened hours, better general conditions, and, on the whole, better workmanship prevail in the trades that are most completely organised. it also tends to show the injury done to men and women alike by the payment to women of unfairly low wages.... even in employments in which the work can be done by women at least as well as by men, the wages of women are greatly inferior to those of men. and in those branches in which superior efficiency is shown by the male workers, the inferiority of the wages of the female employees is altogether out of proportion to the difference in the character of the work done by the two sexes. from this cause--the payment of unfairly low wages to women simply because they are women--arises a desire on the part of grasping employers to reduce the wage-standard by engaging women in preference to men, while in many cases the conditions of female employment are onerous and oppressive to an extent which involves the greatest danger to health." in the representation of the society of women bookbinders at the trade union congress, held at dundee, moved a resolution in favour of the appointment of women factory inspectors, which was adopted. in the same year, at the international workers' congress, held in paris, the representative of the london women's trade council, miss edith simcox, moved the following resolution, which was unanimously adopted by the representatives of all nationalities: "that the workmen's party in all countries should pledge itself to promote the formation of trade organisations among the workers of both sexes." the policy of the league in regard to legislation was broadened. the protection of women through the instrumentality of the factory act was no longer resisted, but was recognised as a powerful force for good, to be aided in its administration and developed whenever possible. the league also indicated by the adoption of the title "trade union league," and by gradually dropping the former style, "protective and provident," that it was inaugurating a more active policy. as a matter of tactics the league officials when appealed to for help in labour difficulties among women-workers, always endeavour _first_ to get the matter settled by negotiation; but direct action is now by no means excluded from their programme, and strikes have been called in recent years, sometimes with considerable success. the w.t.u.l. is not a union: it has no strike fund and pays no benefits. it is an organisation to promote, foster, and develop the formation of unions among women. any union of women, or union in which women members are enrolled, can be affiliated to the w.t.u.l. all secretaries of affiliated london unions are _ex-officio_ members of the league committee, on which also are a certain number of members elected at the annual meeting. the w.t.u.l. also enjoys the services of an advisory committee of leading trade unionists, who are present at the annual meeting. the officials of the league are a chairman, a secretary, two official organisers, and an honorary treasurer. the league acts as the agent of women trade unionists in making representations to government authorities or parliamentary committees in regard to the legislation required. abuses or grievances in particular industries are brought forward in the house of commons by members who are in touch with the league. complaints of breaches of the factory and workshop acts can be sent to the league, and are investigated by its officials and forwarded to the proper department. a legal advice department also forms part of the league's functions, and deals with such matters as the assessment of compensation, disputes with insurance companies, deductions from wages, non-payment of wages, wrongful dismissal, claims for wages in lieu of notice, and such cases. a few instances, culled from recent reports, will give an idea of the range and complexity of these cases. a worker in a sweet-factory was injured by the strap of the motor falling on her head, and suffered from shock and chorea. the employers were foreign, and it was with special difficulty that they were got to admit that the accident had even happened. being threatened with proceedings, the matter was referred to their insurance company, who eventually paid the full wages during incapacity. in the slack season seven dressmakers' hands, some of whom had been three years in employment, were dismissed without notice. the league's adviser applied for a week's wage in lieu of notice for each worker. after some correspondence the money owing was handed over. this last case is a sample of many similar ones, and points to the urgent need of organisation in the dressmaking trade. a syrup boiler in a jam-factory slipped on the boards which, owing to imperfect drainage, were slippery with syrup, and fractured her left arm. compensation was paid at the rate of s. d. a week. the league has always been singularly successful in attracting the sympathy, interest, and service of able and gifted helpers, both men and women. it has been also happy in securing active co-operation with many trade unions, and also with societies such as the british section of the international association for labour legislation, and the anti-sweating league, with both of which it is closely connected in work and sympathy. no less than societies--societies, that is to say, constituted wholly or partly of women members--are now affiliated to the league. the most recent activities of the league have been a campaign of instruction and organisation to explain the provisions of the insurance act, and a special effort of propaganda and organisation among the workers in some of the low-grade and ill-paid industries now coming under the trade boards act. a comparison of the list of affiliated societies now appended to the league's report with the societies first enrolled shows not only, as would be expected, a considerable widening of the field, but also a change in character. whereas the societies first formed were of women only, and in london, nearly all the societies at present enrolled are mixed, and most of them are not london societies at all. the great textile societies, the weavers, winders, beamers, twisters, and drawers, card-room operatives, and so forth, form the great majority of organised women; and in these, women are organised either together with, or in close connection with, men. some of the largest are many years older than the league, but have affiliated in comparatively recent years. there are also a vast number of unions of miscellaneous trades--tobacco, food, tailoring, etc.; and even societies mainly masculine are affiliated, such as the london dock and general workers' union (including sixty women in ). many trade unions consisting wholly of men make donations to the league as a recognition of the importance of its work in organising women. in manchester there are two societies to promote the organisation of women-workers, which are doing excellent educational work in fostering the habit or tradition of association among workers in miscellaneous trades, many of which are totally unorganised and grievously underpaid. if we compare these manchester societies with the policy of the women's trade union league in london, a certain difference of outlook is perceptible. the manchester societies prefer organising women by and for themselves; the women's trade union league is in touch with the larger labour movement and favours joint organisation wherever possible. _the movement among unorganised workers._--the "new unionism for women," if we may so term it, first attracted public attention in july , when a few scattered paragraphs found their way even into the dignified columns of the _times_. there was a strike among the match-girls in the east end. meetings were held, and next came the inevitable letters from the employers, representing the admirable condition of their factory, the desire of terrorised workers to return to work, the responsibility of "agitators" for the strike. then a small committee of inquiry was started, its headquarters being at toynbee hall, and this committee reported that it found the girls' complaints to be largely justified. the piece rates had been cut down on the introduction of machinery more than in proportion to the saving of labour per unit produced. vexatious charges for brushes and excessive fines were imposed without reckoning or explanation. the wages ranged upwards from s.-- s. to s. predominantly--and never exceeded s. such were the charges, among others which were considered to be substantiated by the investigations of the four social workers, who showed their impartiality by the careful letter in which they reproduced the explanations and defence of the employers. the toynbee hall committee in its third letter characterised the relation of employer and employed in this factory to be deplorable, and the wages paid as so small as to be insufficient to maintain a decent existence. on the th, the _times_ had a small paragraph describing the strike as being "the result of the class-war which the body of socialists have brought into action." subsequently the london trades council took up the match-girls' cause, distributed strike pay to the amount of £ among boys, girls, and women, and formed a committee of the girls to co-operate with the london trades council. the employers agreed to receive a deputation. on wednesday th july, the strike was declared to be at an end, after the meeting of the first deputation from the l.t.c. and the match-girls' representatives with the directors. the directors agreed to abolish fines and the deductions complained of, to recognise an organised trade union among the employees in order that grievances might be represented straight to the heads instead of through the foreman, and to reinstate the workers concerned in the strike. the extraordinary success of this strike appears to have been due to the unusual steadiness and unity of the girls themselves, to the able and tactful generalship of mrs. besant, and largely also, of course, to the support of the london trades council. as a result of this strike a match-makers' union was formed, and seems to have lasted until ; but it subsequently disappears from the women's trade union league reports, and is known no more. about the time of the great dock strike, , a concerted effort to organise east end women-workers was made by miss clementina black, mrs. amie hicks, and miss clara james. mrs. hicks had been in the habit of meeting some of the women rope-makers in connexion with the parochial work of st. augustine's church, and had observed that many of them had bandaged hands and were suffering from injuries resulting from machinery accidents. inquiries made by her brought to light the fact that the women's wages were only about s. to s. disputes were frequent in the trade. mrs. hicks determined to open her campaign of organisation with the rope-makers, although she was warned that she would find them a rough, wild and even desperate class of women. nothing daunted, she called on several, and invited them to a meeting. the supposed viragos said they were afraid, and mrs. hicks advised them to come all together. a room was hired, and about to women walked there in a body, a proceeding which greatly alarmed the inhabitants, some of whom fled into their houses and barred the doors. the meeting, however was successful. nearly all the women signed their names as members of a union, and mrs. hicks became their secretary, a post which she retained for ten years. it is recorded that not one of the original members was lost to the union otherwise than by death, and that not one of them ever "said a rough word" to their secretary. mrs. hicks and miss james, after making urgent representations, were admitted to give evidence before the labour commission, which apparently had not originally contemplated hearing women witnesses at all. mrs. hicks was able to show that the conditions of the work were most unhealthy, the air being full of dust, and no appliance provided to lay it. in some works even elementary sanitary requirements were not provided. cases were known of the women being locked in the factory, and in at least one instance a fire occurred which was fatal to the unfortunate women locked in. in spite of these shocking conditions, however, many women refused to join the union for fear of victimisation and dismissal. as mrs. hicks put it, the condition of the women was so bad in east london that an employer had only to say he wanted some work done, fix his own rate of pay, and he would always find women glad to take it. miss clara james also gave evidence in regard to the confectioners' trade union. the union was very weak in numbers, the women being afraid to join, several, including the witness, having been dismissed for joining a union. in one factory six girls who had acted as collectors for the union were dismissed one after another, although the union had never acted offensively or used threats to the employer. in this trade the workers were subjected to very bad sanitary conditions, rotting fruit, syrup, etc., being left a week or more in proximity to the workrooms. wages were stated at from s. to s., s. being the highest and very unusual, but even these low rates were subject to deductions and fines, and workers might be dismissed without notice. in both these trades it will be evident at once that the great need for women workers was to combine and stand together, but owing to their poverty and dread of dismissal this was precisely what it was most difficult for them to do. the frequent disputes mentioned by both witnesses are, however, a sign that the traditional docility of the woman-worker was even then beginning to give place to a more militant spirit. in other industries there have been many signs of activity in more recent years. in october the ammunition workers at edmonton struck against a reduction of wages, and the matter being referred to arbitration, was compromised in a manner fairly favourable to the workers, and other concessions were subsequently secured. a union was formed as a branch of the national federation of women workers, and this union is still in active existence. members are entitled to strike pay and also have a sick benefit fund in addition to the insurance act benefit, and a thrift section. the secretary is a convinced believer in the value of organisation to women, and thinks that women are beginning to appreciate it themselves far more than formerly. in miss macarthur succeeded in reorganising the cradley heath chain-makers, whose union, always feeble, had all but flickered out. the making of small chains is an industry largely carried on by women in homes or tiny workshops, and although the district does an enormous trade in the world market, this had not prevented the local industry becoming almost a proverb for sweating. the reorganisation of the union, however, was effected in the nick of time. the society was affiliated to the national federation of women workers, an association which has been formed in co-operation with the w.t.u.l., to bring together the women in those industries where no organisation already exists for them to join. in the trade boards act was passed, and the making of small chains was one of the group of sweated trades first included under the act. the organisation which had already been started was now of great service in facilitating the administration of the act, the women's union being able to choose the persons who should represent it on the board. subsequently when the board of trade called a meeting to elect workers' representatives, the candidates chosen by the union were voted for by the women with practical unanimity, and as the work of the board progressed it was possible at each stage to consult the workers and obtain their approval for the action taken by their representatives in their name. in the absence of effective organisation this would have been much more difficult. the history of the first determination of the chain-makers' board forms one of the most singular passages in industrial history. the board, constituted half of employers and half of employed, having got to work, found itself compelled to fix a minimum wage which amounted to an increase in many cases of per cent, or even more. the previous wages had been about s. or s., and the minimum wages per week, after allowing for necessary outlay on forge and fuel, was fixed at s. d. poor enough, we may say. but so great an improvement was this to the workers themselves that their comment is said to have been: "it is too good to be true." the change did not take effect without considerable difficulties. the trade boards act provides that three months' notice of the prices fixed by the board shall be given, during which period complaints and objections may be made either by workers or employers. at cradley this waiting period was abused by some of the employers to a considerable extent. many of them began to make chains for stock, and trade being dull at the time they were able to accumulate heavy reserves. thus the workers were faced with the probability of a period of unemployment and starvation, in addition to which a number of employers issued agreements which they asked the women to sign, contracting out of the minimum wage for a further period of six months. this was not contrary to the letter of the law, but was terribly bitter to the poor workers, whose hopes, so near fulfilment, seemed likely again to be long postponed. they came out on strike, and were supported by the national federation of women workers, in conjunction with the trade union league and the anti-sweating league. a meeting was arranged between the workers' representatives and the manufacturers' association, at which the latter body undertook to recommend its members to pay the minimum rate so long as the workers continued financial support to those women who refused to work for less than the rates. this practically of course amounted to a request from the employers that the workers' trade union should protect them against non-associated employees. it has been remarked that this agreement is probably unique in the annals of trade unionism. after long consideration the workers agreed. an appeal for support was made to the public, and met with so good a response that the women were able to fight to a finish and returned to work victorious. every employer in the district finally signed the white list, and more recently the board has been able to improve upon its first award. the organisation has so far been maintained. thus a real improvement has been achieved in the conditions of one of the most interesting, even picturesque of our industries, though unfortunately also one of the most downtrodden and oppressed. no one who has ever visited cradley can forget it. the impression produced is ineffaceable. so much grime and dirt set in the midst of beautiful moors and hills--so much human skill and industry left neglected, despised and underpaid. the small chains are made by women who work in tiny sheds, sometimes alone, sometimes with two or three others. each is equipped with a bellows on the left of the forge, worked by the left hand, a forge, anvil, hammer, pincers, and one or two other tools. the chains are forged link by link by sheer manual skill; there is no mechanical aid whatever, and we understand that machines for chain-making have been tried, but have never yet been successful. the operation is extremely ingenious and dextrous, and where the women keep to the lighter kind of chains there would be little objection to the work, if done for reasonable hours and good pay. it is carried on under shelter, almost in the open air, and is by no means as drearily monotonous as many kinds of factory work. on the other hand, in practice the women are often liable to do work too heavy for them, and the children are said to run serious risks of injury by fire. at the time of the present writer's visit, now about ten years ago, these poor women were paid on an average about s. d. a week, and were working long hours to get their necessary food. most have achieved considerable increases under the combined influence of organisation and the trade board, and probably s. or s. is now about the average, while some are getting half as much again. when the strike was over there was a substantial remainder left over from the money subscribed to help the strikers. the chain-makers did not divide the money among themselves, but built a workers' institute. surely the dawn of such a spirit as this in the minds of these hard-pressed people is something for england to be proud of. in august came a great uprising of underpaid workers, and among them the women. the events of that month are still fresh in our memories; perhaps their full significance will only be seen when the history of these crowded years comes to be written. the tropical heat and sunshine of that summer seemed to evoke new hopes and new desires in a class of workers usually only too well described as "cheap and docile." the strike of transport workers set going a movement which caught even the women. in bermondsey almost every factory employing women was emptied. fifteen thousand women came out spontaneously, and the national federation of women workers had the busiest fortnight known in its whole history of seven years. among the industries thus unwontedly disturbed were the jam-making, confectionery, capsule-making, tin box-making, cocoa-making, and some others. in some of the factories the lives led by these girls are almost indescribable. many of them work ten and a half hours a day, pushed and urged to utmost speed, carrying caldrons of boiling jam on slippery floors, standing five hours at a time, and all this often for about s. a week, out of which at least s. would be necessary for board and lodging and fares. most of them regarded the conditions of their lives as in the main perfectly inevitable, came out on strike to ask only d. or s. more wages and a quarter of an hour for tea, and could not formulate any more ambitious demands. an appeal for public support was issued, and met with a satisfactory response. the strike in several instances had an even surprisingly good result. in one factory wages were raised from s. to s.; in others there was s. rise all round; in others of s. or s. d., even in some cases of s. in one case a graduated scale with a fixed minimum of s. d. for beginners at fourteen years old, increasing up to s. d. at eighteen, was arranged. one may hope that the moral effect of such an uprising is not wholly lost, even if the resulting organisations are not stable; the employer has had his reminder, as a satirical observer said in august , "of the importance of labour as a factor in production." * * * * * many women were enrolled in new branches of the national federation of women workers. not all of these branches survive, but there was some revival of unionism in the winter, - , and many of the workers who struck in will be included under the new trade boards. perhaps even more remarkable was the prolonged strike of the hollow-ware workers in . hollow-ware, it may not be superfluous to remark, is the making and enamelling of tin vessels of various kinds. this was once a trade in which british makers held the continental markets almost without rivalry; it was then chiefly confined to birmingham, wolverhampton, and bilston. but small masters moved out into the country in search of cheaper labour, and settled themselves at lye and cradley, outside the area protected by the men's unions. in the unions endeavoured to improve conditions for the underpaid workers, and drew up a piece-work list of minimum rates applicable to all the centres of the trade. but they had not strength to fight for the list, and wages went down and down. as one consequence, the quality of the work had deteriorated, shoddy goods were sent abroad, and foreign competitors improved upon them.[ ] this in turn was used as an excuse for further driving down wages. the hollow-ware trade, like chain manufacture, employs women as well as men. in many of these women were working for a penny an hour, tinkering and soldering buckets, kettles, pots and pans from early morning until night; at the week-end taking home s. for their living. it should also be remembered that some processes, especially the making of bright frying-pans, entail serious risk of lead-poisoning. galvanised buckets are dipped in baths of acid, and the fumes are almost blinding, and stop the breath of an unaccustomed visitor. the work done by women is hard enough. but they did not take much notice of the hardness or of the risk of industrial disease. their preoccupation was a more serious one: how to get their bread. wages were rarely more than s. a week, and in a considerate and attentive visitor found their minds concentrated on the great possibility of raising this to-- s.? s.? s.? what the hollow-ware workers of lye and cradley had set their minds on was merely s. a week, and to attain this comparative affluence they were ready to come out weeks and weeks on end. as a result of conferences between representatives of the national federation of women workers and twenty of the principal employers, during the summer , it was decided to demand a minimum wage of s. for a fifty-four-hour week. not, of course, that the officials considered this a fair or adequate wage, but because they hoped it would give the women a starting-point from which they could advance in the future, and because, wretched as it seemed, it did in fact represent a considerable increase for some of the women. the best employers yielded at once, but several refused to adopt the terms proposed. in october men handed in their notices for a per cent increase of wages and a fifty-four-hour week. twelve firms conceded these terms at once, leaving men still on strike against thirty-three firms. as a result many women-workers were asked to do men's work, and it seemed not unlikely that the men might be thus defeated. the national federation of women workers decided to call out the women to demand a s. minimum, and at the same time support the men in their demands. all the women called out received strike benefit. there was, however, another body of women and girls, whose work stopped automatically because of the strike, and these were not entitled to any strike pay. a public appeal was therefore issued by the _daily citizen_ and also by the women's trade union league, and the response evoked was sufficient to tide the workers over the crisis. the struggle ended with complete victory for the workers, and as an indirect but most important result, the trade was scheduled for inclusion in the revisional order under the trade boards act. in the north also the last two or three years have witnessed increased activity in the organisation of underpaid trades. in the flax industry the strike of a few general labourers employed in a certain mill resulted in the locking out of women flax-workers. although the preparing and spinning of flax is a skilled industry, the highest wage paid in the mill to spinners was s. including bonus, reelers occasionally rising to s., and the common earnings of the other workers were from s. d. to s. several small strikes had taken place, but the women being unorganised and without funds were repeatedly compelled to return to work on the old terms. by the efforts of the women's trade union council of manchester a union was now formed, and a demand made for an increase of s. all round. with the help of public sympathy and financial support the women were able to stand out, and after a lock-out of nearly three weeks a settlement was arrived at under which the women got an increase of s. all round and the bonus was rearranged more favourably for the workers. the whole of the women involved in this dispute joined the union. a dispute in another flax mill was much more prolonged, and lasted for over sixteen weeks. it was eventually arranged by the intervention of the board of trade, and some concessions were obtained by the workers. in both these disputes the men and women stood together. there is perhaps no feature so hopeful in this "new unionism" of women, as the fact that women are beginning to refuse to be used as the instruments for undercutting rates and injuring the position of men. many other such efforts might be recorded did space permit. many of them do not unfortunately lead to stable forms of association. the difficulties are enormous, the danger of victimisation by the employers is great, and in the case of unskilled workers their places, as they know so well, are easily filled from outside. a correspondent writes to me that "fear is the root cause of lack of organisation." the odds against them are so great, the hindrances to organisation and solidarity so tremendous, that the instances recorded in which these low-grade workers do find heart to stand together, putting sex jealousy and sex rivalry behind them, disregarding their immediate needs for the larger hope, are all the more significant. several of the labourers' unions now admit women, notably the gas-workers' and general labourers' union and the workers' union. _the national federation of women workers._--the most important union for women among the ill-defined, less skilled classes of workers is the national federation of women workers, which owes its existence mainly to the initiative and fostering care of the women's trade union league. the form of organisation preferred by the women's trade union league in the twentieth century is that men and women should wherever possible organise together. this is the case with the firmly-established lancashire weavers and card-room operatives and with the progressive shop assistants' union. in the numerous trades, however, in which no union for women exists, a new effort and a new rallying centre have been found necessary. the national federation of women workers was formed in for the purpose of organising women in miscellaneous trades not already organised. it has made considerable progress in its few years of existence, and has a number of branches in provincial and suburban places. the national federation is affiliated to the trades union congress and to the general federation of trade unions, and insured in this last for strike pay at the rate of s. per week per member. the branches are organised in different trades, have local committees and local autonomy to a certain extent. each branch retains control of one-sixth of the member's entrance fee and contribution, together with any voluntary contributions that may be raised for its own purposes. the remainder of the funds go to a central management fund from which all strike and lock-out money is provided, and a central provident fund. branches may not strike without the permission of the executive council. the national federation of women workers has an insurance section in which about , women were enrolled in . at the time of writing a special effort is being made for the organisation of women in those industries to which the trade boards act has recently been extended. _women's unions in america._--in america women are fewer in numbers in the trade union movement, but they have occupied a more prominent place in it there than in our own country. the american labour movement may roughly be dated from the year . in that year the tailoresses of new york formed a union and went on strike, and from that time to the present women wage-earners have constantly formed unions and agitated for better pay and conditions of work. the first women to enter factory employment were native americans, largely new england girls, the daughters of farmers, girls who would naturally be more independent and have a higher standard of comfort than the factory hand in old countries. several important strikes occurred among the cotton-mill girls at dover, new hampshire, in and again in , and also at lowell in and . it does not appear that these strikes resulted in any stable combinations. subsequently, between and , a number of labour reform associations were organised, chiefly among textile mill girls, but including also representatives of various clothing trades. these societies organised a number of successful strikes, increased wages, shortened the working day, and also carried on a successful agitation for protective legislation. the leader of the lowell union, sarah bagley, had worked for ten years in new england cotton mills. she was the most prominent woman labour leader of the period, and in became president of the lowell female labour reform association, which succeeded in obtaining thousands of operatives' signatures to a petition for the ten hours' day. the female industrial association was organised in new york, , a union not confined to any one trade but including representatives from tailoresses, sempstresses, crimpers, book-folders and stitchers, etc. between and local branches were formed and temporary advantages gained here and there by women cigar-makers, tailoresses and sempstresses, umbrella sewers, cap-makers, textile workers, laundresses and others. women cigar-makers especially, who were at first brought into the trade in large numbers as strike breakers, after a struggle were organised either as members of men's unions or in societies of their own, and once organised "were as faithful to the principles of unionism as men." the umbrella sewers' union of new york gave mrs. paterson, then visiting america, the idea of starting the movement for women's unions in london. the women shoemakers formed a national union of their own, called the daughters of st. crispin. in this period there was little organisation among the women of the textile mills, and the native american girls were to some extent ousted by immigrants having a lower standard of life. there were, however, a number of ill-organised strikes which for the most part failed. in the war time the tailoresses and sempstresses, already suffering the double pressure of long hours and low wages, had their condition aggravated by the competition of the wives and widows of soldiers, who, left alone and thrown into distress, were obliged to swell the market for sewing work as the nearest field for unskilled workers. efforts, however, were made to form trade unions among the sewing women; many of these were short-lived and unsuccessful. the growing tendency among men to realise the importance of organising women is seen in a resolution passed by a meeting of tailors in june : resolved that each and every member will make every effort necessary to induce the female operatives of the trade to join this association, inasmuch as thereby the best protection is secured for workers as well as for the female operatives. in the international typographical union admitted women to equal membership, after years of opposition, to the entrance of women into the printing trade. in and onwards trade unionism among women, as among workers generally, suffered from the trade depression of those years. during this period, however, a number of eight-hour leagues were formed, both of men and women members, who found in the short-time idea a significant and vital measure of reform. the boston league ( ) was the first to admit women. in this and other similar societies they served as officers and on committees. a remarkable organisation of female weavers was formed in fall river in january . the male weavers' union had voted to accept a reduction of per cent; but the women called a meeting of their own, excluding all men excepting reporters, and voted to strike against the reduction. the male weavers, encouraged by their action, decided to join the movement. three thousand two hundred and fifteen strikers, male and female, were supported by the unions, and the strike was successful. work was resumed late in march. from the organisation of women again progressed in the labour movement of the knights of labour. for the first time in american labour history women found themselves encouraged to line up with men on equal terms in a large general organisation. they could also form their own unions in alliance with the knights of labour, and almost every considerable branch of women's industry was represented in these organisations, the most prominent being the daughters of st. crispin (shoe-workers). the first women's assembly under the knights of labour was held in september . from its first institution this association had realised the necessity of including women. the preamble to this constitution, adopted by the first national convention of the knights of labour in january , included on this subject two significant provisions. one called for the prohibition of the employment of children in workshops, mines and factories before attaining their fourteenth year. the other gave as one of the principal objects of the order: "to secure for both sexes equal pay for equal work." and the founder of the order, at the second national convention in , asked for the formulation of an emphatic utterance on the subject of equal pay for equal work. "perfected machinery," he said, "persistently seeks cheap labour and is supplied mainly by women and children. adult male labour is thus crowded out of employ, and swells the ranks of the unemployed, or at least the underpaid." the women not only demanded better wages but appealed for protective legislation. the numbers increased steadily till may , when twenty-seven local branches, entirely composed of women, were added in a month. but a decline set in, and in the next following six years, the whole strength of female unionism under the knights of labour disappeared. it had probably never exceeded , .[ ] the policy of labour organisations generally has, however, considerably developed in regard to the affiliation and membership of women. the general federation of trade unions, which formerly had been indifferent or hostile to women-workers, had come to recognise even in the 'eighties that women occupied a permanent place in industry, and that it was both necessary and desirable that they should be organised. the position was summarised in an article in the _detroit free press_.[ ] _an equal chance._ woman is now fairly established in the labour-market as the rival of man. whether this is the normal condition of things is a point doubted by some political economists; but whether it be so or not, it is likely to remain the order of things practically for generations to come. this being so it must be accepted, and every fair-minded person must wish her to have an equal chance in the competition. a woman supporting her mother and little brothers and sisters is a very common spectacle; and the fact that professor somebody regards her as abnormal does not make her bread and butter any cheaper. she is entitled to at least as much sympathy as the man who supports a wife and children. for his charge, it must always be remembered, is voluntary--he took it on himself. she could not help her responsibilities; he assumed his of his own accord. it is therefore quite just that she should have an equal chance. in more recent years the growth of industry and the increasing use of mechanical power has constantly tended towards larger utilisation of women's labour. the american federation's declared policy is to unite the labouring classes irrespective of colour, sex, nationality, or creed. unionism among working women has been promoted, women delegates have been appointed to serve at the convention, and local unions of women have been directly affiliated. many national unions, of course, are not directly concerned with female labour, and a small number entirely forbid the admission of women. of these are the barbers, watch-case engravers, and switchmen. moulders do not admit women, and penalise members who give instruction to female workers in any branch. core-making, for instance, employs some women, and the union seeks to restrict or minimise it. the operative potters, upholsterers, and paper-makers admit women in certain branches but not in others. the upholsterers admit them only as seamstresses. but in all trades making these restrictions the number of women employed is small, and the effect of the restrictions is probably insignificant. other unions encourage the organisation of women-workers. in some of these men predominate, as in the printers, cigar-makers, boot- and shoe-makers, and women compete only in the lighter and less-skilled branches. in others women predominate, as among the garment workers, textile workers, laundry, glove, hat and cap workers. some unions make special concessions to women, _e.g._ a smaller registration and dues, in order to induce them to join. the motive for these concessions is clear, as the proportion of women to men in these industries is much higher than the same proportion in the union. in san francisco the steam laundry workers have been organised with considerable success. down to the condition of these women was extremely bad. "living in" was the prevailing custom. the food and accommodation were wretched in the extreme, the hours inhumanly long, sometimes from a.m. to midnight, wages eight to ten dollars a month for workers living in, ten to twenty-five for other workers. an agitation was started to give publicity to these facts, and an ordinance was passed to prohibit work in laundries on sundays or after p.m. the ordinance was not observed, however, and the girls formed a committee and complained to the press. it was proposed to form a union. three hundred men employed in the industry applied for a charter to the laundry workers' international union. the men did not wish to include girls as members, but the international would not give the charter if women were excluded. on the other hand, the women were timid and afraid of victimisation. one girl with more courage or more initiative than the others, however, was chosen to be organiser, and carried on her work secretly for about sixteen weeks with extraordinary energy and effectiveness. suddenly it came out that a majority of employees in every laundry had joined the union. they had refrained from declaring themselves until they had a large and influential membership, and then came out with a formal demand for shorter hours, higher wages, and a change of system. public sympathy was aroused, and by april the conditions in the san francisco laundries were revolutionised. boarding was abolished, wages were increased, hours shortened to ten daily, with nine holidays a year. in more recent years these capable organisers have succeeded in obtaining the eight hours day by successive reductions of the working time. in the same city an interesting case is recorded in which the girls in a cracker (or biscuit) factory struck against over-pressure. the packers, who had to receive and pack the crackers automatically fed into the bins by machinery, found the work speeded up to such a degree that they could not cope with it. their complaints were received with apparent respect and attention, but after a short interval the same speeding-up occurred again. with some difficulty, many of the girls being italian and speaking little english, a union was formed and affiliated to the labour council, whose representative then approached the employers. the matter was settled by arranging to have extra hands so as to meet the extra work occasioned by speeding, and an arrangement was also made to allow each girl ten minutes' interval for rest both in the morning and afternoon spell. the industrial workers of the world, a labour society with a revolutionary programme, has a large membership of unskilled workers, in textile and other industries. it doubtless includes many women, for women took part in a conflict with the city government of spokane, washington, over the question of free speech, the city having attempted to prevent street meetings. the workers were successful, but not without a severe struggle, in the course of which men and women went to jail, many of whom adopted the hunger-strike. in the great strike of textile workers in lawrence, mass., in , a remarkably spontaneous effort was made by the polish women-weavers at the everett mill. the hours of work had been reduced by legislation from to per week, and the employees demanded that the same money should be paid to them as before the change. in the everett mill about per cent of the weavers were poles. in one of the weave-rooms the polish weavers, almost all women, stopped their looms after receiving their money on january , and tried to persuade the workers in some other sections of the mill to come out with them.[ ] the story of this strike shows that women are fully capable of feeling the wave of class-consciousness that brings about the development of what is called "new unionism"; but probably the difficulty of their taking a serious part in control and management is even greater than in craft unions. information is, however, very scanty as to the relation of women to the i.w.w., which in its literature is quite as prone as the more aristocratic craft union to ignore the part taken by women in organisation. in , when the bureau of labour made its enquiry into the conditions of women wage-earners in the u.s.a., the number of unions containing ten or more female members was , and the number of female members was only , , estimated at only per cent of the total membership of the unions. the largest group of women unionists are those engaged in the making of or working at men's garments; these number over , . the textile workers came next with ; the boot and shoe workers, hat and cap workers, and tobacco workers form three groups of over each. this census, however, was taken at a most unfavourable moment, when many unions were suffering from the trade depression of the previous autumn and winter. it is also true that the numbers in actual membership are not a complete measure of the numbers under the direct influence and guidance of the unions. it has been found that the numbers of women ready to come out on strike and enrol themselves in unions or enforce a particular demand at a particular moment are considerably in excess of the number normally enlisted. at the same time there is little use in denying that, speaking generally, the results attained by women's organisations, after eighty or ninety years of effort, are disappointing. women's unions in america have been markedly ephemeral in character, usually organised in time of strikes, and frequently disappearing after the settlement of the conflict that brought them into being. a great obstacle to the organisation of women is no doubt the temporary character of their employment. the mass of women-workers are young, the great majority being under twenty-five. the difficulty of organising a body of young, heedless, and impatient persons is evident, especially in the case of girls and women who do not usually consider themselves permanently in industry. in the words of the commissioner: to the organiser of women into trade unions is furnished all of the common obstacles familiar to the organiser of male wage-earners, including short-sighted individual self-interest, ignorance, poverty, indifference, and lack of co-operative training. but to the organisers of women is added another and most disconcerting problem. when men marry they usually become more definitely attached to the trade and to the community and to their labour union. women as a rule drop out of the trade and out of the union when marriage takes them out of the struggle for economic independence. another great difficulty is the opposition of the employers. "employers commonly and most strenuously object to a union among the women they employ." when once an organisation has attained any size, strength, or significance, the employers almost always set themselves to break it up, and have usually succeeded. in boston, for instance, a union of some members was broken up by the posting of a notice by the firm that its employees must either join its own employers' union or quit work. some employers look upon female labour as the natural resource in case of a strike, as see the case quoted by miss abbott (_women in industry_, p. ). there are reasons why employers object even more strongly to unions among women than among men. in a number of cases production is mainly carried on by women and girls, only a few men being required to do work requiring special strength and skill. in such instances the employers do not particularly object to the organisation of their few men, whom, as skilled workers, they would anyhow have to pay fairly well. but when it comes to organising women and demanding for them higher wages and shorter hours, the matter is much more serious. the present unsatisfactory condition of women's unions is, however, only what might be expected in the early years of such a movement. men's unions have all gone through a similar period of weak beginnings, and in america there are special difficulties arising from the presence of masses of unskilled or semi-skilled workers of different races and tongues, and varying in their traditions and standard of life. there is much encouragement to be derived from the fact that the leaders in men's unions, both national and local, now have more faith than formerly in unionism for women. the american federation of labour calls upon its members to aid and encourage with all the means at their command the organisation of women and girls, "so that they may learn the stern fact that if they desire to achieve any improvement in their condition it must be through their own self-assertion in the local union." from onward every convention has favoured the appointment of women organisers. women also are developing a greater sense of comradeship with their fellows and of solidarity with the labour movement generally. as we have seen, there are now few unions which discriminate against women in their constitutions, and the universal trade union rule is "equal pay for equal work for men and women." even the special condition of this instability in industry, the temporary nature of women's work, which is so great an obstacle to organisation, is thought to be changing. within the last thirty or forty years, changes in industrial and commercial methods have opened up numerous lines of activity to women, in addition to the factory work, sewing and domestic service, which used to be her main field: "marriage is coming to be looked upon less and less as a woman's sole career, and at the same time the attitude in regard to wage-earning after marriage is changing. the tendency of these movements is to create an atmosphere of permanency and professionalism for woman as a wage-earner, especially among women in the better-paid occupations, which in time may markedly change her attitude toward industrial life." such a change of outlook and habits of mind must doubtless be slow, but there are signs that it is in progress on both sides of the atlantic. the future of unionism for women is therefore not without hope, however unsatisfactory the immediate prospect may be. miss matthews, the writer of an interesting study of women's unions in san francisco, sums up her observations on the subject as follows: experience in contesting for their rights in union seems to have developed leaders among the trade union women. wages, hours, and shop conditions have all shown the impress of the influence exerted by the organised action of the workers. but if wages, hours, and shop conditions did not enter into the question at all, still trade unionism among women would show its results in a higher moral tone made possible by the security which comes from the knowledge that there are friends who will protest in time of trouble and offer hope for better days; it would display its influence in a more awakened and trained intelligence; it would make evident its effort in a happier attitude towards the day's work, arising from the fact that the worker herself has studied her industry and has participated in determining the conditions under which she earns her livelihood. in - a women's trade union league, on the lines of the organisation of the same name in england, was formed, and is doing excellent work to promote solidarity and union among women-workers. chapter iva. women in unions (_continued_). _women's unions in germany._[ ]--in germany the obstacles have been far greater than in england. the relative prevalence of "hausindustrie" and the greater poverty stood in the way of women's organisation, and until a few years back the law did not allow women to join political societies. women were not, it is true, prohibited from joining trade unions, but the line between political and trade societies is not in practice always easy to draw, and full membership of unions has thus been often hindered. the first women's unions were started in the early 'seventies of the last century, by middle-class women who were also in the forefront of the battle for the suffrage. the authorities dissolved the societies. women-workers did not long maintain the alliance with the "women's rights" party. an independent organisation was formed, which greatly exceeded the previous efforts in numbers and significance. the immediate impulse to the formation of this union was given by the proposal of the government to put a duty on sewing-thread, which would have been a great burden on the needle-women who had to provide the thread. three societies were formed, the first being the "verein zur vertretung der interessen der arbeiterinnen," which was followed by the "nordverein der berliner arbeiterinnen" and the "fachverein der mäntelnäherinnen," both of which were founded and controlled by working women. investigations of the wages and conditions of working women were undertaken by these societies, in consequence of which a debate in the reichstag took place, followed by an official enquiry into the wages of the women-workers in the manufacture of underclothing and ready-made garments, which only confirmed the conclusion already reached by private enquiry. the truck act was made more stringent, in response to the working women's movement, but as a secondary result all the societies were dissolved and the leaders prosecuted. the authorities were taking fright at the increase in the socialist vote and in the membership of trade unions; and the reichstag, under the tutelage of bismarck, in passed the notorious anti-socialist law, under which not only socialist societies but even trade unions were harassed and suppressed. during the twelve years in which the law was in force, however, propaganda work was still carried on with heroic courage and perseverance, and the solidarity and class-consciousness of the workers, both men and women, was developed and strengthened by their natural indignation against the persecution suffered. the men's attitude towards the women-workers, which had been formerly reactionary and sometimes hostile, gradually changed, partly because of the energy and courage the women had shown, partly through a growing recognition, which was intensified by the enormous increase in women industrial workers shown in the census report, , that exclusion of women from the men's unions could only exasperate industrial competition in its worst form. in a conference was held at berlin at which the central commission of german trade unions was founded, and its attitude towards women was indicated by the fact that a woman was a member of its committee. measures were taken that in the committees of societies which excluded women from membership, resolutions should be proposed for an alteration of rules, and in most cases these were adopted. under their guidance an agitation was set on foot to induce women to join unions. into this agitation the women organisers put an energy, patience, and self-sacrifice that is beyond praise. now the german free unions ("freie gewerkschaften") are not identified with any political propaganda, and cannot legally spend money for political purposes if they have members under eighteen. but in practice they are largely led and controlled by members of the social democratic party, and thus it has happened that working women, who were forced to abandon their own societies and to join forces with the general labour movement, are now largely under the influence and identified with the movement for social democracy. it is incorrect to speak of the unions as "social democratic unions," and yet in fact the two forces do work in harmony. in the labour movement women found their natural allies. their co-operation secured men against "blackleg" competition, and on the other hand the social democrats have worked for women. in they petitioned for improvements in the working conditions of women, and in , that women should have votes for the industrial councils that were then under consideration. bebel's _die frau und der sozialismus_ appeared about this time, and made a profound sensation. in this work the relations of the social question with the woman question were analysed. "nothing but economic freedom for woman," said bebel, "could complete her political and social emancipation." in some of the remaining obstacles that impeded women from taking part in political and trade societies were done away with by the federal association law. the outstanding fact at the present time is the enormous relative increase in the numbers of women unionists. frau gnauck gives the numbers in as , in the "free" or social democratic unions, , in the christian. the figures for , from the _german statistical year-book_, will be found at the end of the section.[ ] it will be observed that although, as with us, the largest group of organised women is in the textile trades, the members are more generally distributed, and the non-textile unions show larger numbers, both absolutely and relatively, than is the case in england. the centralised unions undoubtedly owe their origin chiefly to the social democratic exertions, and are strongly class-conscious. they, however, favour the view that it is the duty of the state to protect the workers by legislation from excessive exploitation, and that it is the main business of the unions to achieve as far as possible immediate improvements in wages and labour conditions. the comparative ease with which new unions have been built up and existing unions amalgamated is very largely due to social democratic influence. before trade unions existed to any extent worth mentioning, lassalle's campaign for united action had taught the workers that the engineer and his helper, the bricklayer and his labourer, were of one class and had one supreme interest in common; that there was only one working class, and varieties of calling and degrees of skill were not the proper basis of organisation even for trade ends. the ideal no doubt is one great union of all workers, regardless of occupation. this is in practice unattainable; but the germans, in whom class-consciousness is so strong, are reducing the unions to the smallest possible number, and are also linked closely together by means of the general commission. the general commission of trade unions has its office in berlin. it publishes a weekly journal called a _korrespondenzblatt_, containing information of value to trade unionists and students of trade unionism. connected with the commission is a secretariat for women, the work of which is to promote organisation among women-workers. still more recently it has been arranged that each union with any appreciable membership of women should have a woman organiser. the rapid increase among women members is an indication of the increasing interest taken by the women themselves. considerable diversity in the scale of contributions is one characteristic--young persons, as well as women, being admitted members along with adult males. it is evident that the german form of organisation is much better calculated to catch the weaker and less-skilled classes of workers than is the more aristocratic and old-fashioned craft union of our own country. the germans hold that the organisation of the unskilled labourer is as important as that of the mechanic, and their great industrial combinations include all men- and women-workers within the field of operations, irrespective of their particular grade of skill. endeavours are made to enrol all workers in big effective organisations, and the success of these tactics has been most significant. while in germany two and a half million workers are organised in forty-eight centralised unions, all affiliated to the general commission as the national centre, in england there are more than a thousand separate unions with about the same total membership. in england barely one million unionists out of the two and a half belong to the general federation. these facts are not without bearing on the position of women-workers. english working men complain of the competition of women; the moral is, organise the women. another important field of trade union activity is in the education of their members. there is a trade union school at berlin supported entirely by trade union funds and managed by trade unionists. care is also taken that members of unions should be politically educated to understand their rights and duties as citizens. women-workers in all the "freie gewerkschaften" enjoy the same privileges as men, and are eligible for all boards or elected bodies of their respective unions. there are as yet, however, only two unions in germany which have a woman president, and the majority on the executives of the other unions are men. this is not due to opposition by men, or to rules impeding the appointment of women on these bodies, but rather to the indifference of many women-workers, who, as in england, fail to interest themselves in the affairs of their unions. this lack of enthusiasm on the part of women is ascribed to their position in the home and to the difficulty that they have in combining household work with wage-work, and at the same time retaining any leisure or energy to concern themselves with union matters. contributions and benefits are usually somewhat lower than in the case of men, because women's earnings are usually less. five national unions have, however, adopted the principle of equal scales for men and women. in these cases the amount of contribution varies according to the wages earned, and benefits are graduated to prevent the risk of women becoming a greater burden on the funds than men. it is a patent fact that the number of organised women-workers is very small when compared with men in the same organisation, but the relative increase is great, and the spirit of association is said to be gaining a strong hold on women. the fact that so many german women continue work after marriage is said to be one cause of the increasing interest taken in unions, their position as wage-earners being not merely a temporary one, to be abandoned in a few years' time. the "christian" trade unions contain no very large numbers of women compared to the "free" societies. they were also considerably later in coming into existence, and appear, though ostensibly non-political, to be largely due to reactionary political influences, and organised in opposition to the socialist party. the home workers' union is mainly philanthropic and controlled by ladies. the christian unions have enemies on both sides, as they are naturally regarded with considerable suspicion by the "free" or "central" unions, but nevertheless are also disapproved of by the authorities of the catholic church. the christian unions started with the aim of being inter-denominational ("interkonfessionelle"), including protestants as well as catholics, and a considerable degree of sympathy with labour was combined with their mainly reactionary propaganda; they even considered strikes a possible and ultimate resource, although they desired to avoid them. in many cases, pressed forward perhaps by the rank and file, they have co-operated with the "free" unions, who are so much stronger in numbers and finance than themselves. these tendencies excited the displeasure of the strict catholic body, and not only the german bishops, but the pope himself, have shown hostility to the christian unions, which have thus been rent by internal dissensions. catholic unions of a strictly denominational type have been formed in opposition to the inter-denominational christian unions, and though the former are of little importance as organisations, they no doubt have some effect in weakening the body from which they have branched off. however that may be, the numbers in the christian unions, though showing a considerable percentage increase, are insignificant compared to the large "free" unions. in quite recent years the christian unions have lent themselves to strike-breaking and are becoming discredited in the labour world. the hirsch-duncker unions have only a very small number of women members, and are of little importance for the women's labour movement. these unions were founded and are partly controlled by middle-class liberals. it may be interesting here briefly to compare the views of two distinguished german women writers on the question of trade unionism for women. frau braun, writing in , says that the development of the great industry is the force that impelled men to combine successfully together, but industrially women are about a century behind men, and before they can be successfully organised, home-work must be repressed in every form, and women's work must develop into factory industry much more completely than it has yet done. home-work tends to perpetuate the dependence of women, enabling the home-keeping wife or daughter to carry on a bye-industry, and is therefore an evil. again, the poverty of women is a great obstacle to their organisation. economic history shows that well-paid workers organise more quickly and effectively than those who are isolated, oppressed and degraded. women-workers most urgently need to be enlightened, but this cannot happen until they have been lifted out of the intense pressure of physical need; they must be given time to read, to follow the news of the day, to get beyond the horizon of their own four walls. this cannot be attained by trade union action alone. legislative measures must be taken for the relief of the women-workers. english history shows that lancashire women weavers before the factory act were as incapable of organisation, as easy a prey to the exploiter of their work, as the majority of women-workers are to-day. it was only after the law had restricted their hours of work that they began to organise in trade unions and co-operative societies. in frau braun's opinion women-workers will lose more than they gain by adopting the style of the women's movement in the bourgeois sense. save where absolutely necessary, organisation for women only is a source of weakness to the women-workers' movement. the numerous societies for women-workers' education, the independent socialist women's congresses, and especially the women's unions promoted by the advocates of "women's rights," all these are dangerous. a working woman's movement fully conscious of its aims and principles will permit this class of organisation only in the case of unions for trades exclusively feminine, or of educational clubs or institutes when no other is accessible to women-workers. in principle they should all be avoided, for they can only confuse the issue, and exaggerate the one-sided feminist point of view which leaves out of account the class solidarity of workers and women-workers, the indispensable condition of any successful effort by the proletariat. and it follows from this point of view that co-operation with the bourgeois woman's movement should be refused, whether in the form of admission to "bourgeois" women's societies or the inclusion of "bourgeois" advocates of women's rights in women-workers' societies. both england and france, frau braun thinks, offer examples of the reactionary effect of such co-operation; the numberless work-girls' clubs, holiday homes and the like, managed by ladies of the upper and middle classes in england are one cause of the political backwardness of the english working women. co-operation is too apt to degenerate into tutelage. the german women's movement has steadily refused any co-operation with the bourgeois movement, because it recognises the complete divergence of principle lying at the back of the two movements, and the difference of standpoint as well as of aim. not that every socialist is sound on the woman question! far from it. frau braun recognises that in many a social democrat there lurks the old reactionary philistine feeling about woman: "tout pour la femme, mais rien avec elle." the increase of women's employment has considerably shaken this conviction in the trade unions, because the organisation of women is seen more and more to be a condition of their very existence. but more than this, they need to recognise the vast importance of educating, enlightening the working woman, binding her closer and closer to the socialist cause. women have the future destiny of men in their hands. they mould and shape the character of the children. if socialism can gain the women, it will have the future with it. to bring the women into closer community with the labour movement, to translate their paper equality into living fact, is no fantastic dream; it is part of the obligation of the modern "knights of labour" in the interest of themselves and their cause. frau e. gnauck-kühne writes in sympathy with the catholic unions of the older type, viz. the "interkonfessionelle." like frau braun, she greatly prefers organisation for working women along with men to separate unions. separate organisations, she remarks, require double staff, double expenses of book-keeping, finance and secretarial arrangements, and are more costly, not to mention that the women's wages are so low, the contributions they can make are so small that a sound and effective union of women only is scarcely possible. frau gnauck lays stress on the psychological difficulties of organising women. for ages men have been accustomed to work in common, to subject themselves to discipline; their work brings them into relation with their fellows of the same calling, with their equals. the traditional work of women, on the contrary, has kept them in isolation; the private household was, and is still, a little world in itself, and in this world the woman has no peers--she has as housewife no relation to other housewives, and there is nothing to connect her work at home with the outside world or public matters. she is very slow to perceive the advantages of new methods, labour-saving devices, co-operation and so forth, which might so greatly lessen domestic toil if intelligently applied. with a certain sly humour frau gnauck points out that the housewife has no expert criticism to undergo, for her husband is often out the whole day, and understands nothing of housekeeping or the care of children if he were at home. the housewife as worker (not, be it observed, as wife) is in the position of an absolute ruler; she has no one's opinion to consider but her own, no inspection or control to regard; she is a law unto herself. this habit of mind is not calculated to fit woman for combined action; rather does it tend to promote individualism and a lack of discipline, which hinders concerted effort in small things or in great. this is not to deny that many women are capable of the greatest devotion and sacrifice, even to the point of self-annihilation. the loftiest courage for personal action and self-sacrifice, as frau gnauck keenly remarks, is nevertheless in its way an emphasis of individual will and action, a heightening of self, even though for unselfish ends. concerted action demands a surrender of individuality, the power to find oneself in the ranks with one's equals. men are better trained for this kind of corporate action than women normally are. the older women are too much burdened, and continually oppressed with the thought of meeting the week's expenses, the young ones are indifferent because they expect to get married. frau gnauck, however, refuses to despair even of organising the woman-worker. we must, she says, put ourselves in her place; we must realise that as no man can see over his horizon, we must bring something that the woman worker _can_ see over her horizon, something that will strike her imagination, something that will build a bridge from her over to those large ideas, "class-interest," "general good," which so far she has neither time, spirit, nor money enough to understand. she must be drawn at first by the prospect of some small but concrete improvement in her own condition, which will make it seem worth while to give the time and money that the union wants. appeal to the feeling all women have for a home of their own. explain to them in simple language that the union would prevent underbidding and undercutting, and thus raise men's wages. more men could marry on these higher wages, married women need not go to work, and both the single woman and the married would benefit. frau gnauck is in agreement with frau braun as to the advisability of common organisation, for if the women cannot join the men's unions, they are helpless, and if they form a union of their own, they will probably be too weak to avoid being played off against the men. she takes, on the other hand, a much more favourable view than frau braun of the various philanthropic clubs and societies formed by women of a superior class. these organisations do not of course do anything to improve the economic position, they cannot in any way take the place of trade unions, but they provide a kind of preparatory stage, a training in association, an opportunity for discussion, and in the present circumstances, with the isolated condition in which working women and girls so often have to live, all these experiences are a means of development and an educational help to more serious organisation later on. this is borne out by dr. erdmann,[ ] who, whilst opposed to the catholic unions as reactionary, admits that even in these unions the workers soon begin to feel the need of trade union organisations, and often end by joining the socialist union. numbers of women in unions--germany. +--------------------------------------------------------------+ | largest occupation groups. | number.| per cent of total.| |---------------------------------|--------|-------------------| | freie gewerkschaften. | | | | (total women, , .) | | | |textile workers | , | · | |metal | , | · | |factory workers | , | · | |tobacco | , | · | |bookbinders | , | · | | christian unions. | | | | (total women, , .) | | | |textile workers | , | · | |home workers | , | · | |tobacco | , | · | | hirsch-duncker unions. | | | | (total women, .) | | | |textile workers | , | · | +--------------------------------------------------------------+ _the outlook._--it will be seen from the preceding chapter and section that a general view of women in unions presents a somewhat ambiguous and contradictory picture. in one industry, cotton, there are in england two large unions of remarkable strength and effectiveness, in which women are organised with men, and form a majority of the union. the women cotton weavers and card-room operatives form nearly per cent of all the organised women. in the other textile industries, in the clothing trades, and some others, a comparatively small number of women are organised, either with men, or in branches closely in touch with the men's unions, but these unions are of various degrees of strength, and in no case include a large proportion of the women employed. there are also some women organised in unions of general labourers and workers, and their numbers have increased rapidly in the last few years, but are not as yet considerable. we also find many small unions of women only in various occupations, but it is a curious fact that women have so far evolved very little organisation in their most characteristic occupations such as domestic service, nursing, dressmaking and millinery. unions of some kind in these occupations are not unknown, but they are quite inconsiderable in comparison with the numbers employed. yet the strategic position of the workers in some of these occupations is in some respects strong. a fairly well-organised strike of london milliners in the first week in may, or of hotel servants and waitresses along the south coast, say about the last week in july, would probably be irresistible. the same applies to women in certain factory processes when the work is a monopoly of women and cannot be done by men's fingers. paper-sorting is a typical instance; a paper-sorters' strike just before the christmas present season might be highly effective. in such occupations as these, nevertheless, unionism is mostly conspicuous by its absence. there is little use in denying that there are special difficulties in the way of the organisation of women. the old difficulty of the hostility of men unionists is largely a thing of the past, but many others remain. there are difficulties from hostility and indifference on the part of the employers; long hours of work; family ties and duties; educational deficiencies among working women themselves, and the intellectual and moral effects that result from ignorance. an immense difficulty is the low rate of wages characteristic of so many women's employments, which makes it impossible in most cases to pay contributions sufficient for adequate benefit during a strike. competition is another difficulty, especially in low-grade and unspecialised trades, where places can easily be filled. there is the constant dread among workers of this class and low-grade home workers that, if they attempt any resistance, some other woman will go behind them and take the work for still less wages. even collecting contributions is often a considerable difficulty; if it is done at the factory it may subject the collector to disfavour and victimisation; if not, the labour is very considerable. another great difficulty in organising women is the prospect of marriage. a girl looks upon her industrial career as merely a transition stage to getting married and having a home of her own. this need not in itself hinder her being a "good trade unionist," for after all the industrial career of a girl, beginning at twelve, thirteen, or fourteen, may well be eight or ten years long, even if she marries young, but it no doubt does tend to deflect her energies and sentiment from unionism. the prospect of marriage, which to a young man is a steadying influence, making for thrift and for the strengthening of his class by solidarity and corporate action, is to a young girl a distraction from industrial efficiency, an element of uncertainty and disturbance. again, the position of women renders them especially amenable to social influences. social differences between different grades of workers keep them apart from one another and make combination difficult. women are more susceptible than men to the influence of their social superiors. in the past, and even in the present, though less than formerly, no doubt, the influence of upper class women has been and is used against the trade union spirit. charity and philanthropy have tended to counterbalance the forces that have been drawing the working class together. miss collet found in investigating for the labour commission that the homes and hostels for the working girls run by religious and benevolent societies had an atmosphere unfavourable to trade unionism, and influenced the girls to look coldly on agitation for improved material conditions. lack of public spirit is, in short, the great difficulty with women. their economic position, their training and education, the influence of the classes considered superior, above all perhaps the pressure of custom and tradition, all these have combined to prevent or postpone corporate action and class solidarity. must we admit that women are inherently incapable of organisation, which by a kind of miracle or chance has been achieved successfully in one district and in one industry only? a further consideration of the board of trade figures gives a rather different complexion to the matter. in the building, mining, metal and transport trades there are practically no women unionists, but with the exception of metal there are only a very few women employed in these trades at all. in the other non-textile trades the proportion of women organised is very small, and the proportion of organised women to organised men is also small. but it happens that in most of these trades the women employed are also few compared with the men, and the men themselves are not strongly organised. in the woollen and worsted trade organisation is not strong for either sex. in cotton alone do we get a really strong organisation of both men and women. it begins to dawn upon us at this point that the weak organisation of women is after all part and parcel of the general problem of organisation in those trades. no doubt it is an extremer and specially difficult form of the problem. but on the whole, with the exception of the metal trades, it holds good that where women are employed together with men, they are strongly organised where men are strongly organised, weak where men are weak. even in metal trades the exceptions are more apparent than real. the strong unions are in branches of work that women do not do; and a glance down the list of those metal workers who make the small wares and fittings in which women's employment is increasing does not reveal any great strength of male unionism, except perhaps in the brass-workers, who exceeded in . directly we realise this intimate connexion of women's unionism with the labour movement as a whole, a light is thrown on many puzzling discrepancies. in the case of women there have been in the last forty years or so two tendencies at work. one is towards the sporadic growth of small unco-ordinated unions of women only. financially weak and in some cases governed by a retrograde policy, numbers of such unions spring up and die down again. a few achieve some measure of success, and occasionally a very small union will show a very considerable degree of persistence and vitality without perceptible increase of numbers. occasionally such unions are competing with mixed unions in the same occupation, each of course regarding the other as the intruder. it matters very little who is to be blamed for the overlapping. the only important thing is to recognise that such tactics mean playing into the enemy's hands, with disastrous results for labour. apart from such unfortunate instances, it would be foolish to deny that the small unions of women only have provisionally at least a considerable usefulness. the women must be roped in somehow, and even the most precarious organisation may have a distinct educational value in evoking in its members the germ of a sense of class-solidarity and membership with their fellows. i am almost tempted to say that any force that brings women consciously into association with aims higher than petty and personal ones is ultimately for good, however destructive it may seem to be in some of its manifestations. the other tendency is towards the organisation of women either jointly with men or in close connexion with men's unions. in these cases there have been many failures and some successes. the question of adjustment is highly complicated, and cannot be settled on broad lines as with the cotton weavers. "equal pay for equal work" is not a ready-made solution for all difficulties, for the work is very often not equal at all. in most cases it is absolutely distinct, and in many there is a troublesome margin where the work of men and women is very nearly the same but not quite. the men often regard women as unscrupulous competitors, and though they have mostly abandoned the old policy of excluding women, they are apt to try and organise them from their own point of view, without regard to the women's special interests. rough measures of this kind only give a further impulse to schism, confusion and bitterness. at present undeniably there is here and there a good deal of ill-feeling, especially in districts like manchester or liverpool, with a number of ill-organised, ill-paid trades, and competing unco-ordinated unions. if trade unionism is to be effective, if membership is to be co-extensive with the trade and compulsory, as in the future we hope it will, there is no question that better methods are needed, greater centralisation, a more carefully thought-out policy, to avoid the present waste and competition. it is not so much a change of heart as a coherent policy that is needed. the organisation of women has been taken up merely where it was obviously and pressingly needful, in order to safeguard the interests of the men immediately concerned. in the case of the cotton weavers, an altogether special and peculiar class, the problem was comparatively simple. it was of vital importance to the men to get the women in, and on the other hand, the men could do for the women a great deal which at that stage of social development and opinion the women could not possibly have done for themselves. the cotton weavers exhibit an interlocking of interests, so patent and unmistakable that it was not only perceived but acted upon. the card-room operatives lagged behind for a time, the organisation of women being not quite so evident and apparent a necessity, but they have now almost overtaken the weavers. in other industries the problem is more complicated and has taken much longer to grasp. take the interesting and suggestive industry of paper-making. how is the strongly organised, highly-paid paper-maker to realise that it matters very much that women should be organised in his trade? his daughter may earn pocket-money at paper-sorting, but merely as a temporary employment. she will marry a respectable artisan and abandon work on marriage. the rag-cutters, on the other hand, belong to an altogether different class, being usually wives or widows of labourers. there is not enough class feeling to bind together such different groups. it is true enough that the problem of labour is a problem of class-solidarity, and that the women must in no wise be left out. "whoever can help to strengthen trade unionism among women workers will be conferring a benefit on more than the women themselves."[ ] but the depth and truth of this statement is by no means fully realised, and in many cases women have little chance of being organised by the men of their own trade. as mr. cole has told us, the weakness of british labour is the lack of central control and direction. outside the special case of the skilled workers in cotton, the organisation of women becomes more and more a question, not of craft, but of class. this is seen in the different form and type of organisation demanded by the "new unionism." the cotton weavers need in their secretary before all things the closest and minutest acquaintance with the technical mysteries of the craft. the secretary of a modern labour union including all sorts of heterogeneous workers cannot possibly possess intimate technical knowledge of each. personality, power of speech, the force and warmth of character that can draw together oppressed and neglected workers and make them feel themselves one, these are the elementary gifts needed to start a workers' union, whether of men, women, or both together. but also if such a body is to be kept together and do effective work, it is especially in the "new unionism" that the need of central control and direction is felt. a national policy must take into consideration the needs of women and harmonise their interests with those of men. the success of the women's trade union league is very largely due, not merely to the personality of its leaders, though no doubt that has been a considerable asset, but to the fact that it has a national policy and a definite aim. frau braun eleven years ago saw that the labour woman ran some danger of being caught into the feminist movement and withdrawn from her natural place as an integral part of the labour movement itself. it is to be hoped that she has followed english social history in the interval with sufficient closeness to be aware of the far-sighted statesmanship shown by the leaders of the trade union league in avoiding such a pitfall. however unsatisfactory and inadequate the organisation of women has been and still is, a review of the situation does not suggest any inherent incapacity of women for corporate action. in the cotton weavers' societies, although the main responsibility for organisation has rested on men's shoulders, yet the women and girls have consistently paid contributions amounting now to a relatively high figure, and they have constantly aided in the work of recruiting new members. experience is now showing that in certain districts where the industry is becoming more and more a woman's trade, the women have not been lacking in capacity to take over the work of managing the union's affairs. the absence of women from the committee of so many weavers' unions at the present day is due to inertia and long surviving habit rather than to any real incapacity. in the recent ballot on the question of political action, the enormous proportion of votes recorded shows that a large proportion of women must have used the vote. in many of the small women's societies in manchester a working woman is the secretary. in certain cases local unions of women have been successful, notably the liverpool upholstresses, the edmonton ammunition workers and some others. the working woman is in fact beginning to show powers, hitherto unsuspected, of social work and political action. the insurance act has demanded women officials as "sick visitors" and "pay stewards," and the new duties thrown on the secretaries and committee by that act are likely to bring about an increasing demand for the participation of women. the rapidly increasing numbers of women in the shop assistants' union, the movement for a minimum wage in the co-operative factories, the increasing number of women in general labour unions, all these are hopeful signs of a movement towards unity. the milliner and dressmaker in small establishments and the domestic servant will probably be the last to feel the rising wave. even of these we need not despair. with the development of postal facilities, easy transit and opportunities for social intercourse, such as we may foresee occurring in the near future, there may be a considerable development of class-consciousness even among the workers among whom it is now most lacking, while the women's co-operative guild and the women's labour league, in their turn, are finding a way for the association of non-wage-earning women in the working class. female membership of trade unions, . +----------------------------------------------------+ | | |per cent| |occupation |numbers.| of | | | | total. | |----------------------------------|--------|--------| |textile-- | | | | cotton preparing | , | · | | cotton spinning | , | · | | cotton weaving | , | · | | wool and worsted | , | · | | linen and jute | , | · | | silk | , | · | | hosiery, etc. | , | · | |textile printing, etc | , | · | | |--------|--------| | total | , | · | |non-textile-- | | | | boot and shoe | , | · | | hat and cap | , | · | | tailoring | , | · | | printing | , | · | | pottery | , | · | | tobacco | , | · | | shop assistants | , | · | | other trades | , | · | | general labour | , | · | | employment of public authorities| , | · | | |--------|--------| | total | , | · | | |--------|--------| | grand total | , | · | +----------------------------------------------------+ chapter v. summary and conclusion of part i.[ ] _changes effected by the industrial revolution._--we have seen that the industrial employment of women developed partly out of their miscellaneous activities as members of a family, partly out of their employment as domestic servants, partly out of the work given out from well-to-do households to their poorer neighbours. weaving and spinning, the most typical and general employments of women, were carried on by them as assistants to the husband or father, or as servants lending a hand to their masters' trade, or were done direct for customers. in the last case, the work might be done either for the use of the manor or some other well-to-do household, or in the case of spinning and winding, the product might be sold to weavers directly or through a middleman. to a more limited extent, the same kind of conditions probably applied to work other than textile. the women acted as subordinate helpers or assistants, whether in the family or out of it. in the former case they were probably not paid but took their share of the family maintenance; in the latter they were earners. when the circumstances of the trade were favourable, _e.g._ when the demand for yarn exceeded the supply, women-workers may have earned very fair wages; but on the whole it appears that they were in an unfavourable position in selling their labour. the fact of working for nothing, as many did in the home, would not promote a high standard of remuneration, and the women who took in work from the manor or other wealthy households would probably be expected to regard employment as a favour.[ ] when the industrial revolution came, and the man with capital found himself in the exciting position of being able to obtain large returns from his newly-devised plant and machinery, the women and children were there waiting to be employed. enormous profits were made out of the cheap labour of women and girls. the only alternative occupation of any extent was domestic service, then an overstocked and under-paid trade. the women and girls, accustomed to work at home, were not aware how greatly their productive power had increased, and had no means of justifying claims to an increased share of the produce, even if they had known how to make them. many, as we have seen in chapter ii., were reduced to terrible poverty through the failure of work to the hand-loom weavers, and were ready to take any work they could get to eke out the family living. _the survival of previous standards and conditions._--the development of the great industry, the use of machinery and the concentration of capital, came at a time when the working class was peculiarly helpless to help itself, and the governing class was unable or unwilling to initiate any adequate social reform. the enclosure acts had weakened the spirit and independence of the agricultural working-class and increased destitution and pauperism, while wages were kept down through the operation of the allowance system under the old poor law. local depopulation in rural districts sent numbers of needy labourers, strong, industrious, and inured to small earnings, to swell the industrial population of towns.[ ] but the crowning cruelty, the extremest folly, was the prohibition to combine. the special characteristic of the industrial revolution was the association of operatives under one roof, performing co-ordinated tasks under one control to produce a given result. now this new method of associated labour was not only immensely more productive, but it also potentially held advantages for the workers. it brought them together, it gave them a common interest, it brought all sorts of social and civic possibilities within their reach. but to realise these possibilities it was essential that they should be able to join together, to take stock of the bewildering new situation which confronted them, to achieve some kind of corporate consciousness. this was denied them under various pains and penalties. yet the state did not for a long time itself take action to give the factory class the protection they were forbidden to seek for themselves. the effect was that while the workers were bound, the employers were free or were restricted only to the very slight extent of the regulations of the early factory acts, and could impose very much such conditions of work as they pleased. what those conditions were has been reiterated often enough. work far into the night, or even both night and day; sanitation of the rudest and most defective kind where it was not absent altogether; industrial disease from dust, fluff and dirt, or from damp floors and steaming atmosphere; workrooms overheated or dismally cold; wages low, and subject to oppressive fines and fraudulent deductions,--such, and worse, is the dreary recital of the treatment meted out to the workers. the introduction of power machines was not _per se_ the cause of these evils. women had been accustomed to do the work that no one else wanted to do. the servile position of the woman-worker, the absence of combination among the operative class, and the lack of state or municipal control over the conditions of industry and housing, all combined to provide "cheap and docile workers" for the factory system. and no doubt the factory system took full advantage of the opportunity. capital inevitably seeks cheap labour. the governing class had carefully and deliberately provided that labour should be cheap. _what the factory act has done._--the awakening class-consciousness of the factory workers in lancashire and yorkshire led to agitation and petitions for a restriction of the hours of work. leaving out of account the earlier factory acts, which were ill-devised and weak, the first effective regulation was the factory act of . this act was timid in the regulations imposed, which were too elastic to effect very much, but in the providing for the appointment of a staff of factory inspectors it asserted the right and duty of the state to control the conditions of industry, and also indirectly secured that the government should be kept in possession of the facts. only young persons under eighteen were included under this act, but in women also were included, and in and the working day was restricted to ten hours, and the period of employment was carefully defined to prevent evasion. in some dangerous trades were brought within the scope of the acts, which had previously included textile and allied industries only, and in other non-textile industries and workshops were added. in a consolidating act was passed to bring the employment of women and young workers under one comprehensive scheme. the plan of the act of was retained in the act of , but a considerable number of new regulations, especially in regard to health and safety, were included. in a step of great importance for working women was taken, in the appointment of women factory inspectors. it does not come within the scope of this volume to describe the history of factory regulations and control, but we may here ask ourselves the question, how much has been done for the women in industry by the state? what is the present position of the woman-worker? in the first place, we note that sanitary conditions in factories and workshops are greatly improved and conditions as to health are more considered than was formerly the custom. this is not entirely due to the regulations of the factory act, but partly to the progress of public health generally, and to the development of scientific knowledge and humaner ideals of social life and manners. it is true that we are only at the beginning of this movement, and much remains to be done, as any one can satisfy himself by getting into touch with industrial workers, or by studying the factory inspectors' reports, but it can hardly be doubted that the woman-worker of to-day has a very different, a very much more civilised industrial environment than had her mother or her grandmother. the appointment of women inspectors counts for a great deal here, for in earlier times the needs of women-workers were not considered, or if considered were not known with any accuracy. in the second place we note that there has been a considerable development of special precautions for dangerous trades, and that in one instance of a dangerous substance, viz. white phosphorus, its use has even been prohibited, and the terrible disease known as "phossy jaw," formerly the bane of match-makers, has been stamped out. in regard to certain sweated industries measures have been taken to regulate wages through the instrumentality of the trade boards, and, as it appears, with a considerable measure of success. _present position of the woman-worker._--otherwise it is strange to notice how very little the position of the woman-worker has been improved in recent years. she is still liable to toil her ten hours daily, just as her grandmother did, for five days in the week, though on saturdays the hours have been somewhat curtailed. in non-textile factories ten and a half hours are permitted, though in many of the industries concerned a shorter day has become customary, whether through trade union pressure or a recognition on the employers' part that long hours "do not pay." ten hours, or ten and a half, with the necessary pauses for meal-times, involve working "round the clock," which is still the recognised period of employment even for young persons of fourteen and over. the five hours' spell of continuous work is still permitted in non-textile factories and workshops, although the inspectors have long been convinced that it is too long for health and energy, and miss squire reports that it is now condemned by all concerned with scientific management. in certain trades overtime is permitted, and the result is that girls and women may be employed fourteen hours a day, and if the employer takes his full advantage of it, as occasionally he does, the inspector can do nothing, the proceedings being perfectly legal.[ ] while the hours of work have been but very little shortened since , the strain of work has been considerably increased, as we have seen, through the increased speed at which the machines are run. this is especially the case in the cotton trade, though it occurs in other factory industries. the demand upon the worker is much greater than formerly, and the reduction of hours has by no means kept pace with the increased strain. the backwardness of the factory act in these and some other matters is almost inconceivable. so important a matter as the lighting of work-places is still outside the scope of regulation. the nervous strain and serious risk to eyesight involved by doing work requiring close and accurate visual attention in a bad light need hardly be emphasised. the inspectors receive many complaints of badly-adjusted or otherwise defective artificial lighting of work-places, but have no weapon to use but persuasion, which happily is in some cases successfully invoked. another serious factor in the working woman's position is the weakness of the truck act, especially in regard to fines and deductions. deductions, _e.g._ for spoilt work, are sometimes made on a scale altogether out of proportion to the weekly wages, and fines for being a few minutes late, or for trivial offences of various kinds, are often oppressive to a degree which can only be described as preposterous when compared with the value of the worker's time and attention measured in the payments they receive. in some cases convictions and fines are secured, and in other cases, even in some which are outside the law, the inspectors are able to obtain the adoption of reforms by employers, but many hard cases remain unredressed owing to the difficulty of interpreting the acts. all along the line our social legislation has been characterised by timidity and procrastination. dr. thomas percival's statement of the case for state interference in factories ( ) was left for six years without notice from the central government, and the first factory act, , was applied to apprentices only at a time when the apprenticeship system was falling into disuse. later on, in response to the high-souled agitation of sadler, oastler, and lord ashley (afterwards shaftesbury), after years of hesitation and vacillation, various inadequate measures were taken, but never quite the right thing at the right moment, never designed as part of a far-sighted policy that would recreate english industrial life and make it worth living--as it might be made--for the toilers of field and factory, workshop and mine. this weakness and backwardness in the policy of the home department is no doubt largely due to the covetousness of the capitalist and the control he is able to exercise on politics. it should be remembered, however, that the capitalist, or rather the capitalist employer, does not present an unbroken front. in point of fact the best manufacturers do not oppose social legislation. they understand the need of a common rule, and the regulations of the factory acts have usually been modelled on the existing practice of the better kind of employer. labour legislation is weakened and kept back by several causes other than the greed of employers. among these may be mentioned the cumbersome and out-of-date procedure of the house of commons, and the interminable delays that dog the progress of non-governmental measures, even when these have the approval of all parties. other causes are to be found in the class selfishness of the upper strata of society, their indifference to the needs of the people, their ignorance of the whole conditions of the industrial population's life. with bright exceptions, such as the late lord shaftesbury and some now living whose names will occur to the reader, not only the aristocracy and the very rich, but the conservative middle-class, the dwellers in suburbs and watering-places, cling to the idea of a servile class. they object to industrial regulations which give the workers statutory rights amongst their employers; they object to increasing the amenity of factory life and diminishing the supply of domestic servants. labour legislation remains backward and undeveloped for want of the support of an enlightened public opinion. _the strain of modern industry._--with the ill effects of the present system it is impossible for a non-medical writer to deal fully, but no one can have any talk with a doctor or a sick visitor under the insurance committee in a big industrial town without hearing terrible facts about the injury to women from the persistent standing at work. it seems likely also that these injuries are not only due to overstrain among women after marriage and before and after confinement, but result in part from the fatigue endured by adolescent girls. parents are too anxious to send children to work, and girls of fourteen and upwards are sometimes working in competition with boys, and suffer from trying to do as much. pressure is put on girls to work three looms or even four, before they are really equal to the effort. it may, of course, be admitted that some of this strain and drive is self-inflicted. it is part of the admirable tenacity, self-reliance, and high standard of life of lancashire women that they are keen about their earnings, and i have been told of girls who will return to the shed during meal-hours, or even go to work at . in summer-time, busying themselves in sweeping or making ready for work before the engine starts. these practices are illegal, and the employers often protect themselves by putting up a notice that any woman or young worker found in the shed out of working hours will be dismissed, or by sending an employee to clear the shed at the proper hour. nevertheless in many cases the employer has a certain moral responsibility for these evasions of the law, although they appear to indicate perversity on the worker's part. girls and women are indirectly set to compete one with another, and with boys and men. there is a constant pressure on the weaker to keep pace with the stronger, the immature or old with the worker in the full flower of strength. the overlooker usually receives a small percentage on all the earnings of all the weavers, and has therefore an incentive to keep them at full tension, and the overlooker's average is again criticised by the manager. lancashire people are remarkably articulate and also quick in apprehension, and the sarcasms launched at girls who, on pay-day, have earned less than the average are pointed enough to be well understood. the whole system is like an elaborate mechanism to extract the last unit of effort from each worker, and dismissal hangs always over the head of the slower and less competent worker. in the factory inspectors' report for miss tracey tells how children lose their colour and their youthful energy in the drudgery of their daily toil, how the girls fall asleep at their work and grow old and worn before their time. "sometimes one feels that one dare not contemplate too closely the life of our working women, it is such a grave reproach." i have myself been seriously assured that cases of suicide result from the difficulty of maintaining at once the quantity and quality of work under such conditions. anaemia is a frequent result of overstrain, not to mention the constant colds and rheumatism due to overheated rooms. the sickness among women from these and other worse evils alluded to above have become apparent for the first time through the serious strain put on sick benefit funds in the first year of the insurance act. at one very important centre of the cotton trade, out of members received sick benefit in the first twelve months. the insurance act, whatever its defects, has at all events given many poor women the chance to take a little rest and nursing that they sorely needed and could not afford. the sneer of "malingering" is easily raised, but it is doubtful whether real malingering has much to do with it. the conditions of industry, greatly improved as they are from the sanitary point of view, are certainly increasing the kind of strain that women are constitutionally least able to bear. the industrial efficiency in the young girl that she and her employer are often so proud of may be paid for later in painful illness and incapacity. mr. arthur greenwood quotes medical opinion to the effect that the industrial strain to which several generations of women in the textile districts have now been subjected is responsible not only for serious disease, but even for sterility among women.[ ] so far the subject of the declining birth-rate has been discussed chiefly as a theme for homilies on the "selfishness" of women, who, it is alleged, prefer ease and comfort to unrestricted child-bearing. if mr. greenwood is right, the cause, in part at all events, is the force of capitalistic competition feeding on the very life of the people. surely the subject needs medical study and investigation of a more searching kind than it has yet received. _the exclusion of women: a counsel of despair._--in view of the tremendous strain incidental to certain kinds of industrial work, as at present organised, there occurs the difficult problem, what kind of work women are to do. in the case of work underground in mines, and also of a few industrial processes specially injurious to women, the state has exercised the right to exclude women altogether, and however undesirable such legislative exclusion may be in the abstract, there can be little doubt that it was justified in the cases referred to, the evils being flagrant and the women concerned as yet unorganised and with no means of demanding adequate regulations for their own safety. there are even those who doubt whether woman should take part in manufacturing industry at all, and hope that ultimately she may disappear from it altogether. those who take this view should clear their minds as to what exactly they mean by industry. they probably do not wish to exclude women from those occupations which are almost a feminine monopoly, such as dressmaking, needlework and household work. but to restrict any class of workers to a narrow range of occupations undoubtedly has a very depressing effect on their wages. we may also note that improvements in the position and conditions of the woman-worker have begun always outside, not inside; in the factory before the workshop; in the workshop before the home; in industry before needlework. the wage census of shows that women's wages are higher in the great industry than in the smaller and more old-fashioned establishment. state regulation of factory work in the first half of the nineteenth century led to enquiries into the condition of needlewomen and others, who, as the children's employment commission showed, were in worse case than factory workers. the factory industry, it was immediately recognised, was more amenable to control either by the state or by unionism, or both, than was the home worker, or the worker in small workshops. through the factory, in spite of its many abuses, women have attained not only an improvement in their economic circumstances, but also the experience of comradeship and even of a citizenship which, although incomplete, is very real as far as it goes. women have undoubtedly gained on the whole by the widening of their sphere of employment. but women cannot possibly do all kinds of industrial work, and to leave the matter unregulated either by law or by trade union action is to leave too much to the discretion of the employer, with whom profit is naturally the first consideration. if the matter is fought out between the employer and the men's unions, the women's interests are not sufficiently considered. some years ago at birmingham the question was being disputed whether women should or should not polish brass in brass-works. the trade union pronounced polishing to be filthy and exhausting work, and degrading to women, and declared the employers only wanted to set women on it for the sake of cheapness. the employers on the other hand said the union only opposed the employment of women because they wanted to keep women out of the trade as much as possible. probably motives were mixed on both sides. such disputes not infrequently arise in manufacturing industry, and the middle-class person arriving on the scene is very apt to take a one-sided view. if he is a mildly reactionary, conservative, sentimental person, he probably wants women to be prevented from doing anything that looks uncomfortable and happens to be under his eyes at the moment. if he (or particularly if she) happens to be burning with enthusiasm for the rights of women as individuals and scornful of old-fashioned proprieties and traditions, he (or she) will most likely jump to the conclusion that the objections raised to the employment of women in the particular process are merely sex-prejudice and sex-domination. neither the sentimentalist nor the individualist, however, sees the full bearing of the situation. in this connection an article by mr. haslam[ ] may be studied with advantage as being eminently thoughtful and fair-minded. in the lancashire cotton trade a peculiarly complicated instance of the woman question occurs in mule-spinning. in this, the best paid and most highly skilled process in the industry, a shortage of boy labour has somehow to be met. the proportion of helpers or "piecers" needed is much larger than the proportion of boys who can hope to find a permanent occupation in mule-spinning. with advancing education, aided, no doubt, by recent good trade and demand for labour in the trades, boys and their parents have become increasingly aware of the disadvantages of "piecing" as a trade, and as a result the deficiency of juvenile labour threatens to become acute. an obvious solution is to introduce girls as piecers, which, as it happens, is not a new idea but the revival of an old one. girls were formerly employed to some extent at piecing, but were prohibited by the union twenty-six or twenty-seven years ago, so far as the important centres of cotton-spinning are concerned. the prohibition was removed some years later, but for a long time women showed no inclination to return to this work. only in quite recent years, with the increasing shortage of boy-labour, have women and girls been induced to go back to the mule-spinning room. now women never become mule-spinners; the union will not allow it. a peculiar feature of the occupation is that the operative spinners themselves, who employ and pay their piecers, are thus interested in obtaining a supply of cheap labour, just as any capitalist employer is, or supposes himself to be. they consistently oppose women becoming spinners, usually alleging physical and moral objections to this occupation, but are willing to allow them to become piecers in order to supply the deficiency of boy-labour, and to lessen the prejudice against piecing as a "blind-alley" occupation for boys. now, as mr. haslam points out, the employment of women as piecers is both physically and morally quite as objectionable as their working as spinners.[ ] indeed, granting for the sake of argument that women should be employed in the mule-spinning room at all, by far the least objectionable arrangement would be for them to work two together on a pair of mules, which would diminish the physical strain and obviate the moral dangers which arise from the present plan of subordination to a male spinner in an unhealthy environment. in this case women need organisation and combination to protect their interests from the operative spinners, who are virtually their employers, almost as much as a labouring class needs to be protected from capitalist employers. and, as mr. haslam shows in his weighty and temperate statement, it is quite true that there are very great and serious objections to female employment in this trade. the heat, the costume, the attitudes necessitated by this work, all render it a dangerous occupation for girls to work at in company with men. mr. haslam gives painful evidence in support of this statement, for which readers can be referred to his article. the moral of the whole story is by no means that unrestricted freedom of employment for women is the way of salvation. rather is it that women must not only organise but must take a conscious part in the work of directing their organisation. at present they are too often the shuttlecock between the opposing interests of the employer and the men's union. it is not that the trade union is always wrong in wanting to keep the women out; or that the employer (whether capitalist or operative) is always right in wanting to take the women on. the point is that each party in these disputes is usually influenced mainly by his own interests and easily persuades himself that what is best for him is best also for the woman-worker concerned. the hardest and most unhealthy work may be done by women without a protest from men's unions if it does not bring women evidently into competition with men. nothing can clear up the situation but the enlightenment and better organisation of women themselves. they must learn not to take their cue implicitly from the employer or from the men's union--certainly not from the teaching of women of another class. they must learn--they are fast learning--to think for themselves and to see their needs in relation to society as a whole, to become articulate and take part in the control of their organisation. it is quite likely that when they do so they will not adopt the ideal of complete freedom of competition. i remember some years ago hearing a lecture on the subject of the mining industry given to a society of women of advanced views, the lecturer, a professional woman, taking the line that women should not have been excluded from work underground in mines, as they were by the act of , and that the evils of such work had been exaggerated. some little time afterwards an experienced woman cotton-operative was invited to address the same society, and incidentally remarked in the course of her lecture that card-room work was "not fit for women to do." the contrast was instructive, especially taking into consideration that card-room work in the twentieth century, whatever its objections, cannot be nearly as dangerous and injurious as underground work in mines was in . legislative exclusion of women from dangerous and unhealthy occupations, is, we may admit, an undesirable remedy from many points of view--especially perhaps because it affords too easy relief to the conscience of the employer, who may take refuge in the idea that he need not trouble to improve conditions if he employs only men. it is better to make the conditions of industry fit for women than to drive women out of industry; better to strengthen the organisation of women and give them a voice in deciding what processes are or are not suitable to them than to increase the competition for home work. it seems, however, highly improbable, from what one knows of the working woman's point of view and outlook, that as she becomes able to voice her wishes she will favour an indiscriminate levelling of sex-restrictions in industry; on the contrary, it seems likely that as she becomes more articulate and has more voice and influence in the organisation she belongs to, she will favour regulations of a fairly stringent nature in regard to the processes within an industry which may be carried on by women. many of the observations that have been made on industrial women in recent or comparatively recent years show that although at times they are driven by stress of need to compete with men or to do work beyond their strength, yet that they regard themselves mainly from the point of view of the family and believe that to keep up the standard of men's wages is as important as to raise their own.[ ] _the middle-class woman's movement._--there is, however, a complication between the labour woman's movement and the woman's movement for enfranchisement and freedom of opportunity generally, and great care is necessary to avoid confusing the issues. the labour woman's movement is a class movement in which solidarity between man and woman is all important. the women's rights movement aims at obtaining full citizenship for women; that is to say, not only the suffrage but the entrance to professions, the entrance without special impediments to local governing bodies and, generally, the abolition of belated and childish restrictions that hinder the development of personality and social usefulness. now these two movements are not in principle opposed, and there is no reason why the same women should not take part in both, as in fact many do. the opposition consists rather in a difference of origin and history. the labour movement is born of the economic changes induced by the industrial revolution, and tends towards a socialistic solution of the problem. the women's rights movement is the outcome of middle-class changes, especially the decreasing prospect of marriage, which, together with the absence of training and opportunity for work, has produced a situation of extreme difficulty. the middle-class woman's agitation was inevitably influenced by the ideals of her class, a class largely engaged in competitive business of one kind or another. equality of opportunity, permission to compete with men and try their luck in open market, was what the women of this type demanded, with considerable justification, and with admirable courage. the working woman, on the other hand, the victim of that very unrestricted competition which her better-off sister was demanding, before all things needed improved wages and conditions of work, for which state protection and combination with men were essential.[ ] there is, however, no fundamental opposition between these movements. just as the working classes are striving through syndicalism to express a rising discontent, not only with the economic conditions of their work, but also with the fact that they have no voice in its regulation and control, so women are striving, not only for political freedom and economic betterment, but for a voice in the collective control of society. women have, until very lately, been left out from the arrangement even of matters which most vitally concern them and their children. the following incident in the history of the factory department will illustrate this fact. in the then chief inspector of factories, sir alexander redgrave, discussed in his annual report a tentative suggestion for the appointment of women inspectors that some person or persons unnamed had put forward. with the utmost kindliness and gentleness he negatived the proposal altogether, first on the assumption that the inspection of factories was work impossible for women and "incompatible with (their) gentle and home-loving character"; secondly, on the ground that in regard to the sanitary conditions in which women were employed "it was seldom necessary to put a single question to a female," and consequently there was no need to appoint women inspectors.[ ] thirteen years later came the labour commission. at that time it was unheard of for women to be appointed on commissions, even when the subject was one in which women were most chiefly concerned. it is said, and i see no reason to doubt the statement, that the labour commission of did not at first intend even to hear evidence from women witnesses as to conditions in which women were employed. having yielded to the urgency of two women who were working hard at the organisation of sweated workers in the east end and demanded to be heard, the commission, as an afterthought, appointed women assistant commissioners, whose researches and reports subsequently led to the appointment of women factory inspectors--sixty years after the first appointments of men. anyone who is likely to read this book will probably be already aware that women factory inspectors had no sooner been appointed than they very speedily were informed of flagrant sanitary defects in factories and workshops which had been suffered to continue simply because no woman official had been in existence, and men, with the best intentions, did not know what to look or ask for. the exclusion of women had involved in this case not merely a narrowing of the field of opportunity for professional women--a comparatively small matter--but a scandalous neglect of the elementary decencies of life for millions of women and girls in the working-class. it is unnecessary here to do more than remind my readers that until lately women were excluded also from local governing bodies which control the health, education, and conditions of life and work of women and children. men are not alone to blame for this state of affairs. if women have long been excluded from posts in which their services were greatly needed, it is very largely because of the ideals set up by the women themselves. the wretched education given to girls in the victorian era, the egotistic passion for refinement which made it a reproach even to allude to the grosser facts of life, much more to the perils and dangers run by women in a lower class, all this was due quite as much to the influence of women as of men. it was not surprising that men of the upper classes, accustomed by their mothers and wives to believe that for women ignorance and innocence were one, and that no painful reality must ever be mentioned before them or come near to sully their refinement, should recoil from the idea of trusting them with difficult duties and responsible work. it is to the few pioneer women like florence nightingale, josephine butler, and others who came out and braved reproach--from women as well as men--that we owe the introduction of worthier social ideals. _the new spirit among women._--as the women's movement draws towards the labour movement, as it is now so rapidly doing, it tends to lose the narrow individualism derived from the middle-class ideals of the last century. mere freedom to compete is seen to be a small thing in comparison with opportunity to develop. the appeal for fuller opportunity is now stimulated less by the desire merely to do the same things that men do, more by the perception that the whole social life must be impoverished until we get the women's point of view expressed and recognised in the functions of national life. on the other hand, the women unionists, who have long been taxed with apathy and lack of interest in their trade organisation, are drawing from the women's movement a new inspiration and enthusiasm. observers in lancashire tell you that there is a new spirit stirring among the women. they are no longer so contented to have the union efficiently managed for them by men; they want to take a conscious part in the work of organisation themselves. the same movement is visible in the plucky and self-sacrificing efforts for solidarity made by the workers in trades hitherto unorganised; and, at the other end of the social scale, in the deep discontent with the life of parasitic dependence which has been so powerfully expressed in the _life of florence nightingale_, and in lady constance lytton's book on _prisons and prisoners_. _the potential changes the industrial revolution carries with it._--we have endeavoured to analyse the changes effected in the position of women by the industrial revolution. social changes, however, take a long time to work themselves out, and many features in the position of the woman-worker at the present day, as we have seen, are the result not so much of the industrial revolution as of the status and economic position of women in earlier times, and still more of the neglect of the governing classes to take the measures necessary for the protection of the people in passing through that prolonged crisis which may be roughly dated from to . let us now try as far as possible to free our minds from the influence of these disturbing factors and ask ourselves what are the potential changes in the position of the working woman effected by the industrial revolution, and what improvement, if any, she might expect to achieve if those changes could work themselves out more completely than social reaction and hindrances have yet permitted them to do. let us, in short, pass from the consideration of what is to the contemplation of what might be. . _by the use of mechanical power, the need for muscular strength is diminished, and greater possibilities are opened up to the weaker classes of workers._--we are accustomed to view this change with disfavour, because it often takes the form of displacing men's labour and lowering men's wages. but that is mainly because we see things in terms of unorganised labour. with proper organisation we should not see women taking men's work at less than men's wages; we should see both men and women doing the work to which their special aptitudes are most appropriate, each paid for their special skill. we should not see women dragging heavy weights or doing laborious kinds of work which are dangerous and unsuitable to them; we should see them using their special gifts and special kinds of skill, and paid accordingly. there is no reason, save custom and lack of organisation, why a nursery-maid should be paid less than a coal-miner. he is not one whit more capable of taking her place than she is of taking his. for generations we have been accustomed to assume that any girl can be a nursery-maid (which is far from being the truth), and from force of habit we consider the miner has to be well paid because his occupation demands a degree of strength and endurance which is comparatively rare, and also because he has the sense to combine and unfortunately the nursery-maid so far has not. the factory system is doing a great deal for women, directly by widening the field of occupation open to them, and indirectly by heightening the value of special aptitudes, some of which are peculiar to women. when mechanical power is used, strength is no longer the prime qualification for work, and the special powers of the girl-worker come into play. the factory system, also, by its immensely increased productivity, is altering the old views of what is profitable, and a new science of social economics is evolving which would have been unthinkable under the old regime. in miss josephine goldmark's recent most interesting book, _fatigue and efficiency_, she has gathered together the results of many experiments made by employers to ascertain the effects of shorter hours. there is practical unanimity in the results of these experiments. obviously there must be a limit to the degree in which shortening hours of work would increase the output, but no one appears yet to have reached that limit. in the factory inspectors' report for many cases are mentioned where employers have voluntarily reduced hours of work and find that they, as well as their work-people are benefited by the change. in one case of a large firm which had formerly worked from a.m. to p.m. it was arranged to cease at , a decrease of a whole hour, which necessitated engaging extra hands, but at the end of the year it was found that the annual cost of production was slightly diminished and the output considerably increased. others expressed an opinion that to . was "quite long enough," and that if these hours were exceeded the work suffered next morning. the same may be said in regard to other improvements in working conditions, such as ventilation, cleanliness, the provision of baths, refectories, medical aid, means of recreation; those who have taken such measures have found themselves rewarded by increased output. even from the commercial standpoint we do not appear to have nearly exhausted the possibilities of betterment. there can be little doubt, judging from existing means of information, that if the whole of the industry of the country were run on shorter hours, higher wages, and greatly improved hygienic conditions, it would be very much more productive than it is. from the social point of view such betterment is greatly needed, especially in the case of the young of both sexes, whose health is most easily impaired by over-strain, and who are destined to be the workers, parents, and citizens of the next generation. . _status._--a still more important result of the industrial revolution is _the changed status of the wage-earner_. here it appears to me that women have profited more than men. broadly speaking, men, whatever their ultimate gain in wages, lost in status through the industrial revolution. the prospect of rising to be masters in their own trade, though not universal, was certainly very much greater under the domestic system of working with small capital than under the modern system of large concentrated capital. in this respect women did not lose in anything like the same proportion as did men, because they had very much less to lose. the number of women who could rise to be employers on their own account must have been small. no doubt a larger number lost the prospect of industrial partnership with their husbands in the joint management of a small business. but for women wage-earners the industrial revolution does mean a certain advance in status. the woman-worker in the great industry sells her work per piece or per hour, not her whole life and personality. i shall perhaps be told indignantly that the poor woman in a low-class factory or laundry is as veritable a drudge as the most oppressed serf of mediaeval times, and i do not attempt to deny it. but we are here discussing potential changes, not the actual conditions now in force. the drudgery performed by women under the great industry is of the nature of a survival, and results from the fact that women can still be got to work in such ways for very low wages. these conditions are largely the heritage of the past and can be changed and humanised whenever the women themselves or society acting collectively makes a sufficiently strong demand. nor must it be forgotten that in modern industry women have a further advantage in being paid their own wages instead of being merely remunerated collectively in the family, as was often the case formerly. modern industry thus holds for the woman-worker the possibility of a more dignified and self-respecting position than the domestic system of the near past. . _the possibilities of state control._--we next note that _the industrial revolution has led to state control_, and that the factory act, whatever its defects in detail and its inadequacy to meet the situation, has greatly improved the status of the woman-worker by giving her _statutory rights against the employer_. this aspect has often been overlooked by leaders of the women's rights movement, who at one time tended to regard factory legislation as putting the woman in a childish and undignified position. but the true inwardness of the factory act is the assertion that workers are _persons_, with rights and needs that are sufficiently important to override commercial requirements. it has not only aided the progress of industrial betterment, but it has taught women that they are of significance and importance to the state, and has brought them out of the position of mere servility. a great deal more may be effected in the future when the governing class attain to more enlightened views of civics and economics, and when the women themselves become politically and socially conscious of what they want. . _association. the factory system has also made it possible for women to strengthen their position by association and combination._--such association affords women the best opportunity they have ever yet had of attaining economic independence on honourable conditions. and it is interesting to note that just as women are now awakening to social consciousness, and beginning to feel themselves members of a larger whole, so the trade unions are now reaching out to issues broader than the mere economic struggle, and are beginning to give more attention to social care for life and health. in the past the unions have very largely taken what might be termed a juristic view of their functions. they have been concerned mainly with wage-questions, with the prevention of fraud through "truck," oppressive fines and unfair deductions; they have penalised backwardness in the improvement of machinery. as the management of a cotton mill concentrates on extorting the last unit of effort from the workers, so the unions in the past have very largely concentrated on securing that the workers at any rate got their share of the results. but in more recent years the unions are beginning to see that this, though good, is not enough. industrial efficiency may be too dearly bought if it involves a loss of health, character, or personality, and recent reports of the cotton unions show that the officials are increasingly aware of the seriousness of this matter from the point of view of health. _e.g._, the heavy rate of sickness among women-workers disclosed by the working of the insurance act has turned the attention of the weavers' amalgamation towards the insanitary conditions in which even now so many operatives do their work. "fresh air, which is such an essential to health, is a bad thing for the cotton industry; what is wanted is damp air, and calico is more important than men and women. when they are not well they can come on the insurance act. we want to talk less about malingering and more about insanitary conditions, which is the real cause of excessive claims."[ ] just as the woman's movement is widening its vision to understand the needs of labour, so the unions now are widening theirs to understand the claims of life and health. the officials are already alive, if unfortunately the lancashire parents are not, to the evils of the half-time system. and the co-operation of women in the active work of the union will strengthen this conviction. _the future organisation of women._--as women come more and more into conscious citizenship they will, as professor pearson prophesied twenty years ago, demand a more comprehensive policy of social welfare. we may expect in the future that the care of adolescence and the care of maternity will be considered more closely than it ever has been; also that such social provision for maternity as may be made will be linked up with the working life of women, so that marriage shall not be penalised by requiring women against their will to leave work when they marry, and on the other hand, that the home-loving woman of domestic tastes shall not be forced, as now so often happens, to leave her children and painfully earn their bread outside her home. one of the great obstacles in the way of attaining such measures of reform has been, not only the comparative lack of organisation of women-workers but the difficulty of adapting existing organisations, devised for the trade purposes of the workers at a single industrial process, to these broader social purposes. the majority, as we have seen, in chapter iii., leave work on marriage, and the problem results, how to bridge the "cleft"[ ] in the woman's career and give her an abiding interest in organisation. how, the old-fashioned craft organiser asks with a mild despair, how is he to organise reckless young people for whom work is a meanwhile employment, who go and get married and upset all his calculations? how are women, whose work is temporary, to be given a permanent interest in their association? for some women, no doubt, their work _is_ a life-work, but it is most unlikely it will ever be so for the majority. mr. wells's idea, shared with the late william james, of a kind of conscription of the young people to do socially necessary work for a few short years has a curious applicability to women. there are certain distinct stages in a woman's life which the exigencies of the present commercial society fit very badly. one can foresee a society arranged to do more justice to human needs and aptitudes in which girls might enter certain employments as a transition stage in their careers; then marry and adopt home-making and child-tending as their occupation for a period; then, when domestic claims slackened off in urgency, devote their experience and knowledge of life to administrative work, social, educational, or for public health. other women with a strong leaning to a special skilled occupation might prefer to carry it on continuously. different types of organisation will be needed for different types of work. if the craft union cannot fit all types of male workers, much less can it fit all women. trade unionism as we have known it mostly presupposed a permanent craft or occupation, and one of the great troubles of trade unions for women is that so many women do not aspire to a permanent occupation. the "clearing-house" type of union suggested by mr. cole to accommodate workers who follow an occupation now in one industry, now in another, might possibly be adapted to meet the needs of women. perhaps a time will come when the unions that include the "woman-worker" will be linked up with societies like the women's labour league or the women's co-operative guild, whose membership consists mainly of "working women," that is to say of women of the industrial classes who are not themselves earners. these speculations may seem to run ahead of the industrial world we now know. but all around us the trade unions are federating into larger and larger bodies, and when these great organisations have attained to that central control and direction they have been feeling after for generations, they will certainly discover that it is essential for them to develop a considerable degree of interdependence between the trade unions and consumers' co-operation. therewith they can hardly fail to grasp the latent possibilities of the membership of women. the woman is much less an earner, much more a consumer and spender than is the man; she is more interested in life than in work, in wealth for use than in wealth for power. she suffers as a consumer and a spender both when prices go up and when wages go down. it is difficult to believe that the working classes will not before long develop some effective organisation to protect themselves against the exploitation that is accountable, in part at least, for both processes. mrs. billington greig's masterly study of the exploitation of the unorganised consumer is a demonstration of the need of awakening some collective conscience in a specially inert and inarticulate class, and miss margaretta hicks is making most valuable experiments in the practical work of organising women as consumers. the supposed apathy and lack of public spirit in women has been largely due to the lack of any visible organic connection between their industrial life as earners and their domestic life as spenders and home-makers. probably the future of the organisation of women will depend on the degree in which this connexion can be made vital and effective. part ii chapter vi. women's wages in the wage census of . by j. j. mallon. until a few years ago no statistics comprehensive in character relating to women's wages were available. in , however, the board of trade took "census" of the wages and hours of labour of the persons employed in all the industries of the country, and the result has been a series of volumes which, though becoming rapidly out-of-date, nevertheless throw much light on the general level of wages in various trades and occupations. the enquiry made by the board of trade was a voluntary enquiry: that is to say, it was left to the public spirit and general amiability of the employer to make a return or not as he pleased. there was no penalty for failure to furnish information. the response to the board of trade efforts was not, however, unsatisfactory, and returns were forthcoming, roughly speaking, in respect of nearly half the wage-earners employed in the different industries. unfortunately, however, the fact that the authorities were dependent for their information on the goodwill of the employers has probably given the statistics a certain bias. the schedules supplied were somewhat forbidding in appearance, and often troublesome to fill in, and it may fairly be surmised that it was the good rather than the bad employers who put themselves to the trouble of complying with the official request. hence of all the workers employed in the united kingdom it was probably those who were more fortunately placed in regard to whom we now have statistics. the condition of those working for employers who thought that the less said about their wages-sheets the better, still remains obscure. the statistics upon which comments are now offered may therefore convey a more favourable impression than the facts, if fully known, would justify, especially when it is remembered that , the year of the census, was one of good trade. on the other hand, it needs to be borne in mind that since the enquiry was made, the level of wages in many trades is known to have been raised. the earnings and hours of labour enquiry, as it was officially called, was directed primarily to ascertaining for each of the principal occupations in the various trades what were _the usual earnings or wages of a worker employed for full time in an ordinary week_, the last pay week in september being the particular week suggested subject to the employer's view as to its normality. with a view to supplementing or checking the details of actual earnings in a particular week, information was also sought with respect to the _total_ wages paid in an ordinary pay week in each month, and also with respect to the total wages paid in the year. from this last-mentioned body of information it is possible to deduce some tentative conclusions in regard to the extent to which the industry suffers from seasonal variations. this matter will be further considered below. it is, however, mainly the information in regard to full-time earnings in an ordinary week with which it is proposed to deal. statistics, it may safely be assumed, are abhorred of the general reader; but they are the alphabet of social study and cannot be dispensed with, and certain tables must now be introduced showing the relative wage level for women in a number of important industries. it should be noted that the abstract "woman" who is dealt with in the statistics is a female person of eighteen years of age or over. she may be, though is not likely to be, a new recruit or learner. she may, on the other hand, be very old and infirm, though here again the probabilities are against it. in all cases, however, she works full time, which roughly we may regard as being about fifty to fifty-two hours a week. the following table shows the average weekly full-time earnings of women employed in the principal textile industries. in addition to the average, which may of course be a compound of a great many widely differing conditions, the proportion or percentage of women whose earnings fall within certain limits is also shown.[ ] table a +-----------------------------------------------------+ | | percentage numbers of | | | | women working full time | | | | in the last pay-week of | | | | september , whose | | | | earnings fell within the| | | industry. | undermentioned limits. | average | | |-------------------------|earnings for| | |under| s. and | s. and| full time. | | | s.|under s.| over. | | |--------------|-----|----------|--------|------------| | | | | | s. d. | |all textiles | · | · | · | | |--------------|-----|----------|--------|------------| |cotton | · | · | · | | |hosiery | · | · | · | | |wool, worsted | · | · | · | | |lace | · | · | · | | |jute | · | · | · | | |silk | · | · | · | | |linen | · | · | · | | +-----------------------------------------------------+ the cotton industry stands out conspicuously as showing a relatively high level of earnings, and we find in marked contrast to the other trades in this group that only per cent of the women earned less than s. a week. the results coincide of course with popular impression, it being well known that the mill lasses of lancashire are the best paid--probably because the best organised--large group of women workers in the country. the woollen and worsted industry, like the cotton, is localised, being confined mainly to yorkshire, though the woollen industry of the lowlands of scotland is also important. in this trade the results are much less satisfactory, the average being s. d., and considerably more than half the total number employed earning less than s. it may be noted, however, that in one town, huddersfield, where women and men are engaged largely on the same work, the average, s. d., is considerably higher than that for the united kingdom. hosiery is also strongly localised, the majority of the workpeople being employed in leicestershire, nottinghamshire, and certain neighbouring parts of derbyshire. it will be seen that in order of average earnings this industry stands next to, though a good distance from, cotton, the average being s. d. the best-paid centre is leicester itself, where the average is s. d. even in this relatively highly paid trade, however, more than half of the women earned less than s., and it should be noted that this result applies to factory workers only. in the hosiery trade a considerable amount of homework is also carried on, and though statistics are not at present available, it may safely be assumed that earnings in the homework section of the trade are less than in the factory section. at the bottom of the list is the linen industry. the average here is only s. d.; less than one-tenth of the women employed earned more than s., while between one-third and one-half earned less than s. the industry, as is well known, is centred mainly in the north of ireland, but is also carried on to a considerable extent in scotland and to a small extent in england. the figures for ireland, however, are not markedly lower than those for the other districts. it is true that for the whole of ireland outside belfast the average is only s. d., but the figure for belfast itself, namely s. d., coincides with that for england. the manufacture of jute is carried on almost entirely in the neighbourhood of dundee. the average is therefore a local average. the other industries require no special comment. the second large group of trades, important from the point of view of women's employment, is the clothing industry. although the averages in this group do not show the extremes of the textile group, the industry is nevertheless one in which a great variety of skill and remuneration prevails. the following are the statistics, certain of the smaller trades such as silk and felt hat-making and leather glove-making being omitted for the sake of brevity:-- table b +-------------------------------------------------------------------+ | | percentage numbers of | | | | women working full time | | | | in the last pay-week of | | | | september , whose | | | | earnings fell within the| | | industry. | undermentioned limits. | average | | |-------------------------|earnings for| | |under| s. and | s. and| full time. | | | s.|under s.| over. | | |----------------------------|-----|----------|--------|------------| | | | | | s. d. | | all clothing | · | · | · | | |----------------------------|-----|----------|--------|------------| |dress, millinery, etc. | | | | | | (factory). | · | · | · | | |tailoring (bespoke) | · | · | · | | |dress, millinery, etc. | | | | | | (workshop) | · | · | · | | |shirt, blouse, | | | | | | underclothing, etc. | · | · | · | | |boot and shoe (ready-made) | · | · | · | | |tailoring (ready-made) | · | · | · | | |laundry (factory) | · | · | · | | |corsets (factory) | · | · | · | | +-------------------------------------------------------------------+ it will be seen that the dress, millinery and mantle-making group is divided into two according to whether the place of manufacture is a workshop or factory. for this purpose a workshop means a place where mechanical power is not used, and a factory a place where such power is used. the distinction also roughly corresponds to the difference between ordered or bespoke and ready-made garments, ordered garments being made principally in workshops, and ready-made garments principally though not so exclusively in factories. this being the case it may perhaps be surprising that the average for the workshop section, namely s. d., is so appreciably below that for the factory section, namely s. d., and the statistics in this respect serve to indicate that the introduction of mechanical power and other labour-saving devices into industry by no means implies that from the point of view of wages the workers employed will be any worse off. the workshop section of the dress, etc., trade is almost entirely a woman's trade, the number of men and boys being insignificant. within the trade itself a considerable range of earnings exists. fitters and cutters form the aristocracy of the profession, but one which is recruited from the humbler ranks. the average earnings for the united kingdom of those who "lived out" amounted to s. d., and of those who "lived in" s. d. the practice of "living in" and being provided with full board and lodging, or at any rate being provided with partial board, is a feature of this section of the trade, some women and girls out of , included in the returns being noted as receiving payment in kind in addition to their cash wages. another feature of the trade is the relatively large number of apprentices or learners who received no wages at all, · per cent of the women and girls in the dressmaking trade, per cent of the milliners, and per cent of the mantle-makers being so returned. these, of course, would be mostly under eighteen years of age, and their inclusion in the statistics would not affect the average given in the table for women. considering the general level of earnings which the statistics disclose, one can only conjecture that, as in certain men's professions, the existence of a few well-paid posts exercises an attraction to enter the trade, the strength of which is out of all proportion to the chance of obtaining one of these prizes. factory dressmaking is at present a relatively small but at the same time rapidly-growing group. being confined mainly to the production of ready-made clothes the process of cutting is capable of being standardised and systematised in such a way that the degree of skill required is much less than that looked for in the highly-paid cutter and fitter of the "made-to-order" workshop. the other processes also tend to conform to a certain uniform standard of skill. hence the range of earnings is much less wide than in the workshop section of the trade, though as before noted the general level is higher. it should also be observed that while time-work is the usual method adopted in the workshops, payment by piece is very common in factories, and the detailed statistics furnished in the official report make it clear that this method gives the diligent and rapid worker a distinct advantage. it is worth noting that the group showing the highest earnings is that of hand or foot machinists on piece work. in the dress and costume section the average was s. d., and in the mantle section s. d., as compared with s. d. for all women. statistics also indicate that the fluctuations of employment are much less extreme in the factory than in the workshop section of the trade, and on the whole, therefore, it is probably not a matter for regret that the factory-made article is tending to displace that of the workshop. that the process of displacement is rapid is indicated by the fact that while, according to returns made in connection with the factory and workshop acts, the employment of women in dress, millinery and mantle-making factories increased by per cent between and , the numbers employed in workshops diminished by per cent. the change from the one system to the other does not always imply a change of workers or even of premises. the introduction of an electric motor to drive some of the sewing-machines is sufficient to alter the denomination of an establishment from workshop to factory; though at the same time it is probable that such an innovation would not take place unless some alteration in the general method or organisation of work were also contemplated. the tailoring trade has many points of contact with the dress and mantle-making trade which has just been reviewed. it too is divided with some sharpness into a made-to-order or bespoke, and a ready-made section. the distinction does not imply perhaps quite so clear a division between factories and workshops, though in this trade also it may be taken as broadly true that the bespoke is the workshop and the ready-made is the factory section. in this connection one interesting point of contrast is presented by the statistics, for it will be seen that while, as before noted, the factory section of the dress and mantle-making trade showed a higher general level of earnings than the workshop section, the reverse is true of the tailoring trade. this is probably due principally to two facts. the first is that while the work in the bespoke shop is usually skilled, it does not necessitate any exceptionally well-paid work such as that done by cutters and trimmers in the dressmaking establishment. the cutting and other highly-skilled work is done by men, so that women enter the trade without the inducement afforded by the chance, however small, of rising to s., £ , or even £ a week which is offered by the dressmaking workshop. it is probable, moreover, that the small dress and mantle-making shop enjoys a certain reputation of "gentility" which is less marked in the tailoring establishment, and finds its equivalent in higher wages. the second fact is that the processes of simplification and subdivision which broadly are the characteristics of factory as distinct from workshop methods can be carried further in the manufacture of men's suits than in that of ladies' dresses and costumes, so that the general level of skill requisite to the factory worker is somewhat lower in the one case than in the other. we thus find that while the average in tailoring workshops is s. d. as compared with s. d. in dressmaking shops, the average in tailoring factories is s. d. as compared with s. d. in dressmaking factories. since the statistics were compiled minimum rates have been fixed under the trade boards act to apply to the ready-made and wholesale bespoke sections of the tailoring trade, and there is no doubt that with the minimum rate of - / d.[ ] an hour, fixed for great britain, statistics relating to the present time would show a marked improvement on those relating to , since a _minimum_ rate of - / d. probably implies in most cases an average rate of - / d. or even - / d. moreover, on the testimony of employers themselves the introduction of a minimum rate has had a stimulating effect on the trade, bringing about on the part of employers a vigilance and alacrity to make improvements in organisation, which have had an effect on the efficiency of the workers and consequently on their earnings, so that in many cases the trade board minimum has become merely a historical landmark left behind on a road of steady progress. so far as the figures are concerned it will be seen that the average for the united kingdom in the bespoke section was s. d. the detailed statistics show that london was the highest-paid district, with s. d., and ireland the lowest, with s. as ladies' costume-making has points of contact with men's tailoring, so the tailoring trade merges almost imperceptibly through various gradations of linen and cotton jackets, overalls, etc., into the shirt-making trade, and this again is closely combined, and, indeed, for statistical purposes forms one group with the manufacture of blouses and underclothing. the shirt, blouse and underclothing trade has become a factory trade to a much more marked extent than either dressmaking or tailoring. by tradition shirt-making is the sweated trade _par excellence_. but, as in many other instances, tradition has outlived the fact, the statistics showing that while the average earnings, s. d., are low absolutely, the trade is nearer the top than the bottom of the clothing trade list, notwithstanding the fact that the manufacture of shirts is combined for the purpose of the statistics with that of articles, such as baby linen, in respect of which the wages are almost certainly much lower than those for men's shirts. it should be noted, however, that the wages of home-workers are nowhere included in the statistics. the boot and shoe trade, unlike most of the others in the clothing group, is mainly a man's trade, considerably more than half of the total number employed being males. women are employed chiefly as machinists or upper closers, or as fitters in both cases, being concerned with the manufacture of the top or upper. the trade is carried on in many centres, the principal being, perhaps, leicester, northampton, kettering, bristol, norwich, leeds, and glasgow. the highest earnings of women are recorded for manchester, the average being s. d., and the lowest for norwich, where the average is only s. d. it is worth noting that the high average for women in manchester is combined with a relatively low average for men, namely, s. d. the laundry trade gives employment to a large number of women, the factory returns for showing that , were employed in laundries using mechanical power, and , in laundries where such power was not used. for the whole of the united kingdom the averages for power and for hand laundries were practically the same, being s. d. in the one case and s. d. in the other. in the case of power laundries ireland is at the bottom of the list with an average of s. d., and the best-paid districts, namely, london, show an average of only s. d. a recent attempt to bring the power laundry industry within the scope of the trade boards act has failed, the employers opposing the provisional order mainly on the ground of certain alleged technical defects of definition. of other trades in which women are largely employed the following selection may be made forming a somewhat miscellaneous group. table c +-------------------------------------------------------------------+ | | percentage number of | | | | women working full time | | | | whose earnings in the | | | | last pay-week of | | | industries. | september fell | | | | within the | | | | undermentioned limits. | average | | |-------------------------|earnings for| | |under| s. and | s. and| full time. | | | s.|under s.| over. | | |----------------------------|-----|----------|--------|------------| |all paper, printing, etc., | | | | s. d. | | trades | · | · | · | | |----------------------------|-----|----------|--------|------------| |bookbinding | · | · | · | | |printing | · | · | · | | |cardboard, canvas, etc., | | | | | | box manufacture | · | · | · | | |paper stationery manufacture| · | · | · | | |paper manufacture | · | · | · | | |----------------------------|-----|----------|--------|------------| |all pottery, brick, glass, | | | | | | and chemical | · | · | · | | |----------------------------|-----|----------|--------|------------| |explosives | · | · | · | | |soap and candle | · | · | · | | |porcelain, china, and | | | | | | earthenware | · | · | · | | |brick, tile, pipe, etc. | · | · | · | | |----------------------------|-----|----------|--------|------------| |all food, drink, and tobacco| · | · | · | | |----------------------------|-----|----------|--------|------------| |tobacco, cigar, cigarette, | | | | | | and snuff | · | · | · | | |cocoa, chocolate, and sugar | | | | | | confectionery | · | · | · | | |preserved food, jam, pickle,| | | | | | sauce, etc. | · | · | · | | |biscuit making | · | · | · | | |aerated water, etc., | | | | | | manufacture and general | | | | | | bottling | · | · | · | | |----------------------------|-----|----------|--------|------------| |miscellaneous | .. | .. | .. | | |----------------------------|-----|----------|--------|------------| |umbrella, parasol, and | | | | | | stick making | · | · | · | | |portmanteau, bag, purse, and| | | | | | miscellaneous leather | | | | | | manufacture | · | · | · | | |india-rubber, gutta-percha, | | | | | | etc. | · | · | · | | |saddlery, harness, and whip | | | | | | manufacture | · | · | · | | |brush and broom | · | · | · | | +-------------------------------------------------------------------+ of the above trades, cardboard box-making, sugar confectionery, jam-making, and food preserving come within the scope of the trade boards act, and for these occupations minimum wages have been fixed. the jam and food preserving trade showed in the low average for women of s. d., per cent of the women employed earning less than s. and over per cent less than s. for a full week. this trade is also remarkable for heavy seasonal fluctuations. by whatever standard the average weekly earnings of women in the trades which have been noted are judged, the outstanding conclusion is that they are generally low to a degree which suggests a serious social problem. averages of less than s. are frequent in all three tables which have been presented, and the reader should be again reminded that these averages are for women over eighteen years of age working a _full_ week. girls and also women working short time have been excluded. for the sake of brevity, details have not been given in many cases of the percentages of women earning wages between certain stated limits. but it needs to be recognised that an average suggests wages which are below as well as above that figure. generally it may be stated that where an average is given, from to per cent of the women employed earn wages at less, and in many cases at very much less than the average. various attempts have been made to calculate the minimum sum required by a woman living independently of relatives to maintain herself in decency and with a meagre degree of comfort. the estimates point to a sum of from s. d. to s. a week as the minimum requirement, and this assumes that the worker possesses knowledge, which she has probably in fact had no chance to acquire, of how best to spend her money and satisfy her wants in the order not of her own immediate desires, but of their social importance. at present prices the minimum would be s. or s. in the light of this estimate we may note that in the clothing trade group, for example, · per cent of those returned earned less than s. per week, and applying this percentage to the total number as shown by the factory returns to have been employed in this particular industry in , namely, , , we arrive at the conclusion that no fewer than , women were in receipt of wages which, measured by a not very exacting standard, were grossly inadequate. the figures with which we have been dealing are, however, those for a week of full time. no allowance has been made for sickness or holidays, and what is more important, short time or slackness. almost every trade fluctuates throughout the year, and in many cases this fluctuation is considerable. for example, in the dress, millinery (workshop) section the wages paid in the month of august were only per cent of the monthly average, or, for london alone, per cent. though short time in one month is partially offset by overtime in another, there is but little doubt that in most trades and in most years the balance comes out on the wrong side, and, properly studied, the wage census volumes reveal the fact that unemployment and short time are important factors when considering women's wages from the point of view of the maintenance of decent conditions of living. in many respects the wages for a full-time week which we have so far been considering are indeed an artificial figure. high weekly wages in a trade where there is much slackness may obviously be less than the equivalent of low wages in a trade where conditions are steadier. if we are to consider wages in relation to the needs of the worker, therefore, it is the year rather than the week which should be taken as the unit. for many reasons, however, earnings _per year_ are extremely difficult to determine, and nothing more than an approximation is practicable. dr. bowley's[ ] method is to compare the full-time weekly wage multiplied by fifty-two with the total wage bill for the year, divided by the number employed in the busiest week: that is, the week when it may be assumed that all persons dependent on the trade will be employed except those who are prevented by ill-health. supposing, for example, the total wages bill in a certain trade were £ , , and the number of persons employed in the busiest week were , . the average amount per person per year would be £ as compared with, say, £ : s., which represents times an assumed full-time weekly wage of s. d. we can thus say in this supposititious case that the yearly earnings of the workers in fact equal only Ã� / - / , or weeks at the full-time weekly wages. owing to certain gaps in the statistical information these results are subject to certain qualifications of a nature somewhat too technical to enlarge upon in such a book as this. they may be accepted, however, as substantially establishing the fact that overtime does not in general counterbalance short time and slackness, and that in the foregoing review of earnings on the basis of a full-time week we have been dealing with figures which are distinctly rosier than the facts warrant. the movement and tendencies of women's wages a retrospect of women's wages based on such data as are available confirms the view that, low as is the present level, the movement is nevertheless in an upward direction. in the cotton trade, employing more than half the women in all textile trades, women's wages have risen continuously throughout the period of which we have information. mr. g. h. wood, f.s.s., who has made the movement of wages his special study, estimates that taking the general level of women's wages in as , the level in would be expressed by and in by , so that in the period of sixty years covered by these figures women's rates of wages would appear to have increased by more than per cent. though perhaps not so considerable, a similar movement has occurred in other trades, and it is interesting to note that in mr. wood's view women's wages have risen relatively more than men's. unfortunately, however, the statistics which are available, and on which his conclusion is based, do not include the great clothing and dressmaking industry which, from the point of view of women's employment, is so important. an enquiry on the lines of the census was indeed attempted in the year , but the results are meagre. it may be noted, however, that comparison of the results with those for tends to show that in some branches of the clothing trades wages declined. this fall in the rate of wages, if such a conclusion is justified, is, however, probably to be regarded as an exception to the general tendency as exhibited in the cotton and certain other trades. the occupation of women in many fields of employment with which they are still principally associated, such as spinning and the making of clothes, is probably as ancient as the industries themselves. the employment of women as wage-earners in such work is, however, comparatively recent. as a member of a family, or as a servant or retainer, woman has worked for generations in many tasks which formerly were, but now, with the increased specialisation of industry, have ceased to be, part of the ordinary routine of domestic activity. from this condition it was an easy transition to the frequent employment of women to assist in their master's craft, or in the deliberate production for sale of a surplus of articles beyond what were required for family needs. it was probably not until the factory system developed, however, in the latter half of the eighteenth century, that women were employed to any considerable extent as wage-earners in industry, and even when they were so employed there was an intermediate stage in which it was not unusual for the father or head of the family to appropriate their earnings and apply them as he pleased. gaskell lamented the fact that the custom was creeping in of paying individual wages to women and children, thinking that it would break family ties. though it still sometimes happens that members of a family work together in mills, gaskell's fears were undoubtedly justified. family ties, however, are of many kinds, and it is probably not correct to assume that the disintegration of the family as a producing or industrial unit indicates a relaxation of these emotions of affection, loyalty, and responsibility which spring to mind when the family is regarded in its social and ethical relationships. the fact must, moreover, be noted as bearing directly upon the chief problem of women's wages that although the family as a producing unit is no longer of considerable importance, as a spending unit it exercises a fundamental influence on the industrial system. from the point of view of food, lodging, medicine, and other items of expenditure, a person is more interested as a rule in the collective income of the family group to which he belongs than in his own individual contribution. many mining districts in which men can earn large wages show a low wage level for women, while in such a district as hebden bridge, where, as the phrase goes, it pays a man better to have daughters than sons, the opposite condition prevails. in both cases the wages are influenced, broadly speaking, by the standard of comfort of the family rather than by that of the individual. if it were the invariable rule for a worker to belong to a family group, and if families were uniform as regards the number and sex distribution of their members, there would be no great cause to regret the influence of the collective family budget upon wages. but conditions are not uniform, and in districts or trades in which the wage level is largely affected by the presence of women whose fathers and brothers are relatively well-to-do, the position of a woman living alone in lodgings is apt to be a hard one. where a father earns enough to maintain his family in reasonable comfort, the daughters going to work in a factory may be willing to accept wages no more than sufficient to provide them with clothes and pocket-money, but quite inadequate to afford their workmate who is living independently a sufficient livelihood. these considerations are closely connected with the question whether, in estimating what is a fair wage for a woman, we should proceed on the basis of a woman living alone in lodgings, or whether we should admit as a proper consideration the fact that in many cases the woman would live with her parents and family, and would have the advantage, if not of assistance from them, at least of that economy in expenditure which the family group represents. statistics as to the number of women who live independently are difficult to obtain, and it is doubtful whether such women form the majority of those employed. it may be granted, however, that in certain districts and certain trades the proportion is small, and in these cases it might be asked whether we should not ignore the type which is exceptional and consider the wages paid on the basis of actual rather than hypothetical needs. this, it may be argued, is already done in the case of children or young persons, in connection with whom the question is never asked whether the wages paid are sufficient to maintain them independently. the answer appears to be clear, though it brings us up against certain moral considerations. it may be true that the women in a certain industry or town, in spite of low wages, are all in fact well nourished and comfortable, members as they are of families which as families are well-to-do. great as may be the respect which kinship deserves, it is submitted, however, that no normal woman should be compelled by economic exigencies to live with persons towards whom she has not voluntarily undertaken responsibilities, and that the freedom which economic independence implies is a right to which every woman willing to work may properly lay claim. even, therefore, though we dismiss from consideration the great number of women who have no choice but to live entirely on their own earnings, there are still grounds on which the position can be maintained that the single woman living alone with reasonable frugality is the proper test by which, from the point of view of what is right and desirable, wages should be measured. it should be noted, moreover, that the issue is not solely between women who live alone and women who are partly supported by their families. there are also the women who have dependents. according to the population census over one-fifth[ ] of occupied women were not single, but married or widowed, and many of these doubtless have children to support. the fabian women's group enquiry showed that about half the women workers canvassed had dependents. the labour commission of the united states, in course of investigating the condition of women and child wage-earners, found that in a group of families per cent of the family income was contributed by unmarried women over sixteen.[ ] again, miss louise bosworth, in a study of _the living wage of women workers_, published in , found that "the girls working for pin-money were negligible factors." so far from girl workers being mostly supported at home, it appears that in many cases the earnings of the single daughter or sister living with her family, small as they are, are an important element in the family income. it has been shown in the previous section that even in the relatively well-paid women's trades there are large numbers of adult women in receipt of wages which are scarcely compatible with mere physical existence, much less a decent and comfortable life. men's wages, even in low-paid trades, are usually sufficient to enable a man who has not undertaken family responsibilities--which after all are entirely voluntary--to obtain a sufficiency of food and warmth. the remuneration of working-class women are in the majority of cases, however, barely adequate to satisfy this austere standard. we naturally ask, therefore, why this difference should exist. the occupations in which men and women are indifferently employed are relatively few in number. even where men and women are employed side by side in the same trade they are usually engaged on different processes. the points where overlapping occurs are, however, sufficiently numerous to enable us to make the generalisation that in those industrial processes in which both men and women are employed the efficiency or output of the man is greater than that of the woman worker. in other words, the man is _worth_ more, and his higher wages are an expression of this fact. even where the man's dexterity or skill is no greater than that of the woman's his wages still tend to be greater. usually if an employer can get both men and women workers he is prepared to pay somewhat more to a man even though the man's output per hour is no greater than that of a woman. put bluntly, a male worker is less bother than is a female worker. a female staff is always to some extent an anxiety and a source of trouble to an employer in a way that a male staff is not, and to many employers it has the great defect of being less able to cope with sudden rushes of work. men are, after all, made of harder stuff than women, and only in the grossest cases do we ever give a thought to men being overworked. with women, however, not only the factory act, but also decent feeling requires an employer to be vigilant to see that undue strain is not placed on them. the greater remuneration of men in those occupations where both men and women are employed on the same processes is then due to the fact that the men are preferred to women, and employers are accordingly willing to pay more to get them. such occupations, however, probably form the exception rather than the rule, and we have to consider the cases where there is apparently no sex competition whatever. the nursery-maid wheels the baby's perambulator on the pavement; the mechanic drives his motor van in the road. they do not compete for employment in any sense. generally, indeed, custom has indicated with a fair degree of preciseness what are men's occupations and what are women's. why, then, in distinctively women's occupations should the wages paid be lower than men's? the answer is not easy, but the key to the problem is to be found in the broad statement that the field of employment of women is much more restricted than that of men. hence the competition of women for employment reduces their general wage level to a lower point than that of men, or, as an economist would put it, the marginal uses of female labour are inferior to those of male labour. what is needed, therefore, is an enlargement of the sphere in which women can find employment; not, be it noted, an increase merely in the number of occupations, but in the _kinds_ of occupations. pursuit of this end will no doubt raise questions regarding the displacement of male labour, but it is fortunate that in many cases woman's claim would be most strenuously contested in respect of those occupations which are least suited to her, and which she ought not to enter. the need of discrimination must be emphasised. an excursion to the black country should convince even the most ardent feminist that at the present time tasks are permitted to women which from every point of view--their dirtiness, their arduousness, and the strain which they impose on certain muscles--are entirely unsuitable. it would be folly to increase the number of such tasks. attention should be directed to those occupations in which womanly characteristics would have their value, and in which a woman would not be physically at a disadvantage. it is to be hoped that public sentiment would then be the ally rather than the enemy of the movement. the displacement of male typists by female typists, and the larger employment of women in clerical occupations, and as shop assistants, to say nothing of the introduction of women officials in the sphere of local and central government, undoubtedly represent an advance in the right direction. paradoxical as it may seem, an effective means of enlarging the field of women's activities might be found in the awakening of public feeling against employments which are unsuitable. the process of analysis and comparison which is implied by criticism of such employments would undoubtedly indicate directions in which women's work could be utilised more satisfactorily. this is a consideration of paramount importance in view of the opportunities and necessities to which the present war has given and will give rise. it is for those who influence public opinion to see that in the readjustment of the economic relationship between men and women reasonable discrimination is exercised. the prohibition of the employment of women on unsuitable work, combined with educational effort which would make women capable of better and more responsible work, would give women-workers access to many kinds of employment from which they are practically excluded at present. much that is unsatisfactory and regrettable in industrial life is the result of sheer inertia and drift, and many an employer would find new and cleaner and more remunerative methods of employing women if stimulated by the law and encouraged by an ability on the part of the women to respond to new methods. the principle of the factory acts, and of the minimum wage, requiring a minimum of safety or comfort and of remuneration, should be reinforced and strengthened not merely for the sake of its face value--great though it is--but also for the sake of its stimulating effect on the management of businesses and its consequent tendency to increase remuneration. at the same time an attempt should be made to encourage in girls some sense of craftsmanship and loyalty to their callings, so that their organisation in trade unions or guilds would become possible. with a few exceptions collective bargaining and the collective maintenance of a standard of remuneration are, as regards women's employment, merely sporadic and intermittent. it is the young woman, the irresponsible immature untrained amateur worker, without an industrial tradition to guide her, who is the despair of organised labour. the irresponsibility and indifference to organisation which she displays are, as often as not, due to the fact that her employment may not afford a decent livelihood, and that she is forced to look forward to and seek marriage as the only way out of an impossible life. but it is also true to say that her inadequate wages are due to her irresponsibility and indifference. there is inextricable confusion between cause and effect--a vicious circle which can only be broken by patient methods of training, helped by the initial impulse of a legal minimum wage and a legally prescribed standard of general conditions. chapter vii[ ] the effects of the war on the employment of women _the shock of war._--the great european war broke out in the summer of . the shock was felt at once by trade and industry. july ended in scenes of widespread trouble and dismay. the stock exchange closed, and the august bank holiday was prolonged for nearly a week. many failures occurred, and there was at first a general lack of confidence and credit. energetic measures were promptly taken by the government to restore a sense of security, and unemployment among men during the ensuing year was much less than had been anticipated. unemployment among women was for a time very severe. for this unfavourable position of women there are several reasons. in the first place, any surplus of male labour was met at once by a corresponding new demand for recruits and the drafting of many hundreds of thousands of young men into the army, aided by the rush of employment in government factories and workshops, served to correct the dislocation of the male labour market. women were unfortunate in that the cotton trade, by far the largest staple industry in which a majority of the employees are women, was also the trade to suffer the greatest injury by the war. _the cotton trade._--employment had begun to be slack some time previously, and the cutting off of the german market was naturally a considerable blow. exact statistics are almost impossible to obtain, as the numbers of looms stopped or working short time varied from week to week; but figures collected for the week ending october show that between , and , members of the amalgamated weavers' association were out of work, and over , were on short time. at burnley, over half the looms were stopped; at preston, over a third. in november, when things had greatly improved, about per cent of the looms were still standing idle. the amount of short time, or "under-employment," was also very considerable, as is shown by the fact that the reduction in earnings exceeded the reduction in numbers employed. the following table is taken from the _labour gazette_, december , and shows the state of employment in the principal centres of the cotton trade. the figures include men as well as women; but as women predominate in the industry, they may be considered as a fair index to the women's position. week ending november , , compared with same month in previous year. +-------------------------------------------------+ | |decrease per cent in| | districts. | numbers | amount of| | |employed.| earnings.| |----------------------------|---------|----------| |ashton | · | · | |stockport, glossop, and hyde| · | · | |oldham | · | · | |bolton | · | · | |bury, rochdale, etc. | · | · | |manchester | · | · | |preston and chorley | · | · | |blackburn, etc. | · | · | |burnley, etc. | · | · | |other lancashire towns | · | · | |yorkshire towns | · | · | |other districts | · | · | | |---------|----------| | total | · | · | +-------------------------------------------------+ in all these districts women would be affected much the same as men, and would be out of work in about the same proportion, but as women form a majority of the occupation, a much larger number of women were in distress and were without any resource comparable to that open to the men of recruiting age. in these circumstances the funds of the unions suffered a terrible strain. the workers' organisations were faced with the dilemma whether to pay stoppage benefit to members with a generous hand, in which case they ran the risk of depleting their funds and losing the strength necessary for effective protection of the standard of life; or, on the other hand, to guard their reserve for the future and leave many of their members to suffer distress with the inevitable result of loss of health and efficiency. as the winter - wore onwards unemployment in the cotton trade gradually became less acute, but for several months the suffering of the operatives must have been considerable. _some other trades._--in london the position was of course extremely unlike that of lancashire, but we again find the women suffering heavily, and (but for comparatively a few) without the support and assistance of a union. at the first news of war, dressmakers, actresses, typists, secretaries, and the followers of small "luxury trades" (toilet specialities, manicuring, and the like) were thrown out of work in large numbers. not only in london, but in the country at large, the following trades were greatly depressed: dressmaking, millinery, blouse-making, fancy boot and shoe-making, the umbrella trade, cycle and carriage making, the jewellery trade, furniture making, china and glass trades. in some cases the general dislocation was intensified by a shortage of material due to war: the closing of the baltic cut off supplies of flax from russia, on which our linen trade largely depends. the closing of the north sea to fishers stopped the curing of herrings, which normally employs thousands of women, and both the chemical and confectionery trades suffered from the stoppage of imports from germany. the board of trade's report on the state of employment in october gave the reduction of women's employment in london as · per cent in september, · per cent in october. but this estimate was for all industries taken together, some of which were in a state of "boom" owing to the war, and it is certain that the occupations referred to above must have suffered much more heavily than the average. many girls spent weeks in the heart-sickening and exhausting search for employment. in november the dressmaking, mantle-making, and shirt- and collar-making were in a worse condition than in the previous month, although trade generally had improved. _the woollen and clothing trades._--in these trades the war brought a veritable "tidal-wave" of prosperity. the industrial centres of our allies were to a considerable extent in the hands of the enemy; thus, not only new clothes for our regular troops and reserves, and uniforms for the new armies that were shortly recruited, but also those for the troops of our allies were called for in the west riding of yorkshire. the woollen towns of this district became the busiest places in the world, and orders overflowed into scotland and the somewhat decayed but still celebrated clothing region of the west of england. the first expedient to cope with the enormous pressure of orders was to relax the factory act. in normal times no overtime is allowed in textile industries to workers under the operation of the act (viz. women, girls under eighteen, boys under eighteen, and children), and employment is limited to ten hours a day. in view of the tremendous issues involved, permission was given to employ women and young persons for two hours' overtime. the results, as it turned out, soon showed, however, that overtime is bad economy, for the number of accidents increased greatly in the period of greatest pressure, and averaged one a day in the december quarter, and the secretary of the union also reported that the period during which these very long hours were worked coincided with a remarkable increase of illness among the operatives involved. probably one-third more cases were on the approved societies' books during december than in september and october.[ ] although the women rose most pluckily to the occasion and did their heavy task cheerfully in the consciousness of supplying their country's need, it is certain that many were taxed beyond their strength, and in january the overtime permitted was reduced to nine hours weekly. the women, when they complained, complained not of overwork but of insufficient pay. an increase of - / d. per hour during overtime was asked, and considering the strain involved, seems a far from excessive demand; but the trade is unfortunately much less well organised than the cotton trade, and female workers-- per cent of the whole--could not in most districts enforce this claim. khaki is more trying to the operatives than some other kinds of cloth to which they are better accustomed, and it is more difficult to weave. even with overtime work the women did not earn much more than they would working usual hours on ordinary cloth. the wages paid appear to have been, as so often is the case with women's work, chaotic. many employers honourably paid a fair or recognised price; others took advantage of the weakness of the workers to pay rates not far from sweating prices. in the clothing trade the government was conscientiously paying handsome rates to contractors for the making of uniforms, but without effectively enforcing the payment of fair wages to labour by the contractors. hence even the trade board minimum--a low standard, especially considering the rise of prices--was successfully evaded by some firms.[ ] _maladjustment and readjustment._--the question may well be asked, why women should suffer unemployment in war-time at all. war produces an urgent demand for a great deal of the work women are best fitted to do, such as nursing, the making of clothes and underclothes, the manufacture of food stuffs and provisions on a large scale, the organisation of commissariat and hospitals, the collection and overlooking of stores. in point of fact, the requirements of the troops, as we have seen, provided increased employment for some women, though probably not for nearly as many as those who suffered from the shrinkage of ordinary trade at the beginning of the winter; later on the demand became so great that there was an actual scarcity of women workers in many trades. one strange feature of those autumn months of was that while recruits were continually to be seen marching in plain clothes, without a uniform, numbers of london tailors and tailoresses were without employment. many of the recruits were also, at first at all events, unprovided with needful elementary comforts, and amateurs were continually pressed to work at shirts and knitting for them. women employed in the manufacture of stuffs or clothing for the troops or in certain processes of the manufacture of armaments or appurtenances were overworked, while other women were totally or partially out of work. the characteristic immobility of labour was perhaps never more clearly seen. it may be admitted of course that a wholesale transference of workers from the area of slump to the area of boom would never be possible all at once. the machines necessary for special work will not at first be forthcoming in numbers sufficient to meet a demand suddenly increased in so enormous a proportion. then, again, a new demand for labour is usually a demand predominantly for young workers, and the older women thrown out of work may find it very difficult to adapt themselves to new requirements. skill and practice in the handling of machines are necessary; machines differ very greatly. a dressmaker cannot, off-hand, be set to make cartridges or even uniforms. in some branches of industry a high degree of specialised skill may be a positive disadvantage in acquiring the methods of an allied but lower skilled trade; _e.g._ it has been found that tailors and tailoresses who have become expert in the handwork still largely used for the best "bespoke" work, the aristocracy of the trade, cannot easily adapt themselves to the modern "team work" tailoring, in which division of labour and the use of machinery play a considerable part; they may even impair their own special skill by attempting it.[ ] in some processes a delicate sensitiveness of finger is a first essential for the work, and the operatives dare not take up any rough work which might impair this delicacy, their stock-in-trade and capital. again, the difference of wage-levels in different industries is a cause of immobility of labour. lancashire cotton workers might have adapted themselves without much difficulty to the processes of the yorkshire woollen trade, but they could not have accepted the rates current in an imperfectly organised trade, and there would have been obvious difficulty in paying imported workers at a scale higher than those enjoyed by the local operatives. a good deal of dovetailing, however, can be done to bring the work to the workers or the workers to the work, and much more could have been done if the local government board had taken the question of unemployment more seriously in the years preceding the war. but the local bodies were uninstructed, and in many cases had little idea of anything better than doles. in spite of the funds collected, there can be little doubt that much suffering, especially among women, was neglected and let alone, and the irregular payment of separation allowances at the beginning of the war added to the distress. voluntary effort, it needs hardly saying, was instantly ready to do its best to meet the occasion. the suffrage societies, in especial, did splendid work in improvising employment bureaux and relief workrooms for the sufferers. a special fund and committee were also formed, under the style of the central committee for women's employment, to find new channels of employment for women. this committee was presided over by the queen, and was aided in its labours by specialists highly versed in industrial conditions, and its efforts for adjustment are full of interest. the primary aim of this committee was to equalise employment in factories and workshops. the problem was how to achieve the adaptation, as far as possible, of unemployed firms and workers to new and urgent national needs. it had been supposed that only certain special firms could make army clothing, and that the numerous women and girls thrown out of work in ordinary wholesale tailoring would be unable to do unaccustomed work. a business adviser of the committee suggested to the war office authorities some simplifications in the make of military greatcoats and uniforms. the experiment was tried, with the result that many thousand great-coats and uniforms were made by firms which under the dominance of red tape must have stopped work. in the shirt-making, also, much unemployment occurred at first, and the committee gave information to firms not previously employed by government that they could apply for contracts. carpet-yarn factories were utilised for the supply of yarn to satisfy the enormous demand created by the war. numbers of orders for shirts, socks, and belts were placed in dressmakers' workrooms, and carried out by women whose normal occupation had failed them. another field of this committee's work was to stimulate the introduction of new trades and open new fields of work for women wage-earners. this is a difficult undertaking at a time when spending power must be much curtailed, but it may be destined to have good results in happier times, and in any case any widening of the field of employment for women, any development of their technical skill, is much to be welcomed.[ ] besides these deeply interesting attempts at regulating and adjusting the market for skilled labour, there remains the vast army of the unskilled. here we had during the first winter of war the influence of a new idea working, the perception that something better than relief work, something infinitely better than charity, was possible. in some of the workrooms started by voluntary effort orders were obtained for underlinen, toys, etc. on a small scale there need be no great objection to this if the educational factor were prominent, but it is necessary to point out that no real adjustment of the labour market is effected by inducing ladies to make purchases in a workroom that they might otherwise have made in an ordinary shop, the employees of those shops probably themselves suffering from shortage of employment. the workrooms started under the central committee for this class of workers adopted the plan of setting them to make useful articles, not for sale but for distribution among the poor, such as layettes for infants and clothing for necessitous mothers, also to the mending or remodelling of old clothes, the manufacture of cradles from banana crates, and so forth. in most workrooms a good meal was provided in the middle of the day, and some of the women were instructed in its cooking and service. the leading idea of workrooms on these lines is that temporarily the workers should be taken off the labour market altogether, that they should be paid not wages but relief, and that the relief should be robbed of its degrading associations by being combined with a system of training the women to do something they could not do before, or at all events to do it better than before. the requirement of attendance at the workroom (usually for forty hours weekly) was a guarantee of genuine need. this method of dealing with the problem of distress is probably as satisfactory as any that could be devised off-hand, though the workrooms did not escape criticism on the score of attracting girls away from "normal employment."[ ] this is no doubt possible, the scale of women's wages in "normal employment" being still unfortunately so low. ten shillings a week would not attract workers away from decently paid work done under decent conditions. the criticisms, however, point to the desirability of such arrangements being carefully co-ordinated to avoid overlapping, especially with the technical training provided by the education authority. although the working of the plan was good as far as it went, it went unfortunately only a little way. by the first week in november a couple of dozen centres of employment had been started, and perhaps per cent of the unemployed women had been provided with work in the workrooms.[ ] there were besides uncounted thousands whose work and wages were reduced to a mere fraction of what they had previously been. had the local authorities been already educated by the local government board to take a broader view of their responsibilities and more scientific measures in discharging them, a great deal more of the ground might have been effectively covered. it is to be hoped that if similar measures are needed after the war, as seems likely to be the case, the experience of - will bear fruit. _the new demand for women's labour._--with the continuance of war an unexpected situation gradually shaped itself. the clothing and accoutrement of the great army that was speedily recruited, as well as urgently-needed supplies for france, and for russia, so far as they could be transported thither, created a huge demand for labour, and by december the shortage of skilled labour was a serious problem. more especially was this the case with the munitions group of trades, which became the largest and busiest of all. with some lack of foresight too many men from these industries had been allowed to enlist, and eventually some were even brought back from the front. thousands of women poured into armament making; factories have been adapted to meet the new demands; trade union rules and legislative requirements have been considerably relaxed; women to a limited extent are replacing men. these are some of the outstanding features of a situation which is already bewildering in its complexity. the shortage of skilled workers which has formed and still forms so serious a difficulty in supplying the army, is due not only to the enlistment of skilled men, but also to the tendency which the past thirty years or so have unfortunately shown to be increasing, for the displacement of the skilled by the unskilled worker. the ignorance of parents and the attraction of the "blind alley" occupations for the children of poor homes, where every shilling counts, combined with the organisation of business primarily for profit and the inadequacy of social safeguards in this matter, have created a difficult position. the lack of training and experience is, however, much more general among women than among men, and has formed a serious obstacle to their employment. the replacement of men by women in manufacturing industry has thus been less than might have been expected. women have to a considerable extent replaced men in commercial and clerical work, in some occupations in and about railway stations, also as shop assistants, lift-attendants, etc. there are even suggestions that the underground railway service of london might be entirely staffed with women; but up to the time of writing this has occurred only to a limited extent. there has of course been an enormous increase in women's employment, but a large part of the war demand is for goods on the manufacture of which women normally predominate, as clothing, food-stuffs, etc. another large part of the demand is for work on such processes as the filling of shells, and is now swollen to an unparalleled degree. what has happened has been that subdivision of processes and grading of labour have been introduced, as well as mechanical adjustments to facilitate the employment of women. as usually happens when women are introduced to a new trade or branch of a trade, the work is more or less changed in character. no doubt the pressure of war conditions has had the effect that women are now performing processes that were previously supposed to be beyond their strength or skill or both, especially in leather, engineering, and the wool and worsted trades. the line of demarcation between men's and women's occupations is drawn higher up. but women have not to any great extent replaced men in the skilled mechanical trades, the immediate and insurmountable obstacle to such replacement being their lack of skill and training. in certain trades, however, where women have been given opportunity and facilities to undertake work involving judgment and skill, they have, aided by the stimulus of patriotism, shown both intelligence and initiative, revealed unexpected powers on processes hitherto performed by men, and done work "of which any mechanic might be proud" (see report mentioned below; compare the _engineer_, aug. , ). the lack of training therefore may perhaps explain the very small results that have so far followed from the appeal to women to register for war-work, made by the government in march . as to the origin of this appeal, little is definitely known. it may have been intended as a recognition of the efforts and sacrifices already made by women during the war. it may have been, as some suggest, probably not without foundation, that the measure was instigated by the farmers' union, in the hope of getting cheap labour on the land instead of raising the wages of men. the women's organisations were not consulted, and even the central committee on women's employment, then anxiously engaged in reviewing and where possible adjusting the dislocation of women's employment, had, we believe, no previous notice of the appeal. a very small proportion only of the women who registered were called upon to work within the next few months; only three or four thousand out of , . this small result is said to be due to the fact that only a very small proportion were capable of the skilled jobs awaiting them.[ ] in great part the new demand for labour has been met by the overflow from other industries, though it has been supplemented by the addition of voluntary workers of the class usually termed "unoccupied," that is to say, not working for wages. there are obvious risks in bringing women from the upper and middle classes into a labour market the conditions of which are usually much against working-women; on the other hand, such an arrangement as was made, _e.g._ that amateurs should train so as to replace ordinary working women for the week-end, seems an admirable device to use the superfluous energies of the leisured so as to give the workers time for rest and recuperation. another problem arising out of the present extension of women's employment relates to the enormous strain imposed upon the women and the inadequate pay they have in many cases received. we have touched on this point above in connection with the wool and worsted trades. incidentally these conditions show that the unorganised state of women prevents their taking full advantage of the labour market even when the position is strategically in their favour. in some of the processes on which women have been introduced the skill required is quite considerable, and the output varies, depending greatly on the worker's health and strength. high speed cannot be maintained without proper intervals of rest; prolonged fatigue reduces capacity. the prime conditions for a persistently high output are a scientific adjustment of hours of work, adequate food, ventilation, and necessary comforts. these facts in the twentieth century are not unknown, but in war-time they were practically ignored. many of the women on war-work were grievously overworked, and though praised for their patriotism in working overtime, did not receive wages sufficient to afford them the extra nourishment and comforts they should have had. in some cases, especially if doing men's work, they were highly paid; in others the pay was not only below the standard of a man, but was inadequate to maintain the physical endurance required. the patriotic feelings of women-workers were shamefully exploited, and the state of mind revealed by persons who should have known better was deplorable. in one case of a prosecution by the home office the magistrate refused to convict, although a girl under eighteen had been employed twenty-four hours without a break, after which she met with an accident. yet another problem arises out of the substitution of women for men. we have seen reason to suppose that this is taking place less extensively than is supposed, but it undeniably occurs, and may assume much greater proportions before the war is over. are women who replace men to be paid merely the wages that women of the same grade of skill usually are paid? in that case they will be undercutting men, and preparing a position of extreme difficulty after the war. or are the women to be paid the same wages as the men they replace? they certainly should, wherever the work is the same. as we have seen, in many cases the women do not do exactly the same work as men, and indeed in the interests of their health and efficiency it is often highly desirable they should not do quite the same. it may be quite easy, _e.g._, for a woman to cut off yards of cloth to sell across the counter, but it may happen that the man she replaces not only did this but also at intervals handled heavy bales of goods which are beyond her strength. in such cases as this a rearrangement of work with due regard to relative strength is desirable, and a rigid equality of wages should not be insisted on. organisation of all women-workers employed to replace men is become a more pressing need than ever, to ensure first that women should not be paid less than men merely because they are women; second, that women should not have work thrust upon them that is an injurious strain on their constitutions; third, that the future interests of the men now serving in the field should not be disregarded. the point insisted on in chapter iv., that women need not only to be enrolled in unions but to have a voice in the management and control where they are organised along with men, has been made plainer than ever. so strongly was this felt at manchester that a special committee was formed for the protection of women's interests in munition work, and for co-operation with the interested trade unions in any movement towards the organisation of the women. a special campaign for the organisation of munition workers was initiated and carried on by the national federation of women workers. _the results the war may have._--it is impossible as yet to estimate what effects the war will ultimately have in modifying the position of women. the surplus of women, in itself a source of much social ill, will be increased; the young girls of to-day have a diminished prospect of marriage. at the same time the spending power of the community must almost certainly be curtailed, and apart from military requirements there will be a less demand for women's work in many occupations. thus at the very time that women will need more than ever to be self-dependent, their opportunities of self-dependence will be narrowed. another aspect, a more hopeful one, is that the scarcity of men may improve the position of women and lead to their being entrusted with posts, not necessarily identical with those of men, but more responsible and more dignified than those women have usually filled. objections of a merely conventional nature are likely to disappear. it seems also possible that the present shifting of women's employment out of the luxury trades that ebb and flow according to fashion and idle caprice, into government service and trades vitally necessary to national existence, may remain after the war, only that women's energies may then, as we hope, be turned once again to save life rather than destroy it. there are signs that a deeper and more intimate consciousness of society as a whole may operate in favour of women. the recruiting campaign, for instance, may induce certain reflections. between and , , male infants died under a year old in england and wales alone, making an average death-rate of per thousand births. if even the very mild measures for the improvement of sanitation and the care of infants and nursing mothers that have been adopted in recent years had been customary twenty years ago, we should have now in england some hundreds of thousands more lads of recruiting age or approaching it than are actually here, and many of those who survived the high death-rate of those years would have escaped damage in early years and be stronger and finer men than they are. if we now adopted much more generous measures to the same end, we could probably save some hundreds of thousands more to serve their country in twenty years' time. and all this would cost an infinitesimal sum in comparison with what is now being poured forth to make these young men as strong and fit for the field as possible. the militarists, if they were consistent, would realise that at the back of the army stands another army--the army of the poor working women, underfed, overworked, badly housed, and insufficiently clad. the patriots, if they were more clear-sighted in regard to their own desires, would spend a great deal more time and energy in demanding, for the sake of military efficiency, that the conditions under which the nation's babies are brought into the world and the mother nursed and nourished should be changed in a quite revolutionary manner. some of us may not love this style of argument; the view of men as "food for powder" and women as mere feeders of the army may seem an ignoble one. those who hold such views will, however, have to consider their implications more closely. it was a curious coincidence, perhaps even not a wholly fortuitous one (who can say?), that in the very week preceding our declaration of war, when europe was already resounding with the tramp of armed men and the rumble of artillery wheels, the local government board should have issued its first memoranda on the subject of maternity and child welfare. these circulars, addressed to county councils and sanitary authorities, advocated a considerable extension of the work of public health departments in the direction of medical advice and treatment for pregnant and nursing mothers and their infants, and an extensive development of the system of home-visiting of women and infant children already in existence in some places. parliament has already voted a grant to the extent of per cent of the cost in aid of local schemes for maternity and child welfare. the immediate appeal of the war relief fund and the difficulties of its administration have, no doubt, combined with the inertia characteristic of many local authorities to efface any very bold initiative on the more fundamental but less clamant questions raised in the local government board memorandum. still, the fact remains that the needs of the woman and the young child have been at last recognised as vital, however inadequate the means taken to meet them have so far been. these needs will be urged by women's societies and by labour organisations, and the war will have the effect of bringing them into stronger relief as time goes on, and may supply the impetus for a still more drastic scheme, on the lines advocated by the women's co-operative guild.[ ] it is now recognised, or is coming to be recognised, that it is not alone the soldier who serves his country in war; the great part played by industry in building up the nation's life is equally vital. "industry and commerce," writes mr. arthur greenwood, "are not primarily intended as a field for exploitation and profit, but are essential national services in as true a sense as the army and navy." such a recognition should have its effect in raising the woman's position, the special economic weakness of which is, that her value to the community is greater than any that can be measured in pounds, shillings, and pence, while nevertheless she, like others in a competitive society, is compelled to measure herself by competitive standards. during the war industrial women have been working day and night to supply military and naval requisites, taking their part in national defence as truly as if they could themselves aid in slaughtering the enemy, and not without considerable overstrain and damage to their own health and strength. others, again, have spent their time and strength toiling to make good the deficiencies in government organisation, not only for the relief of distress and unemployment, but even for the needs of recruits themselves. working women in their homes bear a disproportionately heavy share of the burden of trouble and anxiety caused by the rise of prices in the necessaries of life. vast numbers of women have offered up their sons and brothers in battle; hundreds of thousands have lost their employment and been reduced to poverty and distress. the efforts and sacrifices made by women cannot have passed wholly unnoticed by the government, and we may hope that some real development of the position of woman, especially of the working woman, will follow the hoped-for settlement of this terrible crisis. even the thoughtless sentimentality of the well-to-do leisured woman has been touched to finer issues. impelled to "do something" for the soldiers, she turned instinctively to the traditional or primeval occupations of women, and wanted to make shirts, etc., with her own hands. she was, however, here confronted with the new idea that the needs of the unemployed working woman must be considered. in the autumn it was suggested those who could afford new clothes should order some to stimulate employment. in the spring and early summer, on the contrary, the utmost economy was advocated, capital being scarce. the most irresponsible class in the community were thus asked to realise themselves as members of society, to understand that philanthropy was not merely an opportunity for them to save their own souls, that even their personal expenditure was not a merely private matter, but that both must be considered in relation to the needs of the commonweal.[ ] _constructive measures._--the experience of the war should certainly lead to some better-thought-out method of dealing with times of stress and unemployment than has ever yet been in operation, especially with regard to women. it would be beyond the scope of this volume to draw up such a scheme in detail, but some points may be indicated. the need of better training has become plain. to raise the upper limit of school attendance is urgent, if education is to be worthy of the name. a better all-round training at school would give girls more choice of occupation, and would not leave them so much at the hazard of one particular process or trade. develop a girl's intelligence, train her hand and eye, and she will be helped to master the technical difficulties of whatever occupation she may wish to follow or work she may need to do. for older girls special technical and domestic courses may be most valuable, especially if taught in such a manner as to occupy the mind and increase the capacity, and not as mere mechanical routine. it was noted during the boom of work for the army that girls who had been trained in a trade school could adapt themselves more readily to a new and unaccustomed process than could those who had only ordinary workshop training. as a further development of the education question the experience of - should lead to the provision of increased facilities for physical exercise in the open air (and time to use them) for young people of both sexes. in the first winter of war we were all amazed at the change effected by a few months' training and fresh air, at the fine well-set-up young men who had lately been weedy clerks and pale-faced operatives. it may perhaps dawn upon us after the war that if the country can afford to satisfy the elementary needs of healthy life in young men when they stand a good chance of dying for her, it might be worth while to do something of the same kind for those who are to live for her and make her future. perhaps eventually even the physical health and soundness of girls may be held to justify some provision for exercise in the open air. in the second place, the local authorities should at times of stress offer all the useful employment they possibly can find to women at fair rates of wages. the more genuine employment a municipal body can find for women in time of need the better, whether by anticipating work that would normally be wanted a few months later or by increasing the efficiency of special services, such as the educational or health services, district nursing, cleansing and sweeping of schools and other buildings. why not organise a grand "spring cleaning" of neglected homes, with domestic help to aid the overtaxed mothers of families? special investigation of particular industrial or sanitary conditions as to which information was needed might well be carried out at times when educated women of the secretarial and clerical professions are unemployed. it is evident that we need a better scheme of employment bureaux for women. there should be a centre of information and a clearing-house where workers, found superfluous in their previous occupation, could be drafted into such new ones as they were capable and willing to undertake, and this might possibly be worked in conjunction with a system of training. the comparative success of the work hurriedly improvised, and with many difficulties, by the central committee on women's employment, is a clear indication that some similar organisation on a larger scale, say a national advisory council, linked up with the labour exchanges and representative of women's organisations, might be infinitely valuable. another constructive movement that seems to be gaining ground is that for the organisation of women as consumers. at the end of chapter v., written early in , i ventured to prophesy that some such form of association would be needed as a complement to the work of organising industrial women-workers. in june a number of women's societies were engaged in forming an association to take measures to counteract the war scarcity and increase the supply of food, to extend agricultural and horticultural training for women, to improve the feeding of children in schools, to establish cost-price restaurants for the poor, and to urge the government to form an advisory committee to deal with the whole subject and take steps to control the rise of prices, such a committee to include representatives of women householders.[ ] such an association may have great results, directly in the attainment of the objects set forth, indirectly in the stimulating of public spirit and a sense of citizenship among women. there is, however, little ground for hoping that the war will of itself lead to social measures of reconstruction or to the development of a better-organised state, whether in regard to women or in regard to labour generally. some can find spiritual comfort and sustenance in the idea that by fighting german militarism we are destroying tyranny and despotism among ourselves. on the contrary, it may be that in fighting we are impelled to use as a weapon and may be giving a new lease of life to precisely those tendencies, those forces in our own social life which we are opposing among the germans for all we are worth. class domination, the rule of the strongest, and the idealisation of brute force are not peculiar to germany, although unquestionably, as we have been driven to see, they have there reached an extraordinary exuberance. but the same tendencies are here, and we may be sure democracy will not come of itself, merely as a result of the war. war inevitably means for the time the predominance of man over woman, the predominance of the soldier over the industrial, the predominance of reaction over democracy. it is significant that the stress of war was quickly seized as a pretext for suspending the protection of industrial workers by the state, and for relaxing the education acts which normally interpose some hindrance to the exploitation of children by the capitalist employer. the clamour for compulsion and the shameless underpayment of women in some branches of war work are signs of the same reaction. yet in the long run the apparently weaker elements of society are as vitally necessary as the stronger, and to ignore or silence their needs is to strike at the heart of life. the problems offered by the great war, gigantic and staggering as they are, are not so different in kind from, though vaster in degree and more appalling than, the problem of the industrial revolution itself. each is a problem of the development of material civilisation, which has (we know it now too poignantly) far outdistanced the growth of civilisation on its social and spiritual side. each includes the question whether man is to be the master or the slave of the mechanic powers his own genius has evoked. neither can ever be solved without the conscious co-operation of woman and labour, failing which we must for ever fall short of the highest possibilities of our race. "if great britain is to lead the way in promoting a new spirit between the nations, she needs a new spirit also in the whole range of her corporate life. for what britain stands for in the world is, in the long run, what britain is, and when thousands are dying for her it is more than ever the duty of all of us to try to make her worthier of their devotion."[ ] changes in employment during the war - . +---------------------------------------------------------------+ | i. _contraction of employment of women and girls. | | board of trade figures._ | |---------------------------------------------------------------| | reduction in numbers as compared with july . | |---------------------------------------------------------------| | sept . | oct. | dec. | feb. . | |-----------------|--------------|------------|-----------------| | · | · | · | · | |===============================================================| | ii. _cotton trade. all work-people, women predominating._ | |---------------------------------------------------------------| | | reduction of employment | reduction of earnings | | |per cent of previous year. |per cent of previous year. | | . |---------------------------|---------------------------| | | lancashire and | burnley. | lancashire and | burnley. | | | cheshire. | | cheshire. | | |-------|----------------|----------|----------------|----------| | aug. | · | · | · | · | | oct. | · | · | · | · | | dec. | · | · | · | · | | feb. | · | · | · | · | | april | · | · | · | · | | june | · | · | · | · | |===============================================================| | iii. _percentage increase or decrease compared with | | same month in previous year._ | |---------------------------------------------------------------| | | sept. | nov. | jan. |march. | may. | | | . | | . | | | |-----------------------|-------|-------|-------|-------|-------| |london dressmakers, | | | | | | | chiefly west end | - · | - · | - · | - · | - · | |court ditto | - · | - · | - · | - · | - · | |mantle, costume, etc., | | | | | | | makers | - · | - · | - · | - · | + · | |shirt and collar makers| - · | · | - · | - · | - · | +---------------------------------------------------------------+ appendix to chapters ii. and iv. documents and extracts illustrative of the position of women during the industrial revolution. _thoughts on the use of machines in the cotton manufacture._ by a friend of the poor. manchester reference library, , , b. . (barnes, .) "what a prodigious difference have our machines made in the gain of the females of the family! formerly the chief support of a poor family arose from the loom. the wife could get comparatively but little on her single spindle. but for some years a good spinner has been able to get as much as or more than a weaver. for this reason many weavers have become spinners, and by this means such quantities of cotton warps, twists, wefts, etc., have been poured into the country that our trade has taken a new turn. all the spinners in the country could not possibly have produced so much as this, as are now wanted in a small part of our manufacture. if it were true that a weaver gets less, yet, as his wife gets more, his family does not suffer. but the fact is that the gains of an industrious family have been upon the average much greater than they were before these inventions." page . "when i look upon our machines, with a regard to the _poor_, and as _their friend and well-wisher_, my heart glows with gratitude and pleasure on their account, in the full hope that, by means of them, our manufactures will _continue_, and be _extended_ and _improved_, from age to age. _perhaps_, e'er long, our manufacture may be _chiefly of cotton_. _linen_ may be almost _laid aside_. suppose, for instance, _common yearn_ could be brought to market, made with _cotton warps_. what a sale might we expect! _such goods_ would have the demand of _all the world_. nor is this at all unlikely to be the case, in some future time. already cotton yarn has been offered to sale, as i am very credibly informed, _almost_, if not _entirely_, as cheap as linen yarn, of the _same length_. _germany_ and _ireland_ then _have_ reason to be alarmed at our machines. their yarn manufactures may suffer severely. but surely this will be the highest advantage to us, by increasing the quantity of _labour_ amongst ourselves and keeping so much _money_ at home. _perhaps_, by new improvements, we may vie with the _east india_ goods in fineness and beauty. and then--what a prospect would open upon us! but you say all this is a mere _perhaps_. it is so. and i only offer it as such. but, i ask, is it more _unlikely_ than our present improvements were, _twenty years ago_? i believe not. some tradesmen thought the cotton manufacture at its _highest pitch then_. it was _then_ but in its infancy. perhaps it is so yet. human ingenuity, when spurred on by proper rewards, _may leave_ whatever has been done _already_ at a vast distance. we may have goods brought to market, _cheaper, finer, better_. the necessary consequence of this will be, the demand _will increase_ and all the world become our _customers_. if we can _undersell_ all the world, we may have the _custom_ of all the world. merchants are alike all the world over. they will go to the _cheapest market_. what a pleasing thought is this! but in order to do this it is necessary to _encourage_ our machines, and to keep them as much as possible to _ourselves_." description of interior of a cotton mill, in _a short essay for the service of the proprietors of cotton mills and the persons employed in them_. manchester, . (m/c library, / .) (quotes instances of jail fever from overcrowding, etc.) page . "the cotton mills are large buildings, but so constructed as to employ the greatest possible number of persons. that no room may be lost, the several stories are built as low as possible. most of the rooms are crowded with machines, about which it is necessary to employ a considerable quantity of oil in order to facilitate their motion. from the nature of the manufacture, a great deal of cotton dust is constantly flying about, which, adhering to the oil and heated by the friction, occasions a strange and disagreeable smell. the number of people who work in the mill must certainly be proportioned to the size of it. in a large one i am informed there are several hundreds.... the manufacturers, in many instances, constantly labour day and night.[ ] of course a great number of candles must be used, and scarce any opportunity for ventilation afforded. from hence it is evident that there is a considerable effluvia constantly arising from the bodies of a large number of persons (well or in a degree indisposed, just as it happens), from the oil and cotton dust, and from the candles used in the night, without any considerable supply of fresh air. there are indeed trifling casements, sometimes opened and sometimes not; but totally insufficient to subserve any valuable purpose.... what consequences must we expect from so many pernicious circumstances? what are the consequences which have actually proceeded from them? as we have already observed, it is well known that there has been a contagious disorder in a cotton mill in the neighbourhood of manchester which has been fatal to many, and infected more.... most of the patients that were ill, having been asked where they caught the fever, either replied that they caught it themselves at the cotton mill or were infected by others that had. several were asked what kind of labour they followed who were first seized with the disorder. they all replied, they were the people that worked in the cotton mill." leicester, . british museum tracts, b. ( ). humble petition of the poor spinners, which on a very moderate calculation consist of eighteen thousand, five hundred, employed in the town and country aforesaid, sheweth, that the business of _spinning_, in all its branches, hath ever been, time out of mind, the peculiar employment of women; insomuch that every single woman is called in law a _spinster_; to which employment your petitioners have been brought up, and by which they have hitherto earned their maintenance. that this employment above all others is suited to the condition and circumstances of the _female poor_; inasmuch as not only single women, but married ones also, can be employed in it consistently with the necessary cares of their families; for, the business being carried on in their own houses, they can at any time leave it when the care of their families requires their attendance, and can re-assume the work when family duty permits it; nay, they can, in many instances, carry on their work and perform their domestic duty at the same time; particularly in the case of attending a sick husband or child, or an aged parent. that the children of the poor can also be employed in this occupation more or less, according to their age and strength, which is not only a great help to the maintenance of the family, but inures their children to habits of industry. * * * * * it is therefore with great concern your petitioners see that this antient employment is likely to be taken from them--an employment so consistent with civil liberty, so full of domestic comfort, and so favourable to a religious course of life. this we apprehend will be the consequences of so many spinning mills, now erecting after the model of the cotton mills. the work of the poor will be done by these engines, and they left without employment. the proprietors of the spinning mills do indeed tell your petitioners that their children shall be employed after the manner of the children at the cotton mills. your petitioners have enquired what that manner is; and with grief of heart they find that a vast number of poor children are crowded together in an unhealthy place, have no time allowed them for recreation and exercise, are kept to work for ten or twelve hours together, and that in the night-time as well as by day; hereby they become cripples and emaciated beyond measure. that no care is taken of their morals, as your petitioners can learn; though these very children are the means by which their masters are raised to wealth and honours too; for we have heard that a certain great _mill-monger_ is newly _created_ a knight though he was not _born_ a gentleman. * * * * * the adventurers are turning their cotton mills into jersey mills, and new ones are daily erecting; and our masters show what their expectations are by undervaluing our work and beating down our wages.[ ] . broadsheet, pp. , , l. (m/c library). (this broadsheet records the resolutions carried at a special meeting of merchants, manufacturers, and cotton spinners held at manchester, may , , to consider proceedings of meetings recently held for the purpose of getting parliament to put a duty on exportation of cotton twist.) resolved-- . that cotton spinning is a manufacture of the first importance to this country. that it gives employment to a considerable part of the national capital and to a very large portion of the poor of this county and of several other counties, the chief part consisting of women and children who, by means of this manufacture, are rendered highly useful to the community at large instead of _being a burthen on it, as they would be if not employed in cotton mills_ (italics added). broadsheet in manchester library (n. d.). (purports to be by an old weaver, deprecating attacks on machinery.) "if machinery is destroyed, how are your children to be employed, who now, at an age in which children in other countries gain nothing, can support themselves? yes, and not only this, but can earn as much, or even more, than a hardworking man in other countries, where there are not these improvements? it is thus that our poor are enabled to marry early and support a family, as the children, instead of being a deadweight upon their parents, can more than do for themselves. so great, indeed, have been our comforts from the demand for our cheap manufactures and the plenty of employ, that people have flocked into lancashire from all parts of the kingdom by thousands, tens of thousands, aye, and hundreds of thousands too. * * * * * "if they (machines) are destroyed, how then are you to find support for yourselves and your families? where will your children of seven, eight, or nine years old find employment and money to contribute to the comforts of all? will our barren moors support them?" from alfred's _history of the factory movement_, vol. i. p. . when the first factories were erected, it was soon discovered that there was in the minds of the parents a strong repugnance to the employment thus provided for children: the native domestic labourers, being then able amply to provide for their children, rejected the tempting offers of the mill-owners, the parents preferring to rear their children in their own homes, and to train them to their own handicrafts. for a long period it was by the working people themselves considered to be disgraceful to any father who allowed his child to enter the factory--nay, in the homely words of that day, as will be remembered by the old men of the present age, "that parent made himself the town's talk"--and the unfortunate girl so given up by her parents in after life found the door of household employment closed against her--"because she had been a factory girl." it was not until the condition of portions of the working class had been reduced that it became the custom with working men to eke out the means of their subsistence by sending their children to the mills. until that sad and calamitous custom prevailed, the factories in england were worked by "stranger-children," gathered together from the workhouse. under the operation of the factories' apprentice system parish apprentices were sent, without remorse or enquiry, from the workhouses in england, to be "used up" as the "cheapest raw material in the market." this inhuman conduct was systematically practised; the mill-owners communicated with the overseer of the poor, and when the demand and supply had been arranged to the satisfaction of both the contracting parties, a day was fixed for the examination of "the little children" to be inspected by the mill-owner, or his agent, previous to which the authorities of the workhouse had filled the minds of their wards with the notion that by entering the mills they would become ladies and gentlemen.... it sometimes happened that traffickers contracted with the overseers, removing their juvenile victims to manchester, or other towns, on their arrival; if not previously assigned, they were deposited sometimes in dark cellars, where the merchant dealing in them brought his customers; the mill-owners, by the light of lanthorns, being enabled to examine the children, their limbs and stature having undergone the necessary scrutiny, the bargain was struck, and the poor innocents were conveyed to the mills. the general treatment of those apprentices depended entirely on the will of their masters; in very many instances their labour was limited only by exhaustion after many modes of torture had been unavailingly applied to force continued action; their food was stinted, coarse, and unwholesome. in "brisk times" the beds (such as they were) were never cool, the mills were worked night and day, and as soon as one set of children rose for labour the other set retired for rest. we dare not trust ourselves to write all we know on this subject, much less all we feel.... the moral nature of the traffic between parish authorities and the buyers of pauper children, may be judged from the fact that in some cases one idiot was accepted with twenty sane children.... in stench, in heated rooms, amid the constant whirling of a thousand wheels, have little fingers and little feet been kept in ceaseless action, forced into unnatural activity by blows from the heavy hands and feet of the merciless overlooker, and the infliction of bodily pain by instruments of punishment invented by the sharpened ingenuity of insatiable selfishness.... some of the helpless victims ... nightly prayed that death would come to their relief; weary of prayer, some there were who deliberately accomplished their own destruction. the annals of litten mill afford an instance of this kind. "palfrey the smith had the task of riveting irons upon any of the apprentices whom the master ordered, and these were much like the irons usually put upon felons. even young women, if suspected of intending to run away, had irons riveted upon their ankles, and reaching by long links and rings up to the hips, and in these they were compelled to walk to and from the mill and to sleep. robert blincoe asserts that he has known many girls served in this manner. a handsome-looking girl, about the age of twenty years, who came from the neighbourhood of cromford, whose name was phoebe day, being driven to desperation by ill-treatment, took the opportunity one dinner-time, when she was alone and supposed no one saw her, to take off her shoes and throw herself into the dam at the end of the bridge, next the apprentice-house. some one passing along and seeing a pair of shoes stopped. the poor girl had sunk once, and just as she rose above the water he seized her by the hair.... she was nearly gone, and it was with some difficulty her life was saved. when mr. needham heard of this, and being afraid the example might be contagious, he ordered james durant, a journeyman spinner, who had been apprenticed there, to take her away to her relations at cromford, and thus she escaped." the factory system. _enquiry into the state of the manufacturing population._ london, . page . "as a second cause of the unhealthiness of manufacturing towns we place the severe and unremitting labour. cotton factories (which are the best in this particular) begin to work at half-past five or six in the morning and cease at half-past seven or eight at night. an interval of half an hour or forty minutes is allowed for breakfast, an hour for dinner, and generally half an hour for tea, leaving about twelve hours a day clear labour. the work of spinners and stretchers (men) is among the most laborious that exist, and is exceeded, perhaps, by that of mowing alone, and few mowers, we believe, think of continuing their labour for twelve hours without intermission.... the labour of the other classes of hands employed in factories, as carders, rovers, piecers, and weavers, consists not so much in their actual manual exertion, which is very moderate, as in the constant attention which they are required to keep up and the intolerable fatigue of standing for so great a length of time. we know that incessant walking for twenty-four hours was considered one of the most intolerable tortures to which witches in former times were subjected, for the purpose of compelling them to own their guilt, and that few of them could hold out for twelve; and the fatigue of standing for twelve hours, without being permitted to lean or sit down, must be scarcely less extreme. accordingly, some sink under it, and many more have their constitutions permanently weakened and undermined. "iii. the third cause we shall assign is perhaps even more efficient than the last. the air in almost all factories is more or less unwholesome. many of the rooms are obliged to be kept at a certain temperature (say degrees fahrenheit) for the purpose of manufacture, and from the speed of the machinery, the general want of direct communication with the external atmosphere, and from artificial heat, they often exceed the temperature.... but in addition to mere heat, the rooms are often ill-ventilated, the air is filled with the effluvia of oil, and with emanations from the uncleanly persons of a large number of individuals; and, from the want of free ventilation, the air is very imperfectly oxygenated and has occasionally a most overpowering smell.[ ] in a word, the hands employed in these large manufactories breathe foul air for twelve hours out of the twenty-four, and we know that few things have so specific and injurious an action on the digestive organs as the inhalation of impure air, and this fact alone would be almost sufficient to account for the prevalence of stomachic complaints in districts where manufactories abound. "the small particles of cotton and dust with which the air in most rooms of factories is impregnated not infrequently lay the foundation of distressing and fatal diseases. when inhaled, they are a source of great pulmonary irritation, which, if it continues long, induces a species of chronic bronchitis, which, not rarely, degenerates into tubercular consumption.... "iv. the fourth cause of the ill-health which prevails among the manufacturing population may be traced to the injurious influence which the weakened and vitiated constitution of the women has upon their children.[ ] they are often employed in factories some years after their marriage, and during this pregnancy, and up to the very period of their confinement, which all who have attended to the physiology of the subject know must send their offspring into the world with a debilitated and unhealthy frame which the circumstances of their infancy are ill-calculated to remove; and hence, when these children begin to work themselves they are prepared at once to succumb to the evil influences by which they are surrounded." at page . "we hope we shall not greatly offend the prejudices either of political economists or practical tradesmen when we state our firm conviction, that a reduction in the hours of labour is _most important_ to the health of the manufacturing population, _and absolutely necessary_ to any general and material amelioration in their moral and intellectual condition.... it will be urged in opposition that all legislative interference in commercial concerns is, _prima facie_, objectionable, and involves the admission of a dangerous and impolitic principle. that legislative interference is in itself an evil we deeply feel and readily admit; but it is an evil like many others which necessity and policy may justify, and which humanity and justice may imperiously demand. legislative interference is objectionable only where it is injudicious or uncalled for. it will also be objected, and with more sound reason, that a reduction of the hours of labour would cause a corresponding reduction in the quantity produced, and consequently in the wages of the workmen; and would also diminish our power of competing with other manufacturing nations in foreign market, and thus, by permanently injuring our trade, would be productive of greater evils to the labouring classes than those we are endeavouring to remove. this objection, though very reasonable, we think is considerably overstated. that 'a reduction of the hours of labour would cause a _corresponding_ reduction in the quantity produced' we entirely deny. what _would_ be the actual loss consequent upon a reduction of the hours it is impossible to state with any certainty, but it is probable that if factories were to work ten hours instead of twelve the loss in the quantity produced would not be one-sixth, but only about one-twelfth, and in mule spinning perhaps scarcely even so much. we _know_ that in some cases when the mills only worked four days in the week, they have often produced five days' quantity, and the men earned five days' wages. that this would be the case to a considerable extent every one must be aware; as all men will be able to work much harder for ten hours than they can for twelve. the objection above mentioned we consider to be much over-stated; and we are convinced that the _loss_ incurred would only amount to a _part_ of the reduction. and we think that _all_ loss to the masters might be prevented, and the necessity of a _real_ reduction of wages obviated, were all duties on raw materials, and those taxes which greatly raise the price of provisions, abolished by the legislature. it is principally the shackles and drawbacks to which the cotton manufacture is subjected which renders it so difficult, and as some think so impracticable, to adopt a measure without which all extensive and general plans for improving and regenerating our manufacturing poor must approach the limits of impossibility. at present (in the cotton trade at least, which is already restricted by law) the hours of work generally extend from half-past five or six in the morning till half-past seven or eight at night, with about two hours' intermission, making in all about twelve hours of clear labour. this we would reduce to _ten_ hours (if such a measure should be rendered practicable and safe by a removal of all taxes on manufactures and provisions); and we again express our conviction, after regarding the subject in every possible point of view, that till this measure is adopted all plans and exertions for ameliorating the moral and domestic condition of the manufacturing labourer can only obtain a very partial and temporary sphere of operation. we say this with confidence, because in every project of the kind which we have been enabled to form, in every attempt for this purpose which our personal acquaintance and habitual intercourse with the people could suggest, we have been met and defeated by the long hours (absorbing in fact the whole of the efficient day) which the operative is compelled to remain at his employment. when he returns home at night, the sensorial power is worn out with intense fatigue; he has no energy left to exert in any useful object, or any domestic duty; he is fit only for sleep or sensual indulgence, the only alternatives of employment which his leisure knows; he has no moral elasticity to enable him to resist the seductions of appetite or sloth, no heart for regulating his household, superintending his family concerns, or enforcing economy in his domestic arrangements; no power or capability of exertion to rise above his circumstances or better his condition. he has no time to be wise, no leisure to be good; he is sunken, debilitated, depressed, emasculated, unnerved for effort, incapable of virtue, unfit for everything but the regular, hopeless, desponding, degrading variety of laborious vegetation or shameless intemperance. relieve him in this particular, shorten his hours of labour, and he will find himself possessed of sufficient leisure to make it an object with him to spend that leisure well; he will not be so thoroughly enervated with his day's employment; he will not feel so imperious a necessity for stimulating liquors; he will examine more closely, and regulate more carefully, his domestic arrangements, and what is more than all, he will become a soil which the religious philanthropist may have some chance of labouring with advantage. we do not say that a reduction in the hours of labour would do everything; but we are sure that little can be done without it." arthur arnold. _cotton famine._ . (describing factory work.) page . "in these days of automaton machinery there are many moments in every hour when the varied and immense production of a cotton factory would continue though per cent of the hands were suddenly withdrawn. the work is exciting but not laborious. it quickens the eye and the action of the brain to watch a thousand threads, being obliged to dart upon and repair any that break, lest even a single spindle should be idle; and it strengthens the brain to do this with bodily labour which is exercising but not exhausting. it polishes the mental faculties to work in continued contact with hundreds of others, in a discipline necessarily so severe and regular as that of a cotton factory. the bodily system becomes feverishly quickened by thus working in a high and moist temperature. even the rattle of the machinery contributes to preserve the brain of the operative from that emptiness which so fatally contracts its power." the surat weaver's song from edwin waugh's _factory folk_, p. . by samuel laycock. confound it! aw ne'er wur so woven afore; my back's welly broken, mi fingers are sore; aw've bin stannin' an' workin' among this surat till aw'm very neer gettin' as blint as a bat. aw wish aw wur fur eneagh off, eawt o' th' road, for o' weaving this rubbitch aw'm gettin' reet sto'd; aw've nowt i' this world to lie deawn on but straw, for aw've nobbut eight shillen' this fortnit to draw. oh dear! if yon yankees could nobbut just see heaw they're clemmin' an' starvin' poor weavers like me, aw think they'd soon settle their bother an' strive to send us some cotton to keep us alive. there's theawsan's o' folk, jist i' th' best o' their days, wi' traces of want plainly sin i' their face; an' a future afore 'em as dreary as dark, for when th' cotton gets done we's be o' eawt o' wark. we've bin patient an' quiet as long as we con; th' bits of things we had by us are welly o' gone; mi clogs an' mi shoon are both gitten worn eawt, an mi halliday cloaths are o' gawn "up th' speawt"! mony a toime i' mi days aw've sin things lookin' feaw but never as awkard as what they are neaw; if there is'nt some help for us factory folk soon, aw'm sure 'at we's o' be knock'd reet eawt o' tune. darwen weavers. report, march , _the driving evil_. during the last few months we have experienced a decided improvement in the demand for cotton goods, and which has naturally provided fuller employment for those employed in the weaving branch. we regret, however, to state that this improvement has brought with it that curse of our industry--the driving evil. we still have a number of employers who resort to any artifice in order to exact the last ounce of effort out of their work-people. very little regard appears to be paid to the possibility that the health of the operatives may be endangered by the process; nor is much consideration given to the difficulties that they have to contend with in the shape of inferior material in the loom and the higher standard of quality demanded in the warehouse. indeed the only thing that seems to be of any importance is the average, and woe be to the unlucky individuals whose earnings fall below it. the weak and the strong are set in competition one with another, with the inevitable result that the weaker or less efficient work-people resort to such practices as working during the meal-hour, etc., in their efforts to keep up the unequal race, whilst on the top of all is the dread of what may happen after making up time. when the earnings of an overlooker's set fall below the amount required by the management, pressure is brought to bear on the over-looker, and in turn they (_sic_) are expected to put more pressure on the weaver to increase the output. the methods of speeding-up the weaver are varied. sometimes a hint is conveyed by a distinctive mark on their wage-tickets, in other cases the weavers are spoken to about their earnings, not always in the best manner or in the choicest language. this is far from being an ideal state of things for young persons or persons of a sensitive nature to be employed in, and has in the past been responsible for some of the tragedies that are a blot on the record of the cotton industry. we think it is high time that a number of employers should give this matter their careful consideration, and look upon their work-people as human beings and not as mere machines to be worked at the utmost speed. we hope that an early improvement will be made at some of the local concerns, otherwise there is every probability of serious trouble. extracts from reports of the principal lady inspector of factories, and some of her colleagues, illustrating the present position of the woman worker.[ ] . _women and girls show more courage in voicing their needs._ while we can see a great number and variety of deplorable contraventions of the actual requirements and spirit of the law and an amount of apparently preventable suffering and overstrain and injury to life, limb, and health that is grievous to dwell upon (except for action in the way of removal), we can see also, most clearly, signs of improvement and the promise of much more. the promise lies in the fact that the movement to secure better conditions is not confined to any one class or group. the women and girls at last begin to press their claims for a better life than the one they have, not only by increasing appeals to inspectors to put the law in motion, but also by criticism of the limitations of the law and by signs of fresh courage in organising and voicing their needs to the employers. employers are initiating reforms not only as outstanding individuals and firms, but are beginning to do so at last by associated action and effort. without these two responsive sides of the movement the best efforts of social reformers and legislators would end but poorly. as strikingly illustrating the need of betterment, i would point not only to the instances of excessively long hours inside and outside the factories, insanitary conditions; lack of seats, mess-rooms; accidents and unfenced machinery; employment of young workers in operating and clothing dangerous machines; in excessively heavy weight carrying, but behind, and through, and over all, to the undermining influence for the real health of the nation in the grinding methods of payment and deductions from payment of women and girls. even of industrial poisoning miss whitlock says: "poverty with its attendant worry and lack of nourishment appeared to be a predisposing cause in many cases, and the youth of many of the workers affected was noticeable," and when a woman heavily laden and worn asks, "is it right i should have to do this kind of work and only have s. a week?" the inspector can only listen and report. the sinister instances of use of homework after the legal factory day to reduce piece rates, of new deductions covering cost of employers' contributions under the insurance act, of old-standing large non-payments for work done to punish small unpunctualities in arrival at the factory, and of fine added to entire loss of a hardly-earned week's wage for alleged damage, are only outstanding illustrations of an extensive pressure on women's wages that prevents them from developing their full natural vitality. in every direction the testimony of the inspectors to the value of the spirit of the industrial girl or woman is the same. of a girl of seventeen, partially scalped, miss martindale says: "her pluck and bravery were noteworthy, in fact these qualities show themselves in a remarkable degree in working girls when they meet a severe physical shock"; of another, whose hand had to be amputated after vain attempts to save it, she says that the girl mastered her disappointment, and in two or three days after the operation began to practise writing with her left hand, and in a month had become almost as proficient in writing as with the right hand. the value they attach to inspection is obvious from what follows in this report, and is shrewdly summed up in a remark overheard by a senior lady inspector in a northern mill: "yon's a lady inspector, nay, but it's time we had one." . _a factory worker's letter._ _miss slocock._--the complaints outside the acts received during the year have been interesting, and they often indicate in a remarkable way the workers' needs and the omissions of present legislation. irish workers express themselves graphically and exceedingly well in writing, and the following letter is a typical one: "dear madam, i am sure you will think it presumption on the part of a factory worker to write to you however as pen and paper refuses nothing i venture to write you this annonamos letter. when you come to inspect a factory, does it ever strike you to look around and see if any of these weary women and girls have a seat to sit down on. i am a winder myself i have worked in a great many factories for the last years one looks on their workshop just like their home why should we be denied a seat i suppose you think our work very light so it is we have no extra heavy lifts we have mettle cups that i suppose they would be lb. weight or more we are pushing these up continually the whole thing is tedious just look around you and you will see some winders have not so much as a lean for their backs. i hope dear lady you see to this. you would never think of putting a servant to work in a kitchen without a chair in it, she would not stick it, the winders are an uncomplaining lot if you asked them would they like to be provided with seats they would smile and say they were all right, it would look to them like making complaints behind backs but don't ask us but think about us and do something for us and our children will rise up and call you blessed. i hold that rest is essential to good health." . _lighting._ _principal._--an increasing number of complaints is received with regard to defective natural lighting and badly adjusted or otherwise defective artificial lighting. the inspectors do what they can to secure improvements, though, as the matter is outside the factory act, in general no contravention notice or other official action is as yet practicable. two bad cases concerning women compositors in different parts of the kingdom are specially reported; in both artificial lighting was required during the greater part of the day, and in only one of these instances is a remedy being supplied by removal to better premises. in the other case, when the women learned that lighting is still outside the factory act so far as their case is concerned, they exclaimed to the senior lady inspector, miss squire, "but this is the most important thing of all to us." _miss squire._--badly adjusted light which hurts the eyes was found in boot factories, where out of nine visited in one town four had the sewing-machine rooms provided with ordinary fish-tail burners on a jointed bracket at every machine--these, unshaded, were on a level with the workers' eyes and close to the face. the girls complained that the light was poor and had a smarting effect upon the eyes. the adaptation of artificial lighting to the requirements of the work receives in general very little attention, but i find that a desire for some guidance in the matter is growing among employers and managers. one difficulty is that of procuring any shade for the large metal filament electric lamps now so largely used. the glare of these in the eyes of machine operatives in all classes of factories is a troublesome accompaniment of the work, and one finds much makeshift screening by workers where such individual effort is permitted. . _sanitary accommodation._ _principal._--it is impossible to modify in any general way the adverse description of the existing state of matters as regards actual provision of sanitary conveniences for women and girls in factory industries which i found it necessary to give in last annual report, and to that statement i must refer again and again until there is real and complete reform. the women inspectors have nearly doubled their efforts to raise the standard somewhat in factories, and notices about them to local sanitary authorities have risen from in to in , in addition to notices with regard to workshops. direct contravention notices to occupiers numbered , while complaints from workers numbered , some of them being very strong in regard to the unsuitability of the conveniences provided. the one important area in which a decided improvement is reported is the potteries area, where members of this branch have been steadily at work for many years, but on the whole the midlands and the lancashire divisions have still most work to be done in this direction, for in the former miss martindale reports that of the notices to sanitary authorities touched this one matter, and in the latter miss tracey reports similarly notices. _miss tracey._--the outstanding defect of all others in this north-west division is the sanitary accommodation provided for women. it is impossible to describe in a public paper how low the standard has been and still is, in many places, where in other respects the conditions are not only not noticeably bad, but are quite good.... absence of doors and screens, uncleanliness and insanitary conditions can all be remedied by the sanitary authority, and in the large towns at any rate notices of these matters have received prompt attention, but there still remains the question of unsuitability of position. many examples might be given. in a waterproof factory four or five girls were employed in an "overflow" workroom of a larger factory, and worked in an upper room; in the lower room about a dozen men and youths were at work. to reach the sanitary convenience it is necessary for the girls to walk across the men's room and through a narrow space between rows of machines at which the men are sitting, and the wall at the far end of which the sanitary convenience is situated.... there is no doubt that glass panels in doors, commoner still, no doors, no bolts, no provision for privacy is all calculated to "prevent waste of time," and it is a pathetic comment on employment that there should be this improper supervision and control of decent and respectable women. that they do sometimes stay longer than is actually necessary in these places is of course a fact well known to me, but to my thinking it only shows how great the strain is on women and girls that they should desire rest so obtained. when one thinks of the perpetual striving, the work which must never slacken, the noise which never ceases and of the legs which are weary with constant standing, of the heads which ache, because the noise is so great no voice can be heard above the din, one can understand that to sit on the floor for a few moments' talk, as i have often seen, is a rest which under even such horrid circumstances is better than nothing. proper conveniences and the supervision of a nice woman would do away with all the drawbacks which employers foresee in complying with the standard laid down in the order of the secretary of state so long ago as . . _fire escapes._ _miss tracey._--in one factory i visited to see an escape recently put up at the instance of the local authority, and i found quite a good iron staircase and platform. this was reached by a window which had been made to open in such a way that it completely blocked the staircase and gave but a tiny space even on the platform, and the aid of the local officer was again invoked. miss stevenson reports that in the newer cotton mills a proper outside iron staircase with a handrail is to be found, but the construction of the older fire escapes shows a great lack of common sense. in the first place, the narrow, almost perpendicular ladder without a handrail is peculiarly unsuited for the use of women. the openings from the platform to the ladders are exceedingly small, and the exit window is generally to feet above the floor level, no steps or footholds being provided. to increase the difficulty the exit window is sometimes made to swing out across the platform, cutting off access to the downward ladder. in two cases the ladder, and in one case a horizontal iron pipe also, ran right across the window, rendering egress impossible except to the slender. in both cases the next window was free from obstruction. _miss taylor._--sometimes as many as persons are employed on each floor of a high building, so that if the outside staircase had to be used those in the upper floors would, as they descended, meet the occupants of the lower floors crowding on to the landings. i have never been to a factory where they had such a fire drill as might obviate the possibility of overcrowding on these escapes. the women flatly, and i think, rightly, decline to attempt the descent, on the plea that they do not wish to incur the danger of it until it is absolutely necessary. i have sometimes been told by the managers of the factories that they themselves would never reach the bottom safely if they attempted to go down. such escapes are to be found on quite per cent of the cotton mills in lancashire, and as they were put up on the authority of the sanitary authority it is difficult to get rid of them, but one cannot help thinking that there may be very serious loss of life if the circumstances of a fire should be such that the workers were obliged to resort to these outside escapes. . _lead poisoning._ _miss tracey._--i spent many days in visiting the cases which had been certified, and in visiting other cases of illness which were not directly certified, as due to lead. i visited these workers at their homes and found them in different stages of illness and convalescence. their pluck will always remain fixed in my mind; although many of them were unable to put into words the sufferings they had gone through, yet not one of them but was eagerly wishing to be well enough to go back to work. when, as is so common now, women are accused of malingering, i often wish that complainants would accompany me on my investigation of cases of accident or poisoning at the workers' homes, for i know that, like me, these people would return in a humbled frame of mind, recognising courage and endurance under circumstances which would break many of us. without these home visits it would have been impossible to gauge the extent and severity of the outbreak of illness. . _hours of work and overtime._ _miss tracey._--often we receive complaint of the burden of the long twelve hours' day, and the strain it is to start work at a.m. a well-known man in a lancashire town was telling me only the other day about how he would wake in the morning to the clatter of the girls' and women's clogs as they went past his house at half-past five in the dark on their way to the mills. he had exceptional opportunity of judging of the effect of the long day's work, and he told me how bonny children known to him lost their colour and their youthful energy in the hard drudgery of this daily toil. how the girls would fall asleep at their work, and how they grew worn and old before their time. we see it for ourselves, and the women tell us about it. sometimes one feels that one dare not contemplate too closely the life of our working women, it is such a grave reproach. i went to a woman's house to investigate what appeared a simple, almost commonplace, accident. she was a middle-aged, single woman, living alone. six weeks before my visit she had fainted at her work, and in falling (she was a hand gas ironer) she had pulled the iron on her hand, that and the metal tube had severely burnt both arm and hand. she was quite incapacitated. she told me she left home at . , walked - / miles to the factory, stood the whole day at her work, and at , sometimes later, started to walk home again, and then had to prepare her meal, mend and do her housework. this case is only typical of thousands of women workers. she got her s. d. insurance money, and that was all. she made no effort to enlist my sympathy, but just stated the facts quite simply. her case is not so bad as many, for in addition to their own needs, a married woman or a widow with children has also to see to the needs of the family, meals, washing and mending, and the hundred and one other duties that are required to keep a home going. in scotland miss vines says that the largest proportion of complaints relates to excessive hours of employment, while on investigation they are found sometimes to be within the legal limits, and "there is no doubt that the working of the full permissible period of employment does sometimes entail an intolerable strain on the workers." _miss meiklejohn._--there has again been in west london a marked decrease in the overtime reported this year. the opinion seems to be that systematic overtime in the season does not really help forward the work, and that the extension should be used, as was intended, in an emergency only. there is a tendency to shorten the ordinary working hours, as well as to work as little overtime as possible. . _employment of women before and after childbirth._ there can be little doubt that provision of maternity benefit under the insurance act has materially lightened the burden of compliance with the limit of women for four weeks after childbirth before they may return to industrial employment. complaints of breach of s. have dropped to eight in , and complaints (outside the scope of the section) of employment just before confinement have dropped to one. even in dundee, where this evil of heavy employment of child-bearing women has been probably the worst in the kingdom, an improvement of the situation is seen. _miss vines._--i visited a group of twelve jute-mill working mothers within a month after their confinement and found that only one of them had returned to work, nine of the mothers were married and experiencing the good effects of the insurance act benefit. the unmarried women were, of course, getting less benefit, and were not so well off; one of them worked as a jute spinner in a jute mill till p.m. on the night her baby was born. . _truck act._ _principal._--the illustrations sent me of the mass of work done in under the modern part of the law relating to truck are too numerous to be reproduced here. typical instances must be selected from different industrial centres for the main points of (_a_) disciplinary fines, (_b_) deductions or payments for damage, short weight, etc., (_c_) deductions or payments for power, materials or anything supplied in relation to labour of the worker; abuses of the "bonus" system may be connected with (_a_) or (_b_). the main features of these illustrations are the poverty of the workers, the rigidity and poverty of mind that controls workers by such methods, and the need for fresh and living ideas to sweep away all these defective, obsolete ways of control. _disciplinary fines._ _miss tracey._--i had a long struggle with the occupier of a large laundry in lancashire over fines for coming late. the work started at , and it was said that only three minutes (supposed to be five), were allowed as grace. the weekly wages were phenomenally small, but no work was demanded on saturdays unless under exceptional circumstances. if a girl came to the laundry after the gate was closed (three minutes after a.m.), she was shut out till after breakfast, a fine was inflicted for late attendance, and if this happened more than once, one-sixth of the total wage was deducted for saturday, although no work was required. i found these fines to amount to as much as s. d. out of a wage of s. d., and other sums in proportion. this iniquitous custom had been followed for twenty years, and i was assured that it was a case of "adjustment of wages" and did not come under the truck act. however, my view eventually prevailed; certain sums were repaid and the whole system done away with, without bringing the case into court. in other respects, the laundry was a good one, and no work on saturday is an arrangement that is of great benefit to young and old workers alike. the plan now adopted is that a girl consistently unpunctual during the week will be required to come in on saturday morning to do a few hours' work--this plan has worked so well that no one, when i last visited, had been in the laundry on saturday at all. _miss slocock._--( ) two girls, aged respectively eighteen and nineteen, employed as cutters, were fined £ : s. and s. d. for cutting some handkerchiefs badly and damaging the cloth. the deductions were made at the rate of s. per week, and at the time of my visit, each worker had already had s. d. deducted from her wages. proceedings were considered, but the employer, directly his attention was drawn to the matter, refunded s. d. to one worker and agreed not to make any further deduction from the other, so that one girl paid s. for damage amounting to s. d. and the other s. d. for damage amounting to £ : s. these amounts, s. d. and £ : s. represented exactly the whole loss to the firm caused by the damaged work, and the employer thought that he was acting legally so long as the deductions did not exceed that amount. the fact that the truck act specifically draws attention to this limitation is constantly brought to my notice, and used as an excuse for putting the whole cost of any damage on the workers. the average gross weekly wage earned by these workers for the eleven weeks during which deductions were being made was s. d. and s. - / d. respectively. ( ) two workers employed as shirt machinists were told they would both be fined s. for spoiling two shirts each by mixing the cloth. the difference in the cloth was so slight that i could hardly distinguish it in daylight, and the workers had machined the shirts by artificial light. the contract under which these deductions were made provided that the cost price of the material damaged should not be exceeded; the firm admitted that the cost price of the material was not more than s. d. each shirt, and a fine of s. d. from each worker ( s. d. for each shirt) was ultimately imposed. _miss escreet._--many instances of deductions for damage have touched the borderland where non-payment of wages for work done badly approximates to a deduction of payment in respect of bad work. action in such cases is very difficult--when sums like s. d. and s. are deducted from wages of s. d. and s. d. in a weaving shed and metal factory respectively, there is no question that the workers look rightly for the protection of the truck acts, which were surely framed to control this very kind of arbitrary handling of hardly earned wage. enquiry into these cases invariably brings to light other considerations than the mere fact of damaged work. some managers find it difficult to realise that bad work is bound to be a feature attendant on pressure for great output, especially if the workers are inexperienced and ill-taught, or if the piece-work rates are so low that the workers cannot afford to use care, and are obliged to trust to luck and a lenient "passer." . _lenience of magistrates to employer._ _principal._--we have to occasionally reckon with benches who consider a few shillings' penalty, or even d. penalty, sufficient punishment for excessive overtime employment of girls, or with others who are reluctant to convict, or punish with more than cost of proceedings, law-breaking employers who are shown to have been thoroughly instructed in the law they have neglected to obey. it is in my belief an open question whether the tender treatment of the probation of offenders act was ever designed to apply to the case of fully responsible adults officially supplied by abstracts with the knowledge and understanding of an industrial code which is intended to protect the weakest workers. (_a leaflet issued from a trade union office_) -------- & district weavers, winders, warpers & reelers' association. (branch of the amalgamated weavers' association) offices: textile hall, --------. winders and the barber knotter.[ ] a few facts for non-union winders. have you ever considered what it costs you through not joining your trade union? study the following facts: many winders have five per cent. deducted each week from their wages for using the "barber" knotter. five per cent. on s. per week is d. d. per week is £ s. d. for every weeks you work. if you work with one of these knotters for three years your employer has been paid =more= than the original cost; but they continue to stop the five per cent. and the knotter still belongs to the employer. if you work at a mill ten years and pay five per cent. all the time you cannot take the knotter with you when you leave. think about it. you pay for it three or four times over, but it doesn't belong to you. =oh, no!= we ask you to pay = d.= to your trade union so that we can =stop your employer from keeping d. out of your wages=. if you would rather pay d. to your employers than d. to your trade union you have =less sense= than we thought you had. "but," you say, "we can earn more money with a knotter." quite true, but you are paid on "=production=," so if you get more money it is only because you turn more work off, and in turning more work off your employers get a greater production but they make =you= pay for it. the knotter enables you to piece up at a quicker rate; this saves time. it enables you to make smaller knots, thus making better work. the two combined makes quantity and quality. the employers get =both= and make you pay for it. we say to you that it is no part of your duty to pay for improved machinery. if it is beneficial to the employers to improve any part of any machine they'll do it without consulting you, but we hold that if by doing this they get a greater and better production then they ought to =advance= your wages and not deduct five per cent. from them. think! think! think! view the matter over in your own minds. reason the matter from your own point of view. if you are satisfied with the present system, well, =don't grumble=. if you're not, =what are you going to do to stop it?= have you a remedy? if so, what is it? if you haven't, =we have!= organisation is the only solution! trade unionism will solve the problem for you, but you'll have to pay and not pout! " " act " shout! pay d. and keep the d.! fight and don't funk. don't hesitate--agitate! if you have eyes--see! if you have ears--hear! join the union! bring your grievances to the officials! but join--delay is dangerous--join at once! --------, secretary. appendix to chapter vii. resolutions submitted by the national federation of women workers to the trade union congress, . "(_a_) that all women who register for war service should immediately join the appropriate trade union in the trade for which they are volunteering service, and that membership of such organisation should be the condition of their employment for war service, and that those trade unions which exclude women be urged to admit women as members. "(_b_) that where a woman is doing the same work as a man she should receive the same rate of pay, and that the principle of equal pay for equal work should be rigidly maintained." manchester and district women's war interests committee. the committee was formed as a result of the joint action of the women's emergency corps and the manchester and district federation of women's suffrage societies. representatives were invited from the women's organisations ... and the trade unions interested in women in munition works. the gasworkers and the workers' union also asked for representation and were accepted. the committee carried through an investigation of women in munition works, and discovered that s. to s. was the standard wage, which was lower than the standard, or usual women's rates in the district, which were about £ . it was therefore proposed that the committee work for a minimum wage for women in munition works, and the programme, of which a copy is enclosed, was drawn up. this was presented to the trade union section of the lancashire no. armaments output committee and received their hearty support. the amalgamated society of engineers recognised the national federation of women workers as the organisation to take in women munition workers, and the local secretaries were instructed to co-operate with this body wherever a branch exists. there being no branch in the manchester area the amalgamated society of engineers recognised the women's war interests committee as the representative women's organisation. great help has been given to the committee by their officials. the committee does not itself undertake to organise the women, but passed a resolution to the effect that it would co-operate with any movement towards organisation of the women which is undertaken as a result of joint agreement with the interested trade unions. * * * * * the following proposals have been agreed upon by the committee for the employment of women in ammunition works, to form the basis of representations to the ministry of munitions:-- _wages._--that a guaranteed minimum of £ per week of hours should be paid to every adult woman worker (over years) employed on munitions. piecework rates, irrespective of class of labour employed, should remain unaltered. _hours._--that a three-shift system of hours is preferable to continuous overtime for women. no woman should be employed on night work for more than two weeks out of six. _conditions._--that ample canteen provision be provided, this to be obligatory where night work is in operation. authorities. chapter i. introductory. pearson, karl. woman as witch, in the chances of death, vol. ii.; and sex relations in germany, in the ethic of freethought, p. . mason, otis. in the american antiquarian, jan. , p. . ellis, havelock. man and woman. fourth edition. introduction and chap. xiv. reclus, e. primitive folk, pp. - . contemporary science series. . frazer, j. g. the magic art, ii. . man, e. h. journal of the anthropological institute. august . servants in husbandry. thorold, rogers. history of agriculture and prices, i. pp. - , and iv. . compare bland, brown, and tawney, english economic history, p. , for approximation between men's and women's wages. eden, sir frederick. state of the poor, iii. lxxxix. textiles: wool and linen. schmoller. strassbürger tücher- und weberzunft, p. . archaeologia. vol. xxxvii. pp. and ; vol. x. plates xx., xxi., and xxii. andrews. old english manor, p. . deloney. jack of newbury, p. . wright, t. womankind of western europe, pp. , - . aubrey. history of wiltshire. quoted in archaeologia xxxvii. p. . warden, a. the linen trade. longman, . ( nd ed.), pp. - . rock, d. textile fabrics, p. . . eckenstein, lina. women under monasticism. ancren riwle. reprinted in the king's classics, p. . bÃ�cher. industrial evolution. translated by s. m. wickett, pp. - . james, john. history of worsted, p. . victoria county history. yorkshire, ii. p. . wright, t. homes of other days, p. . chaucer. wife of bath's prologue. beard, c. industrial revolution, p. . fitzherbert. book of husbandry. . edited by skeat, par. . temple, sir w. quoted in cunningham's growth of industry and commerce, modern times, p. . (ed. .) shuttleworth accounts, chetham society, vol. xlvi. p. . markham, g. the english housewife, pp. , . (ed. .) weaving and spinning as a woman's trade. abram, a. social england in the fifteenth century, pp. - . ancient book of the weavers' company. (facsimile in the british museum library.) fox and taylor. weavers' gild of bristol, p. . unwin, g. industrial organisation in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, p. . lambert. two thousand years of gild life, pp. - . thomson, d. the weaver's craft, p. . records of the city of norwich, ii. p. . for rates of pay to weavers, etc., see a volume of tracts in the british museum library, numbered , c. . howard accounts. published by the roxburgh club, vol. li. markham, g. the english housewife, pp. - . (ed. .) dunlop and denman. english apprenticeship and child labour, chap. ix. development of capitalistic industry. unwin, g. in the victoria county history, suffolk, ii. pp. - . baines, e. history of cotton manufacture, p. . green, mrs. alice. town life in the fifteenth century, ii. p. . ordinances of worcester. edited by toulmin smith. early english text society. hamilton. history of quarter sessions, pp. , . leonard. early english poor relief. ashley, w. j. english economic history, part ii., chapter on the woollen industry. young, arthur. northern tour, vol. i. p. . second edition. . young, arthur. tour in east of england, ii. pp. , . warner, townsend. in traill's social england, vol. v. p. . mantoux. la révolution industrielle, p. . bonwick. romance of the wool trade, p. . lancashire worthies, i. p. . weber, marianne. ehefrau und mutter, tübingen, , p. . silk. campbell, w. materials for history of the reign of henry vii., pp. , , , , etc. victoria county history, derby, ii. p. . other industries. traill. social england, vol. i. p. . lapsley, g. t. "account roll of a fifteenth-century ironmaster," in the english historical review, vol. xiv., july , p. . victoria county history. derbyshire, pp. - , , . some account of mines. british museum, , a , p. . galloway. annals of coal mining, pp. , , , _passim_. case of sir h. mackworth. british museum, , m. ( ). case of the mine adventurers in the same volume, no. . young, arthur. northern tour, vol. ii. pp. , - . second edition. . young, arthur. six weeks' tour, pp. , . . chapter ii. the cotton industry. baines, edward. history of the cotton manufacture, , pp. , , , n., . guest. history of the cotton manufacture. radcliffe, w. origin of the new system of manufacture, , p. , etc. gaskell, p. manufacturing population of england, , pp. , , . beard, c. a. the industrial revolution. mantoux. la révolution industrielle, pp. - . ellison, t. the cotton trade of great britain, . law, alice. social and economic history, in the victoria county history, lancashire, vol. ii. p. . chapman, s. j. the lancashire cotton industry. cunningham, w. growth of english industry and commerce, modern times, p. . (ed. .) the decay of handspinning. eden, sir frederick. state of the poor, vol. iii. pp. , , . the handloom weaver's wife. gaskell, p. manufacturing population, p. . mantoux. la révolution industrielle, pp. - . report of committee on ribbon-weavers, , vol. ix. p. . report on handloom weavers, , vol. x. evidence of brennan. the factory. tuckett, j. d. history of the labouring population, pp. - . aikin, j. country round manchester, pp. , . ure. philosophy of manufactures, pp. - . gaskell, p. manufacturing population of england, chap. i. taylor, w. cooke. factories and the factory system, , pp. , - . fielden, j. curse of the factory system, , p. . assistant poor law commissioners. report on employment of women and children in agriculture, p. . parliamentary papers, , xii. gaskell, mrs. mary barton. the woman wage-earner. report on artizans and machinery. parliamentary papers, , vol. v. evidence of dunlop and holdsworth, compare evidence of m'dougal and william smith. report on manufactures and commerce. parliamentary papers, , vol. vi. p. . report on combinations of workmen. parliamentary papers, , viii. q. - . report on handloom weavers, , vol. xxiii. p. . gaskell, p. artizans and machinery, pp. , . gaskell, p. manufacturing population of england, pp. - . report on employment of children in factories. parliamentary papers, , xix. p. . schultze-gÃ�vernitz. the cotton trade in england and on the continent. translated by o. s. hall. . the industrial revolution in non-textile trades. children's employment commission. . reports on birmingham district. children's employment commission. parliamentary papers. , vol. xxii.; third report, p. x. timmins, s. resources of birmingham and the hardware district. . labour commission. reports on employment of women, by miss orme, miss collet, miss abraham, and miss irwin. parliamentary papers, - , vol. xxxvii. british association, - . reports to the economic section by the committee on the legal regulation of women's labour. chapter iv. women in unions. report on combination laws. parliamentary papers, , vol. iv. appendices , , . board of trade. seventeenth report on trade unions, . board of trade. sixteenth labour abstract, . articles of the manchester small ware weavers, printed at manchester, . (manchester library.) webb, sidney and beatrice. history of trade unionism, pp. - , - , etc. chapman, s. j. history of the lancashire cotton industry, pp. - , etc. report on standard piece rates of wages in the u.k. parliamentary papers, , vol. lxxxii. reports of the women's trade union league, to present time. ( mecklenburgh square.) women in the printing trades. edited by j. ramsay macdonald. . report by miss busbey on women's unions in great britain. bulletin of the labour department, u.s.a. no. . labour commission. evidence of mrs. hicks and miss james. parliamentary papers, , vol. xxxv. reports of the national federation of women workers. ( mecklenburgh square.) also reports of trade union and other societies and information given privately. _america._--history of women in trade unions. vol x. of report on women and child wage-earners in the u.s. admission to american trade unions. by f. wolfe, ph.d. johns hopkins university studies, . women in trade unions in san francisco. l. r. matthews university of california publications in economics, vol. iii . making both ends meet. clark and wyatt. new york: macmillan, . chaps. ii. and v. the world of labour. g. d. h. cole. bell, . chap. v. report on strike of textile workers in lawrence, mass., in . washington: government printing office, . chapter iva. women in unions (_continued_). _germany._--braun, lily. die frauenfrage, . gnauck-kÃ�hne, elisabeth. die arbeiterinnenfrage. m. gladbach, . sanders, w. stephen. industrial organisation in germany. special supplement to the _new statesman_, october , . the organisation of women workers in germany. special report to the international women's trade union league of america. submitted by the women workers' secretariat of the general commission of trade unions of germany. berlin, . erdmann, a. church and trade unions in germany. published by the general commission of trade unions in germany. berlin, . chapter vii. effects of the war on women's employment. reports of the board of trade on the state of employment in the united kingdom in october and december , and february . interim report of the central committee on employment of women. the labour gazette. labour in war-time. by g. d. h. cole. bell, . report on outlets for labour after the war by a committee appointed by section f of the british association. manchester meeting. . articles in the _new statesman_, _common cause_, _englishwoman_, _economic journal_, etc. index abbott, edith, abram, annie, accidents, , , accounts of hen. vii., of seventeenth century, shuttleworth, accrington, adam and eve, adaptation of industry in war-time, administration of the factory act, , - , , , - adolescence, care of, aftalion, agricultural population, report on, aikin, , aldhelm, alfred, king, amalgamated society of clothiers, amalgamation, the, america, women's unions in, _section_, ammunition workers' strike, - anaemia, _ancren riwle_, andrews, anglo-saxon industry, , anthropology, anti-combination act, repeal of, anti-socialist law, anti-sweating league, , apathy of the governing class, apathy of women, - , , , apprentices, factory, apprenticeship, _section_, architects, the first, arkwright, , , , artizans and machinery, select committee on, ashley, afterwards shaftesbury, lord, asses, machines worked by, assistance in craft industries by women and girls, association, _section_, _athenaeum_, _n._ attacks on the factory system, - attraction of the family, aubrey, backwardness of the factory act, bad conditions in factories, , , , bagley, sarah, baines, e., , bamford, barber knotter, the, barry, leonora, beam, the, beamers, beaming, bebel, berchta, berlin, , bermondsey, besant, mrs., betterment, bill to raise wages, , bilston, birmingham, , , trades, bishopsgate, workhouse in, black, clementina, , blackburn, , , , , society, black death, bondfield, margaret, _n._ bonwick, bookbinders, society of, boot and shoe trade, - unions, , boston, bosworth, louise, bourgeois women's movement, , bowley, a. l., bradford, bradford dale, brass work, polishing, braun, frau lily, , - , brighton, bristol, , , , , , weavers' gild of, britain, great, what she stands for, british association, bücher, bureau of labour, enquiry by, burnley weavers, burslem, butler, elizabeth, butler, josephine, button-making, cadbury, e., _n._ capitalist employer, the, - card-room operatives, , _section_, , , carpenters' company, carrying loads, , cartwright, , catholic unions, , causes of lack of organisation, , , census, chap. iii. central commission of german trade unions, central committee on women's employment, central strike fund, centralisation needed, chain-makers, board, first determination of, changes effected by industrial revolution, _section_, chapman, sydney j., charles ii., chaucer, chemicals, child labour in factories, report on, childbirth, employment after, children and machines, , exploitation of, children's clothes, employment commission, , chorley weavers, , christian trade unions, churchill, winston, cigar trade, , citizenship for women, , civil conditions, statistics of, clarke, allen, class differences and class solidarity, interest, selfishness, cleft, the, clothing trades, unions, wages in, clothworkers, clubs for working women, coal-mining, women in, cole, g. d. h., , collectors, collet, clara, , combination among rich clothiers, , of workers, committee on, committees of weavers' union, , competing unions, , competition between men and women, for employment, complexity of weavers' lists, compositors, , compositors' union, comradeship among women, confectioners' union, confectionery works, constructive measures, _section_, consumers, women as, , consumers' co-operation, co-operation with bourgeois movement to be avoided, co-operative guild, women's, copper works, cop-winding, core-making, , corporate action, women untrained for, cotton, bad, , _cotton factory times_, _n._ cotton trade, _et seq._, _section_, , - cotton weavers, _section_, , , male, cotton-weaving, courtney, janet, _n._ coventry, ribbon trade, cracker factory, strike in, cradley, - , cradley heath chain-makers, craft unions, , , - cunningham, w., d.d., _curse of the factory system_, cycle industry, darwen and ramsbottom, death-rates, of male infants, deaths of women in mine explosions, decay of hand-spinning, _section_, decline of domestic manufacture, decrease of employment in wartime, statistics of, , deductions, deficiencies, educational, defoe, daniel, delays in labour legislation, causes of, deloney, dependents on women-workers, - , - derby, , derbyshire, , _detroit free press_, development of capitalistic industry, _section_, development of women's employment, devon, devotion and self-sacrifice of women, difficulties in organising women, , , , , , _digby mysteries_, dismissal without notice, disproportion of women, distaff, the, chap. i., _section_ textiles, divergent views on factory system, division among the weavers, dock and general workers' union, dock strike, doherty, domestic workers, statistics of, , little organisation among, dorset, dover, new hampshire, strikes at, drawers, dressmakers, little organisation among, dressmaking, , , , factory, _d.-m._, , drudgery a survival, - dundee, dunlop, jocelyn, , dust-extractor, dust in rope-works, early civilisation, - early factories, conditions in, , , early manufactures, characteristics of, earning power of women, - earnings and hours enquiry, earnings in , of women, chap. vi. insufficient for health, east end workers, east lancashire amalgamated society, east london, east meon, church of, economic independence, economic section of british association, , _n._ economic self-dependence, eden, sir f., edmonton, ammunition workers at, - education by trade unions, educational deficiencies, edward vi., effects, moral, of trade unions among women, effects of the war on the employment of women, chap. vii. egotistic refinement, eight-hour leagues, elements of statistics, elizabeth, employers oppose unionism, engineering, enlightenment of women, ephemeral character of women's unions, equal chance, an, equal pay for equal work, , , , equal rates of pay for women, equality of opportunity, erdmann, dr., essex, _n._ exclusion of women, _section_, from local governing bodies, exeter, justices of, expansion of trade, experience in sorting wool, fachverein der mäntelnäherinnen, factory, the, _section_, factory act, the first, of , , of , , , , , , , prejudice against the, what it has done, _section_, factory system, beginning of, , disliked, fall of prices in weaving, , , fall river, strike at, - family, attraction of the, women working in the, fatigue, federation of trade unions, american, , , felkin, female industrial association, female membership of trade unions, feminist movement, ferrier, dr., fielden, john, , file cutlery, fines, unfair, - , - finishing goods, fire-escapes, five hours' spell, flax, , , industry, strike in the, fly-shuttle, invention of, folklore ceremonies, food trades, frame-work knitting, _section_, free unions, german, , freedom of employment, unrestricted, frigga's distaff or rock, fruit-picking, fuegians, future organisation of women, _section_, garment workers, gaskell, mrs., gaskell, p., _n._, , , , , gas-workers' and general labourers' union, , _n._ general federation of trade unions, _gentlemen's magazine_, german statistical year-book, germany, women's unions in, _section_, girls untrained, girl-workers, glasgow, , , spinners, glossop, gloucester, gloucestershire, gnauck-kühne, elizabeth, , - , _n._ goldmark, josephine, governing class, , , graham, grand general union, grand national union, grant, p., greenwood, arthur, greig, mrs. billington, grey or franciscan friars, guest, guild, women's co-operative, - habit of association, lack of, half-pay apprentices, halifax, hamilton, a., hammond, j. l. and b, _n._ hand-loom weavers, committee on, hand-loom weaver's wife, _section_, hand-wheels thrown aside, hargreaves, j., , haslam, j., , , hat and cap workers, healds, hebden bridge, henley, walter of, henry vii., accounts of, _henry viii._, hicks, mrs. amie, , , hicks, margaretta, hirsch-duncker unions, holda or holla, hollow-ware workers, strike of, - home, work in the, home workers' union, horrocks, hostility of employers to unions, , , hotel servants and waitresses, houldsworth, hours of work, - , , housewife preparing wool, , - position of the, housing in towns, huddersfield, hull, , husbandry, servants in, _section_, hutchins, b. l., _n._, _n._ hyde, ideals of victorian era, - ignorance of domestic work, importation of silk, improvements in working conditions, , increase of women in metal trades, increase of women-workers in germany, industrial change, effects of, revolution, chap. ii. industrial workers of the world, "industry in bonds," inequality of wages, influence of unions on conditions, injury from prolonged standing, , insanitary conditions in confectioners' workrooms, inspection of factories impossible for women, inspectors, factory, women appointed as, instability of status, insurance act, , , , , , , , interdenominational unions, interests, interlocking of, "interkonfessionelle" unions, international association for labour legislation, international typographical union, international workers' congress, inventions, ipswich, christ's hospital at, ireland, irons on apprentices, ironworks, a fifteenth-century, isolation of women, - jacquard's loom, jam-making, james, clara, , james, john, _n._ james, william, jones, lloyd, kaffirs, kamtchatdals, kay, kendal, kettering, king, mr., knights of labour, , knitting-machine, _korrespondenzblatt_, labour, an important factor in production, labour commission, , , , , , labour league, women's, , labour legislation, weakness of and delays in, labour movement, labourers, statute of, lacquering, lancashire, , , , , cotton spinners of, lapsley, lassalle, laundresses, union of, laundry workers' international union, law, alice, lawrence, mass., lead mines, women in, poisoning, lee, inventor of knitting-machine, leeds, , , , leicester, , leland's _itinerary_, lenience of magistrate, levant company, lighting of work-places, , linen and jute, , list prices, , , liverpool, locked in factory, - lombe, john, london, , milliners, trades council, london weavers, , women's trades council, loom, the, low wages of women, consolation for, lowell, female labour reform association at, strikes at, union, lye, , lytton, lady constance, macarthur, mary, xv, macclesfield, macdonald, j. r., _n._ machine work, machinery and skill, - and women's employment, - mackworth, sir h., maladjustment and readjustment, _section_, male weavers' union, - malingering, xv, malmesbury abbey, - manchester, , , , , , , , , , societies, - spinners, women's trade union council, women's war interests committee, , mantoux, , manufactures and commerce, select committee on, markham, gervase, marriage, _section_, and organisation, decreasing prospect of, , prospect of, its effects on young men and women, , - married women's work, - marx, karl, mary, queen, match factories, workers, makers' union, match-girls' strike, - material progress, , maternity benefit, , _n._ and child welfare, care of, matheson, m. c., _n._ matthews, miss, mechanical power, - progress, mellor, men and women, division of work between, numbers of, in cotton spinning, organised together, , metal trades, increase of women's employment in, metal-cutting, middle-class women's movement, _section_, _mines_, an _account of_, minimum, principle of the, - requirements, monopoly of trade in clothing, moral atmosphere of factories, effects of unionism, mortality, , movement of women's wages, _section_, mule-spinning, - mundella, a. j., _n._ munitions work, - national federation of women workers, , , _section_, , _nature of woman_, neath, needlewomen, nelson and district weavers' association, _n._ new demand for women's labour, _section_, new england cotton mills, new spirit among women, _section_, new unionism, , , new york, , nightingale, florence, , non-textile trades, - industrial revolution in, _section_, nordverein der berliner arbeiterinnen, northampton, n.e. lancashire amalgamated society, norwich, , oakeshott, g., _n._ oastler, thomas, occupational statistics, - oldham, and district, opposition of landowners to liberals, to factory legislation, - to women's employment, , , , oppression by employers, ordinances of worcester, organisation, early efforts at, _section_, in different trades, of german unions, - of women, need for, , of women, together with men, of young persons, difficulty of, outlook, the, _section_, overcrowding in towns, overstrain, in cotton industry, , , overtime, , owen, robert, , , , , padiham, , paper and stationery, paper-sorting or overlooking, , paris, paterson, emma, - pay-stewards, pearson, karl, , peel, the elder, peel's committee ( ), pen trade, percival, dr. thomas, , personality in union officials, petition against importation of silk, , of weavers, philanthropy, , phosphorus, white, prohibition of, phossy jaw, picks, pictet, piece rates, - piecers to replace spinners, women as, piers plowman, pin manufacture, pittsburgh, u.s.a., plague, the, plated ware trade, policy, a coherent, polish women weavers, strike of, polynesians, poor law, its effect on wages, of elizabeth, possibilities of modern industry, of state control, _section_, potential changes of the industrial revolution, _section_, potteries, potters, power sewing-machine, power-loom, introduction of the, premature employment, effects of, preparing material, present position of the woman worker, _section_, press-work, preston, primitive industries, , printing, , professional women, scope for, _n._ professions for women, prohibition to combine, of women's employment, proportion of women in unions, prosperity of spinners, protective and provident league, - psychological difficulties in organising women, public spirit, lack of, queen, the, radcliffe society, radcliffe, william, rag-cutting, ramsay, isle of man, reaction in war-time, reciprocal movement between spinners and weavers, reed, reeling, reforms started by industrial employers, registrar-general, , relative wages of men and women, - replacement of men by women, - , , results the war may have, _section_, richards, factory inspector, rights and privileges of women, ring-room doffers, ring-spinners, ring-winders, ring-winding, roberts, lewis, rock, maria, rogers, thorold, , rope-makers, sadler, m. t., st. crispin, daughters of, , san francisco, , sanitary conditions in non-textile trades, sanitation in town and country, , schreiner, olive, schultze-gävernitz, , screw manufactories, seamstresses, segregation of women from affairs, sewing women, shaftesbury, lord, , shakespeare quoted, , _n._ shann, g., _n._ sheffield, plated ware trade, shifting of industrial processes, shirt-making, shock of war, _section_, shop assistants' union, , shortage of women's labour, shorter hours, effects of, movement for, - shuttleworth accounts, shyness of women, sick benefit, , , sick visitors, , sickness benefit claims, committee on, xv silk, _section_, simcox, edith, sisterhood, the, , _n._ slater, g., _n._ small-ware weavers, snowden, keighley, _n._ soap, "social and economic history," social democratic party, _social england_, social influences, , , social strata in the factory, socialism and women, - solidarity between men and women, sorting clothes in laundries, southey, "spear-half," speeding up, - , , spell of work, "spindle-half," spinning, a family occupation, by young women, for the unemployed, jennies, , machine invented by hargreaves, parties, squire, miss rose, stages in the woman's career, standard of life in lancashire, , , , of immigrants, standing, effects of persistent, , statistics of domestic workers, , of german women in unions, of textile workers, of unemployment in war-time, , of wages, chap. vi. of women in unions, of women's life and employment, chap. iii. statutory rights of workers, , stay-making, steam laundry workers, steam power, introduction of, stockport, , , strike at, strain of modern industry, _section_, of work, , strike-breakers, strikes, _see various industries_ in , struggle of the crafts, stumpe, suffolk clothiers, petition of, surats, , surplus of women, _section_, survival of previous standards and conditions, _section_, swabia, syndicalism, tailoresses, increase of, union of, tailoring, , tailors, amalgamated society of, tapestry, tayler, dr. l., taylor, cooke, the elder, , , _n._ temple, sir william, textile work, as adjunct to farming, , societies, workers, workers, statistics of, workers, wages of, textiles, _section_, theodore, st., thüringen, _times_, the, , timidity of social legislation, timmins, s., tobacco, workers in, toynbee hall, tracey, anna, trade boards act, , , , , , , , , , , trade union congress, , , , traill's _social england_, transformation of some womanly trades, - _treasure of traffike_, truck act, - , in germany, twisters, typographical societies, umbrella sewers' union, underclothing, underground, women working, unemployment and short time, unemployment among women in war-time, - unions, women in, chaps. iv. and iv.a u.s.a., labour commission of, unorganised trades, , unorganised workers, movement among, _section_, , unsuitable work, , unwin, professor, , , , upholsterers, ure, , variety of conditions, , ventilation, verein zur vertretung der interessen der arbeiterinnen, victimisation, , , , , wage census, , chap. vi. wage contract, wages in seventeenth century, in miscellaneous trades, - of women, chap. vi. raised in low-class industries, wagner, r., quoted, war, effects of, on employment of women, chap. vii. war, the, results it may have, _section_, warden, warehouse work, warner, townsend, warping, watch-making, water-power, weavers' amalgamation, , , weavers become clothiers, become wage-earners, weavers' committees, - , company, gild, secretaries, - , , union, , , weavers in scotland, general association of, of edinburgh, weaving as a woman's trade, _section_, weaving, operation of, - webb's _history of trade unionism_, _n._ weft, wells, h. g., west riding fancy union, what is and what might be, what the factory act has done, _section_, wider views of union officials, widows, employment of, - carry on husbands' business, wigan, wilson, mrs. c. m., _n._ wiltshire, , winders, , , _winter's tale_, winterton, witch, the, woman wage-earner, _section_, , and chap. vi. "women and the trades," women bakers, carders, brewers, spinners, workers of wool, etc., bookbinders, chain-makers, women exempt from craft restriction, women, an important factor in industry, as individual earners, as subordinate helpers, women factory inspectors, xiv, , , , - appointment of, opposed, reinforcement of, needed, xvi women in an inferior position, in industrial transition, in the great industry, women only, unions of, , , - women weavers displacing men, women's employment, central committee on, women's movement and the labour movement, women's rights party in germany, women's secretariat in german commission of trade unions, women's trade union league, , _section_, , women's trade union league in america, women's wages, chap. vi. wood, g. h., wool and worsted, wool, _section textiles_, woollen and clothing trades, _section_, work done by women, three classes of, work done for wages outside the home, , workers' educational association, workers' union, workrooms for unemployed women, workshop and factory, wages in, compared, _worsted, history of_, _n._ wright, thomas, , wyatt, paul, yarn, demand for, , york, yorkshire, , women, young, arthur, , zimmern, a. e., _n._ the end _printed by_ r. & r. clark, limited, _edinburgh_. footnotes: [ ] _i.e._ cots or cottages. [ ] departmental committee on sickness benefit claims, evidence , bondfield. [ ] _ibid._ , bondfield. [ ] edw. iii. c. , quoted in cunningham's _growth of industry and commerce_, i. _n._ ( th ed.). [ ] see a volume of tracts at the british museum numbered , c. . [ ] s.p. dom. eliz. , vol. . reprinted in _english economic history_, bland, brown and tanney, p. . [ ] cf. a report of a workhouse in (catalogued as . m. . in the brit. mus. library), where ten poor women were employed to teach the children to spin. [ ] _tour in east of england_, vol. ii. pp. , . i am indebted to mrs. c. m. wilson for drawing my attention to these passages and for suggesting the remarks immediately following. [ ] defoe in his _plan of english commerce_ says that after the great plague in france and the peace in spain the run for goods was so great in england, and the prices so high that poor women in essex could earn s. or s. d. a day by spinning, and the farmers could hardly get dairymaids. this was, however, only for a time; demand slackened, and the spinners were reduced to misery. [ ] james, _history of worsted_, p. . this pleasant custom may remind us of lines in shakespeare's _twelfth night_, i. : "the spinsters and the knitters in the sun and the free maids that weave their thread with bones." [ ] philip gaskell, who was, however, so prejudiced against the factory system that his views must be taken with caution, says that the wives of manufacturers who had risen from poverty to affluence were "an epitome of everything that is odious in manners," their only redeeming point being a profuse hospitality, which however, grant attributes to "a sense of vain-glory."--_manufacturing population_, p. . [ ] _growth of english industry and commerce_, _modern times_, p. (ed. ). [ ] _history of cotton manufacture_, p. . [ ] factory inspector's report dated august , quoted in fielden's _curse of the factory system_, , p. . [ ] _country round manchester_, p. . compare mrs. gaskell's descriptions in _mary barton_, fifty years later, for a very similar account. [ ] _athenaeum_, august (probably ), quoted in w. c. taylor, _factories and the factory system_, pp. , , london, . [ ] l. braun, _die frauenfrage_, p. . cf. e. gnauck-kühne, _die arbeiterinnenfrage_ . [ ] _woman and labour_, p. . [ ] registrar-general's report for , p. xxxvii. [ ] "prospects of marriage for women," by clara collet, _nineteenth century_, april , reprinted in _educated working women_, p. s. king, . [ ] the servant-keeping class often shows a tendency to regard social questions mainly from the point of view of maintaining the supply of domestic servants. [ ] see appendix, p. . [ ] webb, _history of trade unionism_, pp. - . [ ] _parliamentary papers_, , viii. _qq._ , - . [ ] "select committee on manufactures," _parliamentary papers_, , vol. vi. p. , _q._ - . [ ] _rules of the nelson and district power-loom weavers' association_, , p. , "advice to members, etc." [ ] report of n.c. amalgamation, june . [ ] evidence is not unanimous on this point. [ ] report of s.e. lancashire provincial association, dec. . [ ] see _women in the printing trade_ (edited by j. r. macdonald) for an excellent study of the whole circumstances and conditions of the trade. [ ] g. oakeshott, "women in the cigar trade in london," in the _economic journal_, , p. . [ ] second report of the w.t.u.l. [ ] in mr. keighley snowden's words, from which this account is taken (_daily citizen_, , xi. ): "if foreign competition at last threatens us, it is in consequence of this heartless folly." [ ] space does not permit us to give a full account of the efforts for co-operative action for social purposes made by working women at this period, or of the interesting study of social conditions made by leonora barry, the investigator of women's work under the knights of labour. see report on women's unions, chapter iva. [ ] quoted in the _cotton factory times_, september , . [ ] report of the strike of textile workers in lawrence, mass., p. . [ ] this chapter was written before the outbreak of war. [ ] it is a curious reflection on the tardiness of our government statistical work, that figures for german trade unions are here actually accessible for a more recent date than those of english unions. [written early in .] [ ] a. erdmann, _church and trade union in germany_, . [ ] report of gas-workers' and general labourers' association, march . [ ] this chapter was written before the outbreak of war. [ ] many worthy folk to this day even show by the use of the phrase "_giving_ employment" that they suppose themselves to be conferring a benefit on persons who work for them, irrespective of wages paid, and it is unlikely that our ancestors were more enlightened on this point than ourselves. [ ] g. slater, _english peasantry and the enclosure of common fields_, constable, , p. . compare hammond, j. l. and b, _the village labourer_, chap. v. [ ] see, _e.g._, the cases mentioned in the factory inspectors' report for , p. , and compare the case reported by miss vines in the report for , p. . in a christmas-card factory the women were being employed two days a week from to , three days a week from a.m. to p.m., and saturdays to . "the whole staff of workers and foremen looked absolutely worn out." [ ] _school child in industry_, by a. greenwood, p. . workers' educational association, manchester, price d. [ ] see the _englishwoman_ for june . [ ] the work of a "big piecer" is practically identical with that of a spinner, only that responsibility rests with the latter. [ ] see cadbury matheson and shann, _women's work and wages_, p. ; macdonald, _women in the printing trades_, p. . [ ] see in chapter iva. pp. - . frau lily braun's views on the subject. [ ] see an article by the present writer in the _englishwoman_, april . [ ] northern counties amalgamation of weavers, etc. report for july . [ ] i owe the suggestion of a "cleft" (_spalte_) in the woman-worker's career to madame e. gnauck-kühne, who developed it in her book, _die deutsche frau_. compare "statistics of women's life and employment," _journal of the statistical society_, . [ ] earnings and hours enquiry: textile industries, cd. , ; clothing trades, cd. , . [ ] raised to - / d. on th july . [ ] _elements of statistics_, nd edition, pp. , , and . [ ] , , out of a total of , , . [ ] _women's industrial news_, july , p. ; compare _the war, women and unemployment_, published by the fabian society. [ ] this chapter was prepared during the first year and the early part of the second year of war. it is necessarily incomplete, as war is still raging; but it is hoped that a brief summary of the position of women-workers in war time, and of the expedients adopted to ease and improve it, may not be without interest. [ ] article by g. h. carter, _economic journal_, march ; see also notes in the _women's trades union league review_, january . [ ] article by jas. haslam, _englishwoman_, march , and information given privately. [ ] see article by c. black in the _common cause_, february , . [ ] _westminster gazette_, october , . [ ] see a letter by mr. a. j. mundella, l.c.c., in the _school child_ for december . [ ] _new statesman_, november , . [ ] _report on outlets for labour after the war_, british association, section f., manchester, . [ ] see _the national care of maternity_, by margaret bondfield, published by the women's co-operative guild. the proposals include the administration of maternity benefit by the public health authorities in lieu of the approved societies, the raising of maternity benefit to £ , and other changes. [ ] b. kirkman gray, _history of philanthropy_. [ ] _daily news and leader_, june , . it may be remarked here parenthetically, though not strictly germane to the subject, that not only the local authorities, but the departments, even the war office itself, might utilise the services of professional women more freely than they do, with great advantage to themselves. women have among other things a very sharp eye for the detection of fraud and corruption. it was to the initiative and energy of one woman that the greatest improvements in the organisation of the army hospital service in the nineteenth century were due. it is admitted that no change in the administration of the factory department has been so fruitful for good as the appointment of women factory inspectors. why, then, are not professional women called in to aid in the organisation of commissariat, the inspection of clothing stores, the "housekeeping" of the army, especially in the case of the needs of raw recruits? incalculable waste, diversified here and there by actual lack of food, is reported from the camps. the help of expert women might here be of enormous value, and not only avoid waste, but ensure the provision of more wholesome food and more comfortable clothing. some valuable hints on this subject are to be derived from an article by mrs. janet courtney in the _fortnightly review_, february , "the war and women's employment." [ ] _the war and democracy._ introduction by a. e. zimmern, p. . london, . [ ] it should be observed that the first proprietors of some cotton mills, alarmed by the consequences of obliging their servants to work incessantly, have shut up their mills in the night. [ ] a certain manufacturer of worsted threatened a sister of ours, whom he employed, that he would send all his jersey to be spun at the mill; and further insulted her with the pretended superiority of that work. she having more spirit than discretion, stirred up the sisterhood, and they stirred up all the men they could influence (not a few) to go and destroy the mills erected in and near leicester, and this is the origin of the late riots there. [ ] it is, however, important to mention that cotton mills are materially improved of late years in most of these particulars, and that in some mills they exist in a much less degree than others, which shows them not to be essential and inherent. [ ] it is a curious circumstance, and one which amply merits attentive consideration, that the fecundity of females employed in manufactories seems to be considerably diminished by their occupation and habits; for not only are their families generally smaller than those of agricultural labourers, but their children are born at more distant intervals. thus the average interval which elapses between the birth of each child in the former case is two years and one month, as we have found upon minute enquiry, while, in country districts, we believe, it seldom exceeds eighteen months. the causes of these facts we have at present no space to enlarge upon. [ ] the extracts are slightly compressed in transcription. [ ] the barber knotter is a small appliance worn on the hand to assist the work of winding. books on social questions maternity letters from working women _collected by the women's co-operative guild_ with a preface by the rt. hon. herbert samuel, m.p. this book is the outcome of an extensive enquiry into the conditions of motherhood among the working-classes. here working women tell their own stories, and their letters form an impressive indication of the urgency of the problem, especially at the present time, when the preservation of the infant life of the nation is of the utmost importance. _ s. d. net_ the future of the women's movement by mrs. h. m. swanwick, m.a. with an introduction by mrs. fawcett _ s. d. net_ "mrs. swanwick's exposition of the claims of women is clear, bright, forcible, well-informed and fairly reasoned. it is more likely to persuade doubters than any other statement that has yet appeared."--mr. j. a. hobson in the _manchester guardian_. married women's work _being the report of an enquiry undertaken by the women's industrial council_ edited by clementina black this volume contains the report of an investigation organized by the women's industrial council, into the work for money of wives and widows. the facts have been collected mainly by means of personal visits, and the various sections have been written by different persons, quite independently. the aggregate result is a picture, unquestionably faithful, of life as led in thousands of working-class homes in this country. round about a pound a week by mrs. pember reeves _ s. d. net_ "if any one wants to know how the poor live to-day, he will find it in mrs. pember reeves' little book. here there is no sensation, no melodrama, no bitter cry. it is not outcast london that we are shown, but ordinary london, resolutely respectable; not 'the submerged tenth,' but somewhere about the half."--_nation._ livelihood and poverty _a study in the economic conditions of working-class households in northampton, warrington, stanley and reading_ by a. l. bowley, sc.d., and a. r. burnett-hurst, b.sc. with an introduction by r. h. tawney, b.a. _ s. d. net_ "had this book appeared at any other time than in the midst of a great european war one can well imagine the sensation that it would have created, and rightly created. every newspaper would have had leading articles upon it, and different schools of thought would greedily have seized upon it and used its facts to draw their own particular moral from the conditions of poverty and low wages revealed in such well-known towns as reading, warrington and northampton."--_westminster gazette._ the feeding of school children by m. e. bulkley _ s. d. net_ "the first comprehensive description of one of the most momentous social experiments of modern times."--_economic review._ "an admirable statement of the history and present position of the problem."--_new statesman._ studies in the minimum wage _minimum rates in the chain-making industry_ by r. h. tawney, b.a. director of the "ratan tata foundation," university of london _ s. d. net_ _minimum rates in the tailoring industry_ by r. h. tawney, b.a. _ s. d. net_ toynbee hall and the english settlement movement by dr. werner picht _ s. d. net_ the first scientific account--historical and critical--of the english settlement movement, with special reference to the "mother of settlements," toynbee hall. an attempt is made to explain the special difficulties of the movement, which are increasingly felt now, after thirty years of existence, and to suggest how they might be overcome. details of each settlement in the united kingdom are given in an appendix. g. bell & sons, ltd. york house, portugal street, london, w.c. the dwelling-place of light by winston churchill volume . chapter i in this modern industrial civilization of which we are sometimes wont to boast, a certain glacier-like process may be observed. the bewildered, the helpless--and there are many--are torn from the parent rock, crushed, rolled smooth, and left stranded in strange places. thus was edward bumpus severed and rolled from the ancestral ledge, from the firm granite of seemingly stable and lasting things, into shifting shale; surrounded by fragments of cliffs from distant lands he had never seen. thus, at five and fifty, he found himself gate-keeper of the leviathan chippering mill in the city of hampton. that the polyglot, smoky settlement sprawling on both sides of an historic river should be a part of his native new england seemed at times to be a hideous dream; nor could he comprehend what had happened to him, and to the world of order and standards and religious sanctions into which he had been born. his had been a life of relinquishments. for a long time he had clung to the institution he had been taught to believe was the rock of ages, the congregational church, finally to abandon it; even that assuming a form fantastic and unreal, as embodied in the edifice three blocks distant from fillmore street which he had attended for a brief time, some ten years before, after his arrival in hampton. the building, indeed, was symbolic of a decadent and bewildered puritanism in its pathetic attempt to keep abreast with the age, to compromise with anarchy, merely achieving a nondescript medley of rounded, knob-like towers covered with mulberry-stained shingles. and the minister was sensational and dramatic. he looked like an actor, he aroused in edward bumpus an inherent prejudice that condemned the stage. half a block from this tabernacle stood a roman catholic church, prosperous, brazen, serene, flaunting an eternal permanence amidst the chaos which had succeeded permanence! there were, to be sure, other protestant churches where edward bumpus and his wife might have gone. one in particular, which he passed on his way to the mill, with its terraced steeple and classic facade, preserved all the outward semblance of the old order that once had seemed so enduring and secure. he hesitated to join the decorous and dwindling congregation,--the remains of a social stratum from which he had been pried loose; and--more irony--this street, called warren, of arching elms and white-gabled houses, was now the abiding place of those prosperous irish who had moved thither from the tenements and ruled the city. on just such a street in the once thriving new england village of dolton had edward been born. in dolton bumpus was once a name of names, rooted there since the seventeenth century, and if you had cared to listen he would have told you, in a dialect precise but colloquial, the history of a family that by right of priority and service should have been destined to inherit the land, but whose descendants were preserved to see it delivered to the alien. the god of cotton mather and jonathan edwards had been tried in the balance and found wanting. edward could never understand this; or why the universe, so long static and immutable, had suddenly begun to move. he had always been prudent, but in spite of youthful "advantages," of an education, so called, from a sectarian college on a hill, he had never been taught that, while prudence may prosper in a static world, it is a futile virtue in a dynamic one. experience even had been powerless to impress this upon him. for more than twenty years after leaving college he had clung to a clerkship in a dolton mercantile establishment before he felt justified in marrying hannah, the daughter of elmer wench, when the mercantile establishment amalgamated with a rival--and edward's services were no longer required. during the succession of precarious places with decreasing salaries he had subsequently held a terrified sense of economic pressure had gradually crept over him, presently growing strong enough, after two girls had arrived, to compel the abridgment of the family ....it would be painful to record in detail the cracking-off process, the slipping into shale, the rolling, the ending up in hampton, where edward had now for some dozen years been keeper of one of the gates in the frowning brick wall bordering the canal,--a position obtained for him by a compassionate but not too prudent childhood friend who had risen in life and knew the agent of the chippering mill, mr. claude ditmar. thus had virtue failed to hold its own. one might have thought in all these years he had sat within the gates staring at the brick row of the company's boarding houses on the opposite bank of the canal that reflection might have brought a certain degree of enlightenment. it was not so. the fog of edward's bewilderment never cleared, and the unformed question was ever clamouring for an answer--how had it happened? job's cry. how had it happened to an honest and virtuous man, the days of whose forebears had been long in the land which the lord their god had given them? inherently american, though lacking the saving quality of push that had been the making of men like ditmar, he never ceased to regard with resentment and distrust the hordes of foreigners trooping between the pillars, though he refrained from expressing these sentiments in public; a bent, broad shouldered, silent man of that unmistakable physiognomy which, in the seventeenth century, almost wholly deserted the old england for the new. the ancestral features were there, the lips--covered by a grizzled moustache moulded for the precise formation that emphasizes such syllables as el, the hooked nose and sallow cheeks, the grizzled brows and grey eyes drawn down at the corners. but for all its ancestral strength of feature, it was a face from which will had been extracted, and lacked the fire and fanaticism, the indomitable hardness it should have proclaimed, and which have been so characteristically embodied in mr. st. gaudens's statue of the puritan. his clothes were slightly shabby, but always neat. little as one might have guessed it, however, what may be called a certain transmuted enthusiasm was alive in him. he had a hobby almost amounting to an obsession, not uncommon amongst americans who have slipped downward in the social scale. it was the bumpus family in america. he collected documents about his ancestors and relations, he wrote letters with a fine, painful penmanship on a ruled block he bought at hartshorne's drug store to distant bumpuses in kansas and illinois and michigan, common descendants of ebenezer, the original immigrant, of dolton. many of these western kinsmen answered: not so the magisterial bumpus who lived in boston on the water side of beacon, whom likewise he had ventured to address,--to the indignation and disgust of his elder daughter, janet. "why are you so proud of ebenezer?" she demanded once, scornfully. "why? aren't we descended from him?" "how many generations?" "seven," said edward, promptly, emphasizing the last syllable. janet was quick at figures. she made a mental calculation. "well, you've got one hundred and twenty-seven other ancestors of ebenezer's time, haven't you?" edward was a little surprised. he had never thought of this, but his ardour for ebenezer remained undampened. genealogy--his own--had become his religion, and instead of going to church he spent his sunday mornings poring over papers of various degrees of discolouration, making careful notes on the ruled block. this consciousness of his descent from good american stock that had somehow been deprived of its heritage, while a grievance to him, was also a comfort. it had a compensating side, in spite of the lack of sympathy of his daughters and his wife. hannah bumpus took the situation more grimly: she was a logical projection in a new environment of the religious fatalism of ancestors whose god was a god of vengeance. she did not concern herself as to what all this vengeance was about; life was a trap into which all mortals walked sooner or later, and her particular trap had a treadmill,--a round of household duties she kept whirling with an energy that might have made their fortunes if she had been the head of the family. it is bad to be a fatalist unless one has an incontrovertible belief in one's destiny,--which hannah had not. but she kept the little flat with its worn furniture,--which had known so many journeys--as clean as a merchant ship of old salem, and when it was scoured and dusted to her satisfaction she would sally forth to bonnaccossi's grocery and provision store on the corner to do her bargaining in competition with the italian housewives of the neighborhood. she was wont, indeed, to pause outside for a moment, her quick eye encompassing the coloured prints of red and yellow jellies cast in rounded moulds, decked with slices of orange, the gaudy boxes of cereals and buckwheat flour, the "brookfield" eggs in packages. significant, this modern package system, of an era of flats with little storage space. she took in at a glance the blue lettered placard announcing the current price of butterine, and walked around to the other side of the store, on holmes street, where the beef and bacon hung, where the sidewalk stands were filled, in the autumn, with cranberries, apples, cabbages, and spinach. with little outer complaint she had adapted herself to the constantly lowering levels to which her husband had dropped, and if she hoped that in fillmore street they had reached bottom, she did not say so. her unbetrayed regret was for the loss of what she would have called "respectability"; and the giving up, long ago, in the little city which had been their home, of the servant girl had been the first wrench. until they came to hampton they had always lived in houses, and her adaptation to a flat had been hard--a flat without a parlour. hannah bumpus regarded a parlour as necessary to a respectable family as a wedding ring to a virtuous woman. janet and lise would be growing up, there would be young men, and no place to see them save the sidewalks. the fear that haunted her came true, and she never was reconciled. the two girls went to the public schools, and afterwards, inevitably, to work, and it seemed to be a part of her punishment for the sins of her forefathers that she had no more control over them than if they had been boarders; while she looked on helplessly, they did what they pleased; janet, whom she never understood, was almost as much a source of apprehension as lise, who became part and parcel of all hannah deemed reprehensible in this new america which she refused to recognize and acknowledge as her own country. to send them through the public schools had been a struggle. hannah used to lie awake nights wondering what would happen if edward became sick. it worried her that they never saved any money: try as she would to cut the expenses down, there was a limit of decency; new england thrift, hitherto justly celebrated, was put to shame by that which the foreigners displayed, and which would have delighted the souls of gentlemen of the manchester school. every once in a while there rose up before her fabulous instances of this thrift, of italians and jews who, ignorant emigrants, had entered the mills only a few years before they, the bumpuses, had come to hampton, and were now independent property owners. still rankling in hannah's memory was a day when lise had returned from school, dark and mutinous, with a tale of such a family. one of the younger children was a classmate. "they live on jordan street in a house, and laura has roller skates. i don't see why i can't." this was one of the occasions on which hannah had given vent to her indignation. lise was fourteen. her open rebellion was less annoying than janet's silent reproach, but at least she had something to take hold of. "well, lise," she said, shifting the saucepan to another part of the stove, "i guess if your father and i had put both you girls in the mills and crowded into one room and cooked in a corner, and lived on onions and macaroni, and put four boarders each in the other rooms, i guess we could have had a house, too. we can start in right now, if you're willing." but lise had only looked darker. "i don't see why father can't make money--other men do." "isn't he working as hard as he can to send you to school, and give you a chance?" "i don't want that kind of a chance. there's sadie howard at school--she don't have to work. she liked me before she found out where i lived..." there was an element of selfishness in hannah's mania for keeping busy, for doing all their housework and cooking herself. she could not bear to have her daughters interfere; perhaps she did not want to give herself time to think. her affection for edward, such as it was, her loyalty to him, was the logical result of a conviction ingrained in early youth that marriage was an indissoluble bond; a point of views once having a religious sanction, no less powerful now that--all unconsciously--it had deteriorated into a superstition. hannah, being a fatalist, was not religious. the beliefs of other days, when she had donned her best dress and gone to church on sundays, had simply lapsed and left--habits. no new beliefs had taken their place.... even after janet and lise had gone to work the household never seemed to gain that margin of safety for which hannah yearned. always, when they were on the verge of putting something by, some untoward need or accident seemed to arise on purpose to swallow it up: edward, for instance, had been forced to buy a new overcoat, the linoleum on the dining-room floor must be renewed, and lise had had a spell of sickness, losing her position in a flower shop. afterwards, when she became a saleslady in the bagatelle, that flamboyant department store in faber street, she earned four dollars and a half a week. two of these were supposed to go into the common fund, but there were clothes to buy; lise loved finery, and hannah had not every week the heart to insist. even when, on an occasional saturday night the girl somewhat consciously and defiantly flung down the money on the dining-room table she pretended not to notice it. but janet, who was earning six dollars as a stenographer in the office of the chippering mill, regularly gave half of hers. the girls could have made more money as operatives, but strangely enough in the bumpus family social hopes were not yet extinct. sharply, rudely, the cold stillness of the winter mornings was broken by agitating waves of sound, penetrating the souls of sleepers. janet would stir, her mind still lingering on some dream, soon to fade into the inexpressible, in which she had been near to the fulfilment of a heart's desire. each morning, as the clamour grew louder, there was an interval of bewilderment, of revulsion, until the realization came of mill bells swinging in high cupolas above the river,--one rousing another. she could even distinguish the bells: the deep-toned, penetrating one belonged to the patuxent mill, over on the west side, while the arundel had a high, ominous reverberation like a fire bell. when at last the clangings had ceased she would lie listening to the overtones throbbing in the air, high and low, high and low; lie shrinking, awaiting the second summons that never failed to terrify, the siren of the chippering mill,--to her the cry of an insistent, hungry monster demanding its daily food, the symbol of a stern, ugly, and unrelenting necessity. beside her in the bed she could feel the soft body of her younger sister cuddling up to her in fright. in such rare moments as this her heart melted towards lise, and she would fling a protecting arm about her. a sense of lise's need of protection invaded her, a sharp conviction, like a pang, that lise was destined to wander: janet was never so conscious of the feeling as in this dark hour, though it came to her at other times, when they were not quarreling. quarreling seemed to be the normal reaction between them. it was janet, presently, who would get up, shivering, close the window, and light the gas, revealing the room which the two girls shared together. against the middle of one wall was the bed, opposite this a travel-dented walnut bureau with a marble top, with an oval mirror into which were stuck numerous magazine portraits of the masculine and feminine talent adorning the american stage, a preponderance of the music hall variety. there were pictures of other artists whom the recondite would have recognized as "movie" stars, amazing yet veridic stories of whose wealth lise read in the daily press: all possessed limousines--an infallible proof, to lise, of the measure of artistic greatness. between one of these movie millionaires and an ex-legitimate lady who now found vaudeville profitable was wedged the likeness of a popular idol whose connection with the footlights would doubtless be contingent upon a triumphant acquittal at the hands of a jury of her countrymen, and whose trial for murder, in chicago, was chronicled daily in thousands of newspapers and followed by lise with breathless interest and sympathy. she was wont to stare at this lady while dressing and exclaim:--"say, i hope they put it all over that district attorney!" to such sentiments, though deeply felt by her sister, janet remained cold, though she was, as will be seen, capable of enthusiasms. lise was a truer daughter of her time and country in that she had the national contempt for law, was imbued with the american hero-worship of criminals that caused the bombardment of cora wellman's jail with candy, fruit and flowers and impassioned letters. janet recalled there had been others before mrs. wellman, caught within the meshes of the law, who had incited in her sister a similar partisanship. it was lise who had given the note of ornamentation to the bedroom. against the cheap faded lilac and gold wall-paper were tacked photo-engravings that had taken the younger sister's fancy: a young man and woman, clad in scanty bathing suits, seated side by side in a careening sail boat,--the work of a popular illustrator whose manly and womanly "types" had become national ideals. there were other drawings, if not all by the same hand, at least by the same school; one, sketched in bold strokes, of a dinner party in a stately neo-classic dining-room, the table laden with flowers and silver, the bare-throated women with jewels. a more critical eye than lise's, gazing upon this portrayal of the valhalla of success, might have detected in the young men, immaculate in evening dress, a certain effort to feel at home, to converse naturally, which their square jaws and square shoulders belied. this was no doubt the fault of the artist's models, who had failed to live up to the part. at any rate, the sight of these young gods of leisure, the contemplation of the stolid butler and plush footmen in the background never failed to make lise's heart beat faster. on the marble of the bureau amidst a litter of toilet articles, and bought by lise for a quarter at the bagatelle bargain counter, was an oval photograph frame from which the silver wash had begun to rub off, and the band of purple velvet inside the metal had whitened. the frame always contained the current object of lise's affections, though the exhibits--as janet said--were subject to change without notice. the adonis who now reigned had black hair cut in the prevailing hampton fashion, very long in front and hanging down over his eyes like a scottish terrier's; very long behind, too, but ending suddenly, shaved in a careful curve at the neck and around the ears. it had almost the appearance of a japanese wig. the manly beauty of mr. max wylie was of the lantern-jawed order, and in his photograph he conveyed the astonished and pained air of one who has been suddenly seized by an invisible officer of the law from behind. this effect, one presently perceived, was due to the high, stiff collar, the "torture brand," janet called it, when she and her sister were engaged in one of their frequent controversies about life in general: the obvious retort to this remark, which lise never failed to make, was that janet could boast of no beaux at all. it is only fair to add that the photograph scarcely did mr. wylie justice. in real life he did not wear the collar, he was free and easy in his manners, sure of his powers of conquest. as lise observed, he had made a home-run with her at slattery's riverside park. "sadie hartmann was sure sore when i tangoed off with him," she would observe reminiscently.... it was lise's habit to slight her morning toilet, to linger until the last minute in bed, which she left in reluctant haste to stand before the bureau frantically combing out kinks of the brown hair falling over her shoulders before jamming it down across her forehead in the latest mode. thus occupied, she revealed a certain petulant beauty. like the majority of shop-girls, she was small, but her figure was good, her skin white; her discontented mouth gave her the touch of piquancy apt to play havoc with the work of the world. in winter breakfast was eaten by the light of a rococo metal lamp set in the centre of the table. this was to save gas. there was usually a rump steak and potatoes, bread and "creamery" butterine, and the inevitable new england doughnuts. at six thirty the whistles screeched again,--a warning note, the signal for edward's departure; and presently, after a brief respite, the heavy bells once more began their clamour, not to die down until ten minutes of seven, when the last of the stragglers had hurried through the mill gates. the bumpus flat included the second floor of a small wooden house whose owner had once been evilly inspired to paint it a livid clay-yellow--as though insisting that ugliness were an essential attribute of domesticity. a bay ran up the two stories, and at the left were two narrow doorways, one for each flat. on the right the house was separated from its neighbour by a narrow interval, giving but a precarious light to the two middle rooms, the diningroom and kitchen. the very unattractiveness of such a home, however, had certain compensations for janet, after the effort of early rising had been surmounted, felt a real relief in leaving it; a relief, too, in leaving fillmore street, every feature of which was indelibly fixed in her mind, opposite was the blind brick face of a warehouse, and next to that the converted dwelling house that held the shop of a. bauer, with the familiar replica of a green ten-cent trading stamp painted above it and the somewhat ironical announcement--when boar frost whitened the pavement--that ice-cold soda was to be had within, as well as cigars and tobacco, fruit and candy. then came a tenement, under which two enterprising greeks by the name of pappas--spelled papas lower down--conducted a business called "the gentleman," a tailoring, pressing, and dyeing establishment. janet could see the brilliantined black heads of the two proprietors bending over their boards, and sometimes they would be lifted to smile at her as she passed. the pappas brothers were evidently as happy in this drab environment as they had ever been on the sunny mountain slopes of hellas, and janet sometimes wondered at this, for she had gathered from her education in the charming public school that greece was beautiful. she was one of the unfortunate who love beauty, who are condemned to dwell in exile, unacquainted with what they love. desire was incandescent within her breast. desire for what? it would have been some relief to know. she could not, like lise, find joy and forgetfulness at dance halls, at the "movies," at slattery's riverside park in summer, in "joy rides" with the max wylies of hampton. and beside, the max wylies were afraid of her. if at times she wished for wealth, it was because wealth held the magic of emancipation from surroundings against which her soul revolted. vividly idealized but unconfided was the memory of a seaside village, the scene of one of the brief sojourns of her childhood, where the air was fragrant with the breath of salt marshes, where she recalled, through the vines of a porch, a shining glimpse of the sea at the end of a little street.... next to pappas brothers was the grey wooden building of mule spinners' hall, that elite organization of skilled labour, and underneath it the store of johnny tiernan, its windows piled up with stoves and stovepipes, sheet iron and cooking utensils. mr. tiernan, like the greeks, was happy, too: unlike the greeks, he never appeared to be busy, and yet he throve. he was very proud of the business in which he had invested his savings, but he seemed to have other affairs lying blithely on his mind, affairs of moment to the community, as the frequent presence of the huge policemen, aldermen, and other important looking persons bore witness. he hailed by name italians, greeks, belgians, syrians, and "french"; he hailed janet, too, with respectful cheerfulness, taking off his hat. he possessed the rare, warm vitality that is irresistible. a native of hampton, still in his thirties, his sharp little nose and twinkling blue eyes proclaimed the wisdom that is born and not made; his stiff hair had a twist like the bristles in the cleaning rod of a gun. he gave janet the odd impression that he understood her. and she did not understand herself! by the time she reached the common the winter sun, as though red from exertion, had begun to dispel the smoke and heavy morning mists. she disliked winter, the lumpy brown turf mildewed by the frost, but one day she was moved by a quality, hitherto unsuspected, in the delicate tracery against the sky made by the slender branches of the great elms and maples. she halted on the pavement, her eyes raised, heedless of passers-by, feeling within her a throb of the longing that could be so oddly and unexpectedly aroused. her way lay along faber street, the main artery of hampton, a wide strip of asphalt threaded with car tracks, lined on both sides with incongruous edifices indicative of a rapid, undiscriminating, and artless prosperity. there were long stretches of "ten foot" buildings, so called on account of the single story, their height deceptively enhanced by the superimposition of huge and gaudy signs, one on top of another, announcing the merits of "stewart's amberine ale," of "cooley's oats, the digestible breakfast food," of graphophones and "spring heeled" shoes, tobacco, and naphtha soaps. "no, we don't give trading stamps, our products are worth all you pay." these "ten foot" stores were the repositories of pianos, automobiles, hardware, and millinery, and interspersed amongst them were buildings of various heights; the bagatelle, where lise worked, the wilmot hotel, office buildings, and an occasional relic of old hampton, like that housing the banner. here, during those months when the sun made the asphalt soft, on a scaffolding spanning the window of the store, might be seen a perspiring young man in his shirt sleeves chalking up baseball scores for the benefit of a crowd below. then came the funereal, liver-coloured, long-windowed hinckley block ( ), and on the corner a modern, glorified drugstore thrusting forth plate glass bays--two on faber street and three on stanley--filled with cameras and candy, hot water bags, throat sprays, catarrh and kidney cures, calendars, fountain pens, stationery, and handy alcohol lamps. flanking the sidewalks, symbolizing and completing the heterogeneous and bewildering effect of the street were long rows of heavy hemlock trunks, unpainted and stripped of bark, with crosstrees bearing webs of wires. trolley cars rattled along, banging their gongs, trucks rumbled across the tracks, automobiles uttered frenzied screeches behind startled pedestrians. janet was always galvanized into alertness here, faber street being no place to dream. by night an endless procession moved up one sidewalk and down another, staring hypnotically at the flash-in and flash-out electric, signs that kept the breakfast foods and ales, the safety razors, soaps, and soups incessantly in the minds of a fickle public. two blocks from faber street was the north canal, with a granite-paved roadway between it and the monotonous row of company boarding houses. even in bright weather janet felt a sense of oppression here; on dark, misty mornings the stern, huge battlements of the mills lining the farther bank were menacing indeed, bristling with projections, towers, and chimneys, flanked by heavy walls. had her experience included europe, her imagination might have seized the medieval parallel,--the arched bridges flung at intervals across the water, lacking only chains to raise them in case of siege. the place was always ominously suggestive of impending strife. janet's soul was a sensitive instrument, but she suffered from an inability to find parallels, and thus to translate her impressions intellectually. her feeling about the mills was that they were at once fortress and prison, and she a slave driven thither day after day by an all-compelling power; as much a slave as those who trooped in through the gates in the winter dawn, and wore down, four times a day, the oak treads of the circular tower stairs. the sound of the looms was like heavy rain hissing on the waters of the canal. the administrative offices of a giant mill such as the chippering in hampton are labyrinthine. janet did not enter by the great gates her father kept, but walked through an open courtyard into a vestibule where, day and night, a watchman stood; she climbed iron-shod stairs, passed the doorway leading to the paymaster's suite, to catch a glimpse, behind the grill, of numerous young men settling down at those mysterious and complicated machines that kept so unerring a record, in dollars and cents, of the human labour of the operatives. there were other suites for the superintendents, for the purchasing agent; and at the end of the corridor, on the south side of the mill, she entered the outer of the two rooms reserved for mr. claude ditmar, the agent and general-in-chief himself of this vast establishment. in this outer office, behind the rail that ran the length of it, janet worked; from the window where her typewriter stood was a sheer drop of eighty feet or so to the river, which ran here swiftly through a wide canon whose sides were formed by miles and miles of mills, built on buttressed stone walls to retain the banks. the prison-like buildings on the farther shore were also of colossal size, casting their shadows far out into the waters; while in the distance, up and down the stream, could be seen the delicate web of the stanley and warren street bridges, with trolley cars like toys gliding over them, with insect pedestrians creeping along the footpaths. mr. ditmar's immediate staff consisted of mr. price, an elderly bachelor of tried efficiency whose peculiar genius lay in computation, of a young mr. caldwell who, during the four years since he had left harvard, had been learning the textile industry, of miss ottway, and janet. miss ottway was the agent's private stenographer, a strongly built, capable woman with immense reserves seemingly inexhaustible. she had a deep, masculine voice, not unmusical, the hint of a masculine moustache, a masculine manner of taking to any job that came to hand. nerves were things unknown to her: she was granite, janet tempered steel. janet was the second stenographer, and performed, besides, any odd tasks that might be assigned. there were, in the various offices of the superintendents, the paymaster and purchasing agent, other young women stenographers whose companionship janet, had she been differently organized, might have found congenial, but something in her refused to dissolve to their proffered friendship. she had but one friend,--if eda rawle, who worked in a bank, and whom she had met at a lunch counter by accident, may be called so. as has been admirably said in another language, one kisses, the other offers a cheek: janet offered the cheek. all unconsciously she sought a relationship rarely to be found in banks and business offices; would yield herself to none other. the young women stenographers in the chippering mill, respectable, industrious girls, were attracted by a certain indefinable quality, but finding they made no progress in their advances, presently desisted they were somewhat afraid of her; as one of them remarked, "you always knew she was there." miss lottie meyers, who worked in the office of mr. orcutt, the superintendent across the hall, experienced a brief infatuation that turned to hate. she chewed gum incessantly, janet found her cheap perfume insupportable; miss meyers, for her part, declared that janet was "queer" and "stuck up," thought herself better than the rest of them. lottie meyers was the leader of a group of four or five which gathered in the hallway at the end of the noon hour to enter animatedly into a discussion of waists, hats, and lingerie, to ogle and exchange persiflages with the young men of the paymaster's corps, to giggle, to relate, sotto voce, certain stories that ended invariably in hysterical laughter. janet detested these conversations. and the sex question, subtly suggested if not openly dealt with, to her was a mystery over which she did not dare to ponder, terrible, yet too sacred to be degraded. her feelings, concealed under an exterior of self-possession, deceptive to the casual observer, sometimes became molten, and she was frightened by a passion that made her tremble--a passion by no means always consciously identified with men, embodying all the fierce unexpressed and unsatisfied desires of her life. these emotions, often suggested by some hint of beauty, as of the sun glinting on the river on a bright blue day, had a sudden way of possessing her, and the longing they induced was pain. longing for what? for some unimagined existence where beauty dwelt, and light, where the ecstasy induced by these was neither moiled nor degraded; where shame, as now, might not assail her. why should she feel her body hot with shame, her cheeks afire? at such moments she would turn to the typewriter, her fingers striking the keys with amazing rapidity, with extraordinary accuracy and force,--force vaguely disturbing to mr. claude ditmar as he entered the office one morning and involuntarily paused to watch her. she was unaware of his gaze, but her colour was like a crimson signal that flashed to him and was gone. why had he never noticed her before? all these months, for more than a year, perhaps,--she had been in his office, and he had not so much as looked at her twice. the unguessed answer was that he had never surprised her in a vivid moment. he had a flair for women, though he had never encountered any possessing the higher values, and it was characteristic of the plane of his mental processes that this one should remind him now of a dark, lithe panther, tensely strung, capable of fierceness. the pain of having her scratch him would be delectable. when he measured her it was to discover that she was not so little, and the shoulder-curve of her uplifted arms, as her fingers played over the keys, seemed to belie that apparent slimness. and had he not been unacquainted with the subtleties of the french mind and language, he might have classed her as a fausse maigre. her head was small, her hair like a dark, blurred shadow clinging round it. he wanted to examine her hair, to see whether it would not betray, at closer range, an imperceptible wave,--but not daring to linger he went into his office, closed the door, and sat down with a sensation akin to weakness, somewhat appalled by his discovery, considerably amazed at his previous stupidity. he had thought of janet--when she had entered his mind at all--as unobtrusive, demure; now he recognized this demureness as repression. her qualities needed illumination, and he, claude ditmar, had seen them struck with fire. he wondered whether any other man had been as fortunate. later in the morning, quite casually, he made inquiries of miss ottway, who liked janet and was willing to do her a good turn. "why, she's a clever girl, mr. ditmar, a good stenographer, and conscientious in her work. she's very quick, too. "yes, i've noticed that," ditmar replied, who was quite willing to have it thought that his inquiry was concerned with janet's aptitude for business. "she keeps to herself and minds her own affairs. you can see she comes of good stock." miss ottway herself was proud of her new england blood. "her father, you know, is the gatekeeper down there. he's been unfortunate." "you don't say--i didn't connect her with him. fine looking old man. a friend of mine who recommended him told me he'd seen better days ...." chapter ii in spite of the surprising discovery in his office of a young woman of such a disquieting, galvanic quality, it must not be supposed that mr. claude ditmar intended to infringe upon a fixed principle. he had principles. for him, as for the patriarchs and householders of israel, the seventh commandment was only relative, yet hitherto he had held rigidly to that relativity, laying down the sound doctrine that women and business would not mix: or, as he put it to his intimates, no sensible man would fool with a girl in his office. hence it may be implied that mr. ditmar's experiences with the opposite sex had been on a property basis. he was one of those busy and successful persons who had never appreciated or acquired the art of quasi-platonic amenities, whose idea of a good time was limited to discreet excursions with cronies, likewise busy and successful persons who, by reason of having married early and unwisely, are strangers to the delights of that higher social intercourse chronicled in novels and the public prints. if one may conveniently overlook the joys of a companionship of the soul, it is quite as possible to have a taste in women as in champagne or cigars. mr. ditmar preferred blondes, and he liked them rather stout, a predilection that had led him into matrimony with a lady of this description: a somewhat sticky, candy-eating lady with a mania for card parties, who undoubtedly would have dyed her hair if she had lived. he was not inconsolable, but he had had enough of marriage to learn that it demands a somewhat exorbitant price for joys otherwise more reasonably to be obtained. he was left a widower with two children, a girl of thirteen and a boy of twelve, both somewhat large for their ages. amy attended the only private institution for the instruction of her sex of which hampton could boast; george continued at a public school. the late mrs. ditmar for some years before her demise had begun to give evidence of certain restless aspirations to which american ladies of her type and situation seem peculiarly liable, and with a view to their ultimate realization she had inaugurated a jericho-like campaign. death had released ditmar from its increasing pressure. for his wife had possessed that admirable substitute for character, persistence, had been expert in the use of importunity, often an efficient weapon in the hands of the female economically dependent. the daughter of a defunct cashier of the hampton national bank, when she had married ditmar, then one of the superintendents of the chippering and already a marked man, she had deemed herself fortunate among women, looking forward to a life of ease and idleness and candy in great abundance,--a dream temporarily shattered by the unforeseen discomfort of bringing two children into the world, with an interval of scarcely a year between them. her parents from an excess of native modesty having failed to enlighten her on this subject, her feelings were those of outraged astonishment, and she was quite determined not to repeat the experience a third time. knowledge thus belatedly acquired, for a while she abandoned herself to the satisfaction afforded by the ability to take a commanding position in hampton society, gradually to become aware of the need of a more commodious residence. in a certain kind of intuition she was rich. her husband had meanwhile become agent of the chippering mill, and she strongly suspected that his prudent reticence on the state of his finances was the best indication of an increasing prosperity. he had indeed made money, been given many opportunities for profitable investments; but the argument for social pre-eminence did not appeal to him: tears and reproaches, recriminations, when frequently applied, succeeded better; like many married men, what he most desired was to be let alone; but in some unaccountable way she had come to suspect that his preference for blondes was of a more liberal nature than at first, in her innocence, she had realized. she was jealous, too, of his cronies, in spite of the fact that these gentlemen, when they met her, treated her with an elaborate politeness; and she accused him with entire justice of being more intimate with them than with her, with whom he was united in holy bonds. the inevitable result of these tactics was the modern mansion in the upper part of warren street, known as the "residential" district. built on a wide lot, with a garage on one side to the rear, with a cement driveway divided into squares, and a wall of democratic height separating its lawn from the sidewalk, the house may for the present be better imagined than described. a pious chronicler of a more orthodox age would doubtless have deemed it a judgment that cora ditmar survived but two years to enjoy the glories of the warren street house. for a while her husband indulged in a foolish optimism, only to learn that the habit of matrimonial blackmail, once acquired, is not easily shed. scarcely had he settled down to the belief that by the gratification of her supreme desire he had achieved comparative peace, than he began to suspect her native self-confidence of cherishing visions of a career contemplating nothing less than the eventual abandonment of hampton itself as a field too limited for her social talents and his business ability and bank account--at which she was pleased to hint. hampton suited ditmar, his passion was the chippering mill; and he was in process of steeling himself to resist, whatever the costs, this preposterous plan when he was mercifully released by death. her intention of sending the children away to acquire a culture and finish hampton did not afford,--george to silliston academy, amy to a fashionable boarding school,--he had not opposed, yet he did not take the idea with sufficient seriousness to carry it out. the children remained at home, more or less--increasingly less--in the charge of an elderly woman who acted as housekeeper. ditmar had miraculously regained his freedom. and now, when he made trips to new york and boston, combining business with pleasure, there were no questions asked, no troublesome fictions to be composed. more frequently he was in boston, where he belonged to a large and comfortable club, not too exacting in regard to membership, and here he met his cronies and sometimes planned excursions with them, automobile trips in summer to the white mountains or choice little resorts to spend sundays and holidays, generally taking with them a case of champagne and several bags of golf sticks. he was fond of shooting, and belonged to a duck club on the cape, where poker and bridge were not tabooed. to his intimates he was known as "dit." nor is it surprising that his attitude toward women had become in general one of resentment; matrimony he now regarded as unmitigated folly. at five and forty he was a vital, dominating, dust-coloured man six feet and half an inch in height, weighing a hundred and ninety pounds, and thus a trifle fleshy. when relaxed, and in congenial company, he looked rather boyish, an aspect characteristic of many american business men of to-day. his head was large, he wore his hair short, his features also proclaimed him as belonging to a modern american type in that they were not clear-cut, but rather indefinable; a bristling, short-cropped moustache gave him a certain efficient, military look which, when introduced to strangers as "colonel," was apt to deceive them into thinking him an army officer. the title he had once received as a member of the staff of the governor of the state, and was a tribute to a gregariousness and political influence rather than to a genius for the art of war. ex officio, as the agent of the chippering mill and a man of substance to boot, he was "in" politics, hail fellow well met with and an individual to be taken into account by politicians from the governor and member of congress down. he was efficient, of course; he had efficient hands and shrewd, efficient eyes, and the military impression was deepened by his manner of dealing with people, his conversation being yea, yea and nay, nay,--save with his cronies and those of the other sex from whom he had something to gain. his clothes always looked new, of pronounced patterns and light colours set aside for him by an obsequious tailor in boston. if a human being in such an enviable position as that of agent of the chippering mill can be regarded as property, it might be said that mr. claude ditmar belonged to the chipperings of boston, a family still owning a controlling interest in the company. his loyalty to them and to the mill he so ably conducted was the great loyalty of his life. for ditmar, a chippering could do no wrong. it had been the keen eye of mr. stephen chippering that first had marked him, questioned him, recognized his ability, and from the moment of that encounter his advance had been rapid. when old stephen had been called to his fathers, ditmar's allegiance was automatically, as it were, transferred to the two sons, george and worthington, already members of the board of directors. sometimes ditmar called on them at their homes, which stood overlooking the waters of the charles river basin. the attitude toward him of the chipperings and their wives was one of an interesting adjustment of feudalism to democracy. they were fond of him, grateful to him, treating him with a frank camaraderie that had in it not the slightest touch of condescension, but ditmar would have been the first to recognize that there were limits to the intimacy. they did not, for instance--no doubt out of consideration--invite him to their dinner parties or take him to their club, which was not the same as that to which he himself belonged. he felt no animus. nor would he, surprising though it may seem, have changed places with the chipperings. at an early age, and quite unconsciously, he had accepted property as the ruling power of the universe, and when family was added thereto the combination was nothing less than divine. there were times, especially during the long winters, when life became almost unbearable for janet, and she was seized by a desire to run away from fillmore street, from the mills, from hampton itself. only she did not know where to go, or how to get away. she was convinced of the existence in the world of delightful spots where might be found congenial people with whom it would be a joy to talk. fillmore street, certainly, did not contain any such. the office was not so bad. it is true that in the mornings, as she entered west street, the sight of the dark facade of the fortress-like structure, emblematic of the captivity in which she passed her days, rarely failed to arouse in her sensations of oppression and revolt; but here, at least, she discovered an outlet for her energies; she was often too busy to reflect, and at odd moments she could find a certain solace and companionship in the river, so intent, so purposeful, so beautiful, so undisturbed by the inconcinnity, the clatter and confusion of hampton as it flowed serenely under the bridges and between the mills toward the sea. toward the sea! it was when, at night, she went back to fillmore street--when she thought of the monotony, yes, and the sordidness of home, when she let herself in at the door and climbed the dark and narrow stairway, that her feet grew leaden. in spite of the fact that hannah was a good housekeeper and prided herself on cleanliness, the tiny flat reeked with the smell of cooking, and janet, from the upper hall, had a glimpse of a thin, angular woman with a scrawny neck, with scant grey hair tightly drawn into a knot, in a gingham apron covering an old dress bending over the kitchen stove. and occasionally, despite a resentment that fate should have dealt thus inconsiderately with the family, janet felt pity welling within her. after supper, when lise had departed with her best young man, hannah would occasionally, though grudgingly, permit janet to help her with the dishes. "you work all day, you have a right to rest." "but i don't want to rest," janet would declare, and rub the dishes the harder. with the spirit underlying this protest, hannah sympathized. mother and daughter were alike in that both were inarticulate, but janet had a secret contempt for hannah's uncomplaining stoicism. she loved her mother, in a way, especially at certain times,--though she often wondered why she was unable to realize more fully the filial affection of tradition; but in moments of softening, such as these, she was filled with rage at the thought of any woman endowed with energy permitting herself to be overtaken and overwhelmed by such a fate as hannah's: divorce, desertion, anything, she thought, would have been better--anything but to be cheated out of life. feeling the fires of rebellion burning hotly within her,--rebellion against environment and driving necessity she would glance at her mother and ask herself whether it were possible that hannah had ever known longings, had ever been wrung by inexpressible desires,--desires in which the undiscovered spiritual was so alarmingly compounded with the undiscovered physical. she would have died rather than speak to hannah of these unfulfilled experiences, and the mere thought of confiding them to any person appalled her. even if there existed some wonderful, understanding being to whom she might be able thus to empty her soul, the thought of the ecstasy of that kenosis was too troubling to be dwelt upon. she had tried reading, with unfortunate results,--perhaps because no virgil had as yet appeared to guide her through the mysteries of that realm. her schooling had failed to instil into her a discriminating taste for literature; and when, on occasions, she had entered the public library opposite the common it had been to stare hopelessly at rows of books whose authors and titles offered no clue to their contents. her few choices had not been happy, they had failed to interest and thrill... of the bumpus family lise alone found refuge, distraction, and excitement in the vulgar modern world by which they were surrounded, and of whose heedlessness and remorselessness they were the victims. lise went out into it, became a part of it, returning only to sleep and eat,--a tendency hannah found unaccountable, and against which even her stoicism was not wholly proof. scarce an evening went by without an expression of uneasiness from hannah. "she didn't happen to mention where she was going, did she, janet?" hannah would query, when she had finished her work and put on her spectacles to read the banner. "to the movies, i suppose," janet would reply. although well aware that her sister indulged in other distractions, she thought it useless to add to hannah's disquietude. and if she had little patience with lise, she had less with the helpless attitude of her parents. "well," hannah would add, "i never can get used to her going out nights the way she does, and with young men and women i don't know anything about. i wasn't brought up that way. but as long as she's got to work for a living i guess there's no help for it." and she would glance at edward. it was obviously due to his inability adequately to cope with modern conditions that his daughters were forced to toil, but this was the nearest she ever came to reproaching him. if he heard, he acquiesced humbly, and in silence: more often than not he was oblivious, buried in the mazes of the bumpus family history, his papers spread out on the red cloth of the dining-room table, under the lamp. sometimes in his simplicity and with the enthusiasm that demands listeners he would read aloud to them a letter, recently received from a distant kinsman, an alpheus bumpus, let us say, who had migrated to california in search of wealth and fame, and who had found neither. in spite of age and misfortunes, the liberal attitude of these western members of the family was always a matter of perplexity to edward. "he tells me they're going to give women the ballot,--doesn't appear to be much concerned about his own womenfolks going to the polls." "why shouldn't they, if they want to?" janet would exclaim, though she had given little thought to the question. edward would mildly ignore this challenge. "he has a house on what they call russian hill, and he can watch the vessels as they come in from japan," he would continue in his precise voice, emphasizing admirably the last syllables of the words "russian," "vessels," and "japan." "wouldn't you like to see the letter?" to do hannah justice, although she was quite incapable of sharing his passion, she frequently feigned an interest, took the letter, presently handing it on to janet who, in deciphering alpheus's trembling calligraphy, pondered over his manifold woes. alpheus's son, who had had a good position in a sporting goods establishment on market street, was sick and in danger of losing it, the son's wife expecting an addition to the family, the house on russian hill mortgaged. alpheus, a veteran of the civil war, had been for many years preparing his reminiscences, but the newspapers nowadays seemed to care nothing for matters of solid worth, and so far had refused to publish them.... janet, as she read, reflected that these letters invariably had to relate tales of failures, of disappointed hopes; she wondered at her father's perennial interest in failures,--provided they were those of his family; and the next evening, as he wrote painfully on his ruled paper, she knew that he in turn was pouring out his soul to alpheus, recounting, with an emotion by no means unpleasurable, to this sympathetic but remote relative the story of his own failure! if the city of hampton was emblematic of our modern world in which haphazardness has replaced order, fillmore street may be likened to a back eddy of the muddy and troubled waters, in which all sorts of flotsam and jetsam had collected. or, to find perhaps an even more striking illustration of the process that made hampton in general and fillmore street in particular, one had only to take the trolley to glendale, the italian settlement on the road leading to the old new england village of shrewsbury. janet sometimes walked there, alone or with her friend eda rawle. disintegration itself--in a paradoxically pathetic attempt at reconstruction--had built glendale. human hands, italian hands. nor, surprising though it may seem, were these descendants of the people of the renaissance in the least offended by their handiwork. when the southern european migration had begun and real estate became valuable, one by one the more decorous edifices of the old american order had been torn down and carried piecemeal by sons of italy to the bare hills of glendale, there to enter into new combinations representing, to an eye craving harmony, the last word of a chaos, of a mental indigestion, of a colour scheme crying aloud to heaven for retribution. standing alone and bare amidst its truck gardens, hideous, extreme, though typical of the entire settlement, composed of fragments ripped from once-appropriate settings, is a house with a tiny body painted strawberry-red, with scroll-work shutters a tender green; surmounting the structure and almost equalling it in size is a sky-blue cupola, once the white crown of the sutter mansion, the pride of old hampton. the walls of this dwelling were wrested from the sides of mackey's tavern, while the shutters for many years adorned the parsonage of the old first church. similarly, in hampton and in fillmore street, lived in enforced neighbourliness human fragments once having their places in crystallized communities where existence had been regarded as solved. here there was but one order,--if such it may be called,--one relationship, direct, or indirect, one necessity claiming them all--the mills. like the boards forming the walls of the shacks at glendale, these human planks torn from an earlier social structure were likewise warped, which is to say they were dominated by obsessions. edward's was the bumpus family; and chris auermann, who lived in the flat below, was convinced that the history of mankind is a deplorable record of havoc caused by women. perhaps he was right, but the conviction was none the less an obsession. he came from a little village near wittenburg that has scarcely changed since luther's time. like most residents of hampton who did not work in the mills, he ministered to those who did, or to those who sold merchandise to the workers, cutting their hair in his barber shop on faber street. the bumpuses, save lise, clinging to a native individualism and pride, preferred isolation to companionship with the other pieces of driftwood by which they were surrounded, and with which the summer season compelled a certain enforced contact. when the heat in the little dining-room grew unbearable, they were driven to take refuge on the front steps shared in common with the household of the barber. it is true that the barber's wife was a mild hausfrau who had little to say, and that their lodgers, two young germans who worked in the mills, spent most of their evenings at a bowling club; but auermann himself, exhaling a strong odour of bay rum, would arrive promptly at quarter past eight, take off his coat, and thus, as it were stripped for action, would turn upon the defenceless edward. "vill you mention one great man--yoost one--who is not greater if the vimmen leave him alone?" he would demand. "is it anthony, the conqueror of egypt and the east? i vill show you cleopatra. und burns, and napoleon, the greatest man what ever lived--vimmen again. i tell you there is no elba, no st. helena if it is not for the vimmen. und vat vill you say of goethe?" poor edward could think of nothing to say of goethe. "he is great, i grant you," chris would admit, "but vat is he if the vimmen leave him alone? divine yoost that." and he would proceed to cite endless examples of generals and statesmen whose wives or mistresses had been their bane. futile edward's attempts to shift the conversation to the subject of his own obsession; the german was by far the more aggressive, he would have none of it. perhaps if edward had been willing to concede that the bumpuses had been brought to their present lowly estate by the sinister agency of the fair sex chris might conditionally have accepted the theme. hannah, contemptuously waving a tattered palm leaf fan, was silent; but on one occasion janet took away the barber's breath by suddenly observing:--"you never seem to think of the women whose lives are ruined by men, mr. auermann." it was unheard-of, this invasion of a man's argument by a woman, and by a young woman at that. he glared at her through his spectacles, took them off, wiped them, replaced them, and glared at her again. he did not like janet; she was capable of what may be called a speaking silence, and he had never been wholly unaware of her disapproval and ridicule. perhaps he recognized in her, instinctively, the potential qualities of that emerging modern woman who to him was anathema. "it is somethings i don't think about," he said. he was a wizened little man with faience-blue eyes, and sat habitually hunched up with his hands folded across his shins. "nam fuit ante helenam"--as darwin quotes. toward all the masculine residents of fillmore street, save one, the barber's attitude was one of unconcealed scorn for an inability to recognize female perfidy. with johnny tiernan alone he refused to enter the lists. when the popular proprietor of the tin shop came sauntering along the sidewalk with nose uptilted, waving genial greetings to the various groups on the steps, chris auermann's expression would suddenly change to one of fatuous playfulness. "what's this i hear about giving the girls the vote, chris?" johnny would innocently inquire, winking at janet, invariably running his hand through the wiry red hair that resumed its corkscrew twist as soon as he released it. and chris would as invariably reply:--"you have the dandruffs--yes? you come to my shop, i give you somethings...." sometimes the barber, in search of a more aggressive adversary than edward, would pay visits, when as likely as not another neighbour with profound convictions and a craving for proselytes would swoop down on the defenceless bumpuses: joe shivers, for instance, who lived in one of the tenements above the cleaning and dyeing establishment kept by the pappas bros., and known as "the gentleman." in the daytime mr. shivers was a model of acquiescence in a system he would have designated as one of industrial feudalism, his duty being to examine the rolls of cloth as they came from the looms of the arundel mill, in case of imperfections handing them over to the women menders: at night, to borrow a vivid expression from lise, he was "batty in the belfry" on the subject of socialism. unlike the barber, whom he could not abide, for him the cleavage of the world was between labour and capital instead of man and woman; his philosophy was stern and naturalistic; the universe--the origin of which he did not discuss--just an accidental assemblage of capricious forces over which human intelligence was one day to triumph. squatting on the lowest step, his face upturned, by the light of the arc sputtering above the street he looked like a yellow frog, his eager eyes directed toward janet, whom he suspected of intelligence. "if there was a god, a nice, kind, all-powerful god, would he permit what happened in one of the loom-rooms last week? a polak girl gets her hair caught in the belt pfff!" he had a marvellously realistic gift when it came to horrors: janet felt her hair coming out by the roots. although she never went to church, she did not like to think that no god existed. of this mr. shivers was very positive. edward, too, listened uneasily, hemmed and hawed, making ineffectual attempts to combat mr. shivers's socialism with a deeply-rooted native individualism that shivers declared as defunct as christianity. "if it is possible for the workingman to rise under a capitalistic system, why do you not rise, then? why do i not rise? i'm as good as ditmar, i'm better educated, but we're all slaves. what right has a man to make you and me work for him just because he has capital?" "why, the right of capital," edward would reply. mr. shivers, with the manner of one dealing with an incurable romanticism and sentimentality, would lift his hands in despair. and in spite of the fact that janet detested him, he sometimes exercised over her a paradoxical fascination, suggesting as he did unexplored intellectual realms. she despised her father for not being able to crush the little man. edward would make pathetic attempts to capture the role shivers had appropriated, to be the practical party himself, to convict shivers of idealism. socialism scandalized him, outraged, even more than atheism, something within him he held sacred, and he was greatly annoyed because he was unable adequately to express this feeling. "you can't change human nature, mr. shivers," edward would insist in his precise but ineffectual manner. "we all want property, you would accept a fortune if it was offered to you, and so should i. americans will never become socialists." "but look at me, wasn't i born in meriden, connecticut? ain't that yankee enough for you?" thus mr. shivers sought blandly to confound him. a yankee shades of the pilgrim fathers, of seven, generations of bumpuses! a yankee who used his hands in that way, a yankee with a nose like that, a yankee with a bald swathe down the middle of his crown and bunches of black, moth-eaten hair on either side! but edward, too polite to descend to personalities, was silent.... in brief, this very politeness of edward's, which his ancestors would have scorned, this consideration and lack of self-assertion made him the favourite prey of the many "characters" in fillmore street whose sanity had been disturbed by pressure from above, in whose systems had lodged the germs of those exotic social doctrines floating so freely in the air of our modern industrial communities .... chester glenn remains for a passing mention. a yankee of yankees, this, born on a new hampshire farm, and to the ordinary traveller on the wigmore branch of the railroad just a good-natured, round-faced, tobacco-chewing brakeman who would take a seat beside ladies of his acquaintance aid make himself agreeable until it was time to rise and bawl out, in the approved manner of his profession, the name of the next station. fillmore street knew that the flat visored cap which his corporation compelled him to wear covered a brain into which had penetrated the maggot of the single tax. when he encountered mr. shivers or auermann the talk became coruscating.. eda rawle, janet's solitary friend of these days, must also be mentioned, though the friendship was merely an episode in janet's life. their first meeting was at grady's quick-lunch counter in faber street, which they both frequented at one time, and the fact that each had ordered a ham sandwich, a cup of coffee, and a confection--new to grady's--known as a napoleon had led to conversation. eda, of course, was the aggressor; she was irresistibly drawn, she would not be repulsed. a stenographer in the wessex national bank, she boarded with a welsh family in spruce street; matter-of-fact, plodding, commonplace, resembling--as janet thought--a horse, possessing, indeed many of the noble qualities of that animal, she might have been thought the last person in the world to discern and appreciate in janet the hidden elements of a mysterious fire. in appearance miss rawle was of a type not infrequent in anglo-saxon lands, strikingly blonde, with high malar bones, white eyelashes, and eyes of a metallic blue, cheeks of an amazing elasticity that worked rather painfully as she talked or smiled, drawing back inadequate lips, revealing long, white teeth and vivid gums. it was the craving in her for romance janet assuaged; eda's was the love content to pour out, that demands little. she was capable of immolation. janet was by no means ungrateful for the warmth of such affection, though in moments conscious of a certain perplexity and sadness because she was able to give such a meagre return for the wealth of its offering. in other moments, when the world seemed all disorder and chaos,--as mr. shivers described it,--or when she felt within her, like demons, those inexpressible longings and desires, leaping and straining, pulling her, almost irresistibly, she knew not whither, eda shone forth like a light in the darkness, like the beacon of a refuge and a shelter. eda had faith in her, even when janet had lost faith in herself: she went to eda in the same spirit that marguerite went to church; though she, janet, more resembled faust, being--save in these hours of lowered vitality--of the forth-faring kind .... unable to confess the need that drove her, she arrived in eda's little bedroom to be taken into eda's arms. janet was immeasurably the stronger of the two, but eda possessed the masculine trait of protectiveness, the universe never bothered her, she was one of those persons--called fortunate--to whom the orthodox christian virtues come as naturally as sun or air. passion, when sanctified by matrimony, was her ideal, and now it was always in terms of janet she dreamed of it, having read about it in volumes her friend would not touch, and never having experienced deeply its discomforts. sanctified or unsanctified, janet regarded it with terror, and whenever eda innocently broached the subject she recoiled. once eda exclaimed:--"when you do fall in love, janet, you must tell me all about it, every word!" janet blushed hotly, and was silent. in eda's mind such an affair was a kind of glorified fireworks ending in a cluster of stars, in janet's a volcanic eruption to turn the world red. such was the difference between them. their dissipations together consisted of "sundaes" at a drug-store, or sometimes of movie shows at the star or the alhambra. stereotyped on eda's face during the legitimately tender passages of these dramas was an expression of rapture, a smile made peculiarly infatuate by that vertical line in her cheeks, that inadequacy of lip and preponderance of white teeth and red gums. it irritated, almost infuriated janet, to whom it appeared as the logical reflection of what was passing on the screen; she averted her glance from both, staring into her lap, filled with shame that the relation between the sexes should be thus exposed to public gaze, parodied, sentimentalized, degraded.... there were, however, marvels to stir her, strange landscapes, cities, seas, and ships,--once a fire in the forest of a western reserve with gigantic tongues of orange flame leaping from tree to tree. the movies brought the world to hampton, the great world into which she longed to fare, brought the world to her! remote mountain hamlets from japan, minarets and muezzins from the orient, pyramids from egypt, domes from moscow resembling gilded beets turned upside down; grey houses of parliament by the thames, the tower of london, the palaces of potsdam, the tai mahal. strange lands indeed, and stranger peoples! booted russians in blouses, naked equatorial savages tattooed and amazingly adorned, soldiers and sailors, presidents, princes and emperors brought into such startling proximity one could easily imagine one's self exchanging the time of day! incredible to janet how the audiences, how even eda accepted with american complacency what were to her never-ending miracles; the yearning to see more, to know more, became acute, like a pain, but even as she sought to devour these scenes, to drink in every detail, with tantalizing swiftness they were whisked away. they were peepholes in the walls of her prison; and at night she often charmed herself to sleep with remembered visions of wide, empty, treeshaded terraces reserved for kings. but eda, however complacent her interest in the scenes themselves, was thrilled to the marrow by their effect on janet, who was her medium. emerging from the vestibule of the theatre, janet seemed not to see the slushy street, her eyes shone with a silver light like that of a mountain lake in a stormy sunset. and they walked in silence until janet would exclaim: "oh eda, wouldn't you love to travel!" thus eda rawle was brought in contact with values she herself was powerless to detect, and which did not become values until they had passed through janet. one "educative" reel they had seen had begun with scenes in a lumber camp high in the mountains of galicia, where grow forests of the priceless pine that becomes, after years of drying and seasoning, the sounding board of the stradivarius and the harp. even then it must respond to a player. eda, though failing to apply this poetic parallel, when alone in her little room in the welsh boarding-house often indulged in an ecstasy of speculation as to that man, hidden in the mists of the future, whose destiny it would be to awaken her friend. hampton did not contain him,--of this she was sure; and in her efforts to visualize him she had recourse to the movies, seeking him amongst that brilliant company of personages who stood so haughtily or walked so indifferently across the ephemeral brightness of the screen. by virtue of these marvels of the movies: hampton ugly and sordid hampton!--actually began for janet to take on a romantic tinge. were not the strange peoples of the earth flocking to hampton? she saw them arriving at the station, straight from ellis island, bewildered, ticketed like dumb animals, the women draped in the soft, exotic colours many of them were presently to exchange for the cheap and gaudy apparel of faber street. she sought to summon up in her mind the glimpses she had had of the wonderful lands from which they had come, to imagine their lives in that earlier environment. sometimes she wandered, alone or with eda, through the various quarters of the city. each quarter had a flavour of its own, a synthetic flavour belonging neither to the old nor to the new, yet partaking of both: a difference in atmosphere to which janet was keenly sensitive. in the german quarter, to the north, one felt a sort of ornamental bleakness--if the expression may be permitted: the tenements here were clean and not too crowded, the scroll-work on their superimposed porches, like that decorating the turnverein and the stem lutheran church, was eloquent of a teutonic inheritance: the belgians were to the west, beyond the base-ball park and the car barns, their grey houses scattered among new streets beside the scarred and frowning face of torrey's hill. almost under the hill itself, which threatened to roll down on it, and facing a bottomless, muddy street, was the quaint little building giving the note of foreign thrift, of socialism and shrewdness, of joie de vivre to the settlement, the franco-belgian co-operative store, with its salle de reunion above and a stage for amateur theatricals. standing in the mud outside, janet would gaze through the tiny windows in the stucco wall at the baskets prepared for each household laid in neat rows beside the counter; at the old man with the watery blue eyes and lacing of red in his withered cheeks who spoke no english, whose duty it was to distribute the baskets to the women and children as they called. turning eastward again, one came to dey street, in the heart of hampton, where hibernian hall stood alone and grim, sole testimony of the departed hibernian glories of a district where the present irish rulers of the city had once lived and gossiped and fought in the days when the mill bells had roused the boarding-house keepers at half past four of a winter morning. beside the hall was a corner lot, heaped high with hills of ashes and rubbish like the vomitings of some filthy volcano; the unsightliness of which was half concealed by huge signs announcing the merits of chewing gums, tobaccos, and cereals. but why had the departure of the irish, the coming of the syrians made dey street dark, narrow, mysterious, oriental? changed the very aspect of its architecture? was it the coffee-houses? one of these, in front of which janet liked to linger, was set weirdly into an old new england cottage, and had, apparently, fathomless depths. in summer the whole front of it lay open to the street, and here all day long, beside the table where the charcoal squares were set to dry, could be seen saffron-coloured armenians absorbed in a turkish game played on a backgammon board, their gentleness and that of the loiterers looking on in strange contrast with their hawk-like profiles and burning eyes. behind this group, in the half light of the middle interior, could be discerned an american soda-water fountain of a bygone fashion, on its marble counter oddly shaped bottles containing rose and violet syrups; there was a bottle-shaped stove, and on the walls, in gilt frames, pictures evidently dating from the period in american art that flourished when franklin pierce was president; and there was an array of marble topped tables extending far back into the shadows. behind the fountain was a sort of cupboard--suggestive of the arabian nights, which janet had never read--from which, occasionally, the fat proprietor emerged bearing turkish coffee or long turkish pipes. when not thus occupied the proprietor carried a baby. the street swarmed with babies, and mothers nursed them on the door-steps. and in this teeming, prolific street one could scarcely move without stepping on a fat, almond eyed child, though some, indeed, were wheeled; wheeled in all sorts of queer contrivances by one another, by fathers with ragged black moustaches and eagle noses who, to the despair of mill superintendents, had decided in the morning that three days' wages would since to support their families for the week .... in the midst of the throng might be seen occasionally the stout and comfortable and not too immaculate figure of a shovel bearded syrian priest, in a frock coat and square-topped "derby" hat, sailing along serenely, heedless of the children who scattered out of his path. nearby was the quarter of the canadian french, scarcely now to be called foreigners, though still somewhat reminiscent of the cramped little towns in the northern wilderness of water and forest. on one corner stood almost invariably a "pharmacie francaise"; the signs were in french, and the elders spoke the patois. these, despite the mill pallor, retained in their faces, in their eyes, a suggestion of the outdoor look of their ancestors, the coureurs des bois, but the children spoke english, and the young men, as they played baseball in the street or in the corner lots might be heard shouting out derisively the cry of the section hands so familiar in mill cities, "doff, you beggars you, doff!" occasionally the two girls strayed into that wide thoroughfare not far from the canal, known by the classic name of hawthorne, which the italians had appropriated to themselves. this street, too, in spite of the telegraph poles flaunting crude arms in front of its windows, in spite of the trolley running down its middle, had acquired a character, a unity all its own, a warmth and picturesqueness that in the lingering light of summer evenings assumed an indefinable significance. it was not italy, but it was something--something proclaimed in the ornate, leaning lines of the pillared balconies of the yellow tenement on the second block, in the stone-vaulted entrance of the low house next door, in fantastically coloured walls, in curtained windows out of which leaned swarthy, earringed women. blocking the end of the street, in stern contrast, was the huge clarendon mill with its sinister brick pillars running up the six stories between the glass. here likewise the sidewalks overflowed with children, large-headed, with great, lustrous eyes, mute, appealing, the eyes of cattle. unlike american children, they never seemed to be playing. among the groups of elders gathered for gossip were piratical calabrians in sombre clothes, descended from greek ancestors, once the terrors of the adriatic sea. the women, lingering in the doorways, hemmed in by more children, were for the most part squat and plump, but once in a while janet's glance was caught and held by a strange, sharp beauty worthy of a cameo. opposite the clarendon mill on the corner of east street was a provision store with stands of fruit and vegetables encroaching on the pavement. janet's eye was attracted by a box of olives. "oh eda," she cried, "do you remember, we saw them being picked--in the movies? all those old trees on the side of a hill?" "why, that's so," said eda. "you never would have thought anything'd grow on those trees." the young italian who kept the store gave them a friendly grin. "you lika the olives?" he asked, putting some of the shining black fruit into their hands. eda bit one dubiously with her long, white teeth, and giggled. "don't they taste funny!" she exclaimed. "good--very good," he asserted gravely, and it was to janet he turned, as though recognizing a discrimination not to be found in her companion. she nodded affirmatively. the strange taste of the fruit enhanced her sense of adventure, she tried to imagine herself among the gatherers in the grove; she glanced at the young man to perceive that he was tall and well formed, with remarkably expressive eyes almost the colour of the olives themselves. it surprised her that she liked him, though he was an italian and a foreigner: a certain debonnair dignity in him appealed to her--a quality lacking in many of her own countrymen. and she wanted to talk to him about italy,--only she did not know how to begin,--when a customer appeared, an italian woman who conversed with him in soft, liquid tones that moved her .... sometimes on these walks--especially if the day were grey and sombre--janet's sense of romance and adventure deepened, became more poignant, charged with presage. these feelings, vague and unaccountable, she was utterly unable to confide to eda, yet the very fear they inspired was fascinating; a fear and a hope that some day, in all this babel of peoples, something would happen! it was as though the conflicting soul of the city and her own soul were one.... chapter iii lise was the only member of the bumpus family who did not find uncongenial such distractions and companionships as were offered by the civilization that surrounded them. the bagatelle she despised; that was slavery--but slavery out of which she might any day be snatched, like leila hawtrey, by a prince charming who had made a success in life. success to lise meant money. although what some sentimental sociologists might call a victim of our civilization, lise would not have changed it, since it produced not only lise herself, but also those fabulous financiers with yachts and motors and town and country houses she read about in the supplements of the sunday newspapers. it contained her purgatory, which she regarded in good conventional fashion as a mere temporary place of detention, and likewise the heaven toward which she strained, the dwelling-place of light. in short, her philosophy was that of the modern, orthodox american, tinged by a somewhat commercialized sunday school tradition of an earlier day, and highly approved by the censors of the movies. the peculiar kind of abstinence once euphemistically known as "virtue," particularly if it were combined with beauty, never failed of its reward. lise, in this sense, was indeed virtuous, and her mirror told her she was beautiful. almost anything could happen to such a lady: any day she might be carried up into heaven by that modern chariot of fire, the motor car, driven by a celestial chauffeur. one man's meat being another's poison, lise absorbed from the movies an element by which her sister janet was repelled. a popular production known as "leila of hawtrey's" contained her creed,--hawtrey's being a glittering metropolitan restaurant where men of the world are wont to gather and discuss the stock market, and leila a beautiful, blonde and orphaned waitress upon whom several of the fashionable frequenters had exercised seductive powers in vain. they lay in wait for her at the side entrance, followed her, while one dissipated and desperate person, married, and said to move in the most exclusive circles, sent her an offer of a yearly income in five figures, the note being reproduced on the screen, and leila pictured reading it in her frigid hall-bedroom. there are complications; she is in debt, and the proprietor of hawtrey's has threatened to discharge her and in order that the magnitude of the temptation may be most effectively realized the vision appears of leila herself, wrapped in furs, stepping out of a limousine and into an elevator lifting her to an apartment containing silk curtains, a canet bed, a french maid, and a pomeranian. virtue totters, but triumphs, being reinforced by two more visions the first of these portrays leila, prematurely old, dragging herself along pavements under the metallic broadway lights accosting gentlemen in evening dress; and the second reveals her in the country, kneeling beside a dying mother's bed, giving her promise to remain true to the christian teachings of her childhood. and virtue is rewarded, lavishly, as virtue should be, in dollars and cents, in stocks and bonds, in pearls and diamonds. popular fancy takes kindly to rough but honest westerners who have begun life in flannel shirts, who have struck gold and come to new york with a fortune but despising effeteness; such a one, tanned by the mountain sun, embarrassed in raiment supplied by a fifth avenue tailor, takes a table one evening at hawtrey's and of course falls desperately in love. he means marriage from the first, and his faith in leila is great enough to survive what appears to be an almost total eclipse of her virtue. through the machinations of the influential villain, and lured by the false pretence that one of her girl friends is ill, she is enticed into a mysterious house of a sinister elegance, and apparently irretrievably compromised. the westerner follows, forces his way through the portals, engages the villain, and vanquishes him. leila becomes a bride. we behold her, at the end, mistress of one of those magnificent stone mansions with grilled vestibules and negro butlers into whose sacred precincts we are occasionally, in the movies, somewhat breathlessly ushered--a long way from hawtrey's restaurant and a hall-bedroom. a long way, too, from the bagatelle and fillmore street--but to lise a way not impossible, nor even improbable. this work of art, conveying the moral that virtue is an economic asset, made a great impression on lise. good old testament doctrine, set forth in the book of job itself. and leila, pictured as holding out for a higher price and getting it, encouraged lise to hold out also. mr. wiley, in whose company she had seen this play, and whose likeness filled the plush and silver-plated frame on her bureau, remained ironically ignorant of the fact that he had paid out his money to make definite an ambition, an ideal hitherto nebulous in the mind of the lady whom he adored. nor did lise enlighten him, being gifted with a certain inscrutableness. as a matter of fact it had never been her intention to accept him, but now that she was able concretely to visualize her lochinvar of the future, mr. whey's lack of qualifications became the more apparent. in the first place, he had been born in lowell and had never been west of worcester; in the second, his salary was sixteen dollars a week: it is true she had once fancied the scottish terrier style of hair-cut abruptly ending in the rounded line of the shaven neck, but lochinvar had been close-cropped. mr. wiley, close-cropped, would have resembled a convict. mr. wiley was in love, there could be no doubt about that, and if he had not always meant marriage, he meant it now, having reached a state where no folly seems preposterous. the manner of their meeting had had just the adventurous and romantic touch that lise liked, one of her favourite amusements in the intervals between "steadies" being to walk up and down faber street of an evening after supper, arm in arm with two or three other young ladies, all chewing gum, wheeling into store windows and wheeling out again, pretending the utmost indifference to melting glances cast in their direction. an exciting sport, though incomprehensible to masculine intelligence. it was a principle with lise to pay no attention to any young man who was not "presented," those venturing to approach her with the ready formula "haven't we met before?" being instantly congealed. she was strict as to etiquette. but mr. wiley, it seemed, could claim acquaintance with miss schuler, one of the ladies to whose arm lise's was linked, and he had the further advantage of appearing in a large and seductive touring car, painted green, with an eagle poised above the hood and its name, wizard, in a handwriting rounded and bold, written in nickel across the radiator. he greeted miss schuler effusively, but his eye was on lise from the first, and it was she he took with, him in the front seat, indifferent to the giggling behind. ever since then lise had had a motor at her disposal, and on sundays they took long "joy rides" beyond the borders of the state. but it must not be imagined that mr. whey was the proprietor of the vehicle; nor was he a chauffeur,--her american pride would not have permitted her to keep company with a chauffeur: he was the demonstrator for the wizard, something of a wizard himself, as lise had to admit when they whizzed over the tarvia of the riverside boulevard at fifty or sixty miles an hour with the miner cut out--a favourite diversion of mr. whey's, who did not feel he was going unless he was accompanied by a noise like that of a mitrailleuse in action. lise, experiencing a ravishing terror, hung on to her hat with one hand and to mr. wiley with the other, her code permitting this; permitting him also, occasionally, when they found themselves in tenebrous portions of slattery's riverside park, to put his arm around her waist and kiss her. so much did lise's virtue allow, and no more, the result being that he existed in a tantalizing state of hope and excitement most detrimental to the nerves. he never lost, however,--in public at least, or before lise's family,--the fine careless, jaunty air of the demonstrator, of the free-lance for whom seventy miles an hour has no terrors; the automobile, apparently, like the ship, sets a stamp upon its votaries. no elizabethan buccaneer swooping down on defenceless coasts ever exceeded in audacity mr. wiley's invasion of quiet fillmore street. he would draw up with an ear-splitting screaming of brakes in front of the clay-yellow house, and sometimes the muffler, as though unable to repress its approval of the performance, would let out a belated pop that never failed to jar the innermost being of auermann, who had been shot at, or rather shot past, by an italian, and knew what it was. he hated automobiles, he hated mr. wiley. "vat you do?" he would demand, glaring. and mr. wiley would laugh insolently. "you think i done it, do you, dutchie--huh!" he would saunter past, up the stairs, and into the bumpus dining-room, often before the family had finished their evening meal. lise alone made him welcome, albeit demurely; but mr. wiley, not having sensibilities, was proof against hannah's coldness and janet's hostility. with unerring instinct he singled out edward as his victim. "how's mr. bumpus this evening?" he would genially inquire. edward invariably assured mr. wiley that he was well, invariably took a drink of coffee to emphasize the fact, as though the act of lifting his cup had in it some magic to ward off the contempt of his wife and elder daughter. "well, i've got it pretty straight that the arundel's going to run nights, starting next week," lise's suitor would continue. and to save his soul edward could not refrain from answering, "you don't say so!" he feigned interest in the information that the hampton ball team, owing to an unsatisfactory season, was to change managers next year. mr. wiley possessed the gift of gathering recondite bits of news, he had confidence in his topics and in his manner of dealing with them; and edward, pretending to be entertained, went so far in his politeness as to ask mr. wiley if he had had supper. "i don't care if i sample one of mis' bumpus's doughnuts," mr. wiley would reply politely, reaching out a large hand that gave evidence, in spite of sapolio, of an intimacy with grease cups and splash pans. "i guess there's nobody in this burg can make doughnuts to beat yours, miss bumpus." if she had only known which doughnut he would take; hannah sometimes thought she might have been capable of putting arsenic in it. her icy silence did not detract from the delights of his gestation. occasionally, somewhat to edward's alarm, hannah demanded: "where are you taking lise this evening?" mr. wiley's wisdom led him to be vague. "oh, just for a little spin up the boulevard. maybe we'll pick up ella schuler and one or two other young ladies." hannah and janet knew very well he had no intention of doing this, and hannah did not attempt to conceal her incredulity. as a matter of fact, lise sometimes did insist on a "party." "i want you should bring her back by ten o'clock. that's late enough for a girl who works to be out. it's late enough for any girl." "sure, mis' bumpus," wiley would respond easily. hannah chafed because she had no power to enforce this, because mr. wiley and lise understood she had no power. lise went to put on her hat; if she skimped her toilet in the morning, she made up for it in the evening when she came home from the store, and was often late for supper. in the meantime, while lise was in the bedroom adding these last touches, edward would contemptibly continue the conversation, fingering the evening banner as it lay in his lap, while mr. wiley helped himself boldly to another doughnut, taking--as janet observed--elaborate precautions to spill none of the crumbs on a brown suit, supposed to be the last creation in male attire. behind a plate glass window in faber street, belonging to a firm of "custom" tailors whose stores had invaded every important city in the country, and who made clothes for "college" men, only the week before mr. wiley had seen this same suit artistically folded, combined with a coloured shirt, brown socks, and tie and "torture" collar--lures for the discriminating. owing to certain expenses connected with lise, he had been unable to acquire the shirt and the tie, but he had bought the suit in the hope and belief that she would find him irresistible therein. it pleased him, too, to be taken for a "college" man, and on beholding in the mirror his broadened shoulders and diminished waist he was quite convinced his money had not been spent in vain; that strange young ladies--to whom, despite his infatuation for the younger miss bumpus, he was not wholly indifferent--would mistake him for an undergraduate of harvard,--an imposition concerning which he had no scruples. but lise, though shaken, had not capitulated..... when she returned to the dining-room, arrayed in her own finery, demure, triumphant, and had carried off mr. whey there would ensue an interval of silence broken only by the clattering together of the dishes hannah snatched up. "i guess he's the kind of son-in-law would suit you," she threw over her shoulder once to edward. "why?" he inquired, letting down his newspaper nervously. "well, you seem to favour him, to make things as pleasant for him as you can." edward would grow warm with a sense of injustice, the inference being that he was to blame for mr. wiley; if he had been a different kind of father another sort of suitor would be courting lise. "i have to be civil," he protested. he pronounced that, word "civil" exquisitely, giving equal value to both syllables. "civil!" hannah scoffed, as she left the room; and to janet, who had followed her into the kitchen, she added: "that's the trouble with your father, he's always be'n a little too civil. edward bumpus is just as simple as a child, he's afraid of offending folks' feelings .... think of being polite to that whey!" in those two words hannah announced eloquently her utter condemnation of the demonstrator of the wizard. it was characteristic of her, however, when she went back for another load of dishes and perceived that edward was only pretending to read his banner, to attempt to ease her husband's feelings. she thought it queer because she was still fond of edward bumpus, after all he had "brought on her." "it's lise," she said, as though speaking to janet, "she attracts 'em. sometimes i just can't get used to it that she's my daughter. i don't know who she takes after. she's not like any of my kin, nor any of the bumpuses." "what can you do?" asked edward. "you can't order him out of the house. it's better for him to come here. and you can't stop lise from going with him--she's earning her own money...." they had talked over the predicament before, and always came to the same impasse. in the privacy of the kitchen hannah paused suddenly in her energetic rubbing of a plate and with supreme courage uttered a question. "janet, do you calculate he means anything wrong?" "i don't know what he means," janet replied, unwilling to give mr. wiley credit for anything, "but i know this, that lise is too smart to let him take advantage of her." hannah ruminated. cleverness as the modern substitute for feminine virtue did not appeal to her, but she let it pass. she was in no mood to quarrel with any quality that would ward off disgrace. "i don't know what to make of lise--she don't appear to have any principles...." if the wiley affair lasted longer than those preceding it, this was because former suitors had not commanded automobiles. when mr. wiley lost his automobile he lost his luck--if it may be called such. one april evening, after a stroll with eda, janet reached home about nine o'clock to find lise already in their room, to remark upon the absence of mr. wiley's picture from the frame. "i'm through with him," lise declared briefly, tugging at her hair. "through with him?" janet repeated. lise paused in her labours and looked at her sister steadily. "i handed him the mit--do you get me?" "but why?" "why? i was sick of him--ain't that enough? and then he got mixed up with a glendale trolley and smashed his radiator, and the wizard people sacked him. i always told him he was too fly. it's lucky for him i wasn't in the car." "it's lucky for you," said janet. presently she inquired curiously: "aren't you sorry?" "nix." lise shook her head, which was now bowed, her face hidden by hair. "didn't i tell you i was sick of him? but he sure was some spender," she added, as though in justice bound to give him his due. janet was shocked by the ruthlessness of it, for lise appeared relieved, almost gay. she handed janet a box containing five peppermint creams--all that remained of mr. wiley's last gift. one morning in the late spring janet crossed the warren street bridge, the upper of the two spider-like structures to be seen from her office window, spanning the river beside the great hampton dam. the day, dedicated to the memory of heroes fallen in the civil war, the thirtieth of may, was a legal holiday. gradually janet had acquired a dread of holidays as opportunities never realized, as intervals that should have been filled with unmitigated joys, and yet were invariably wasted, usually in walks with eda rawle. to-day, feeling an irresistible longing for freedom, for beauty, for adventure, for quest and discovery of she knew not what, she avoided eda, and after gazing awhile at the sunlight dancing in the white mist below the falls, she walked on, southward, until she had left behind her the last straggling houses of the city and found herself on a wide, tarvia road that led, ultimately, to boston. so read the sign. great maples, heavy with leaves, stood out against the soft blue of the sky, and the sunlight poured over everything, bathing the stone walls, the thatches of the farmhouses, extracting from the copses of stunted pine a pungent, reviving perfume. sometimes she stopped to rest on the pine needles, and walked on again, aimlessly, following the road because it was the easiest way. there were spring flowers in the farmhouse yards, masses of lilacs whose purple she drank in eagerly; the air, which had just a tang of new england sharpness, was filled with tender sounds, the clucking of hens, snatches of the songs of birds, the rustling of maple leaves in the fitful breeze. a chipmunk ran down an elm and stood staring at her with beady, inquisitive eyes, motionless save for his quivering tail, and she put forth her hand, shyly, beseechingly, as though he held the secret of life she craved. but he darted away. she looked around her unceasingly, at the sky, at the trees, at the flowers and ferns and fields, at the vireos and thrushes, the robins and tanagers gashing in and out amidst the foliage, and she was filled with a strange yearning to expand and expand until she should become a part of all nature, be absorbed into it, cease to be herself. never before had she known just that feeling, that degree of ecstasy mingled with divine discontent .... occasionally, intruding faintly upon the countryside peace, she was aware of a distant humming sound that grew louder and louder until there shot roaring past her an automobile filled with noisy folk, leaving behind it a suffocating cloud of dust. even these intrusions, reminders of the city she had left, were powerless to destroy her mood, and she began to skip, like a schoolgirl, pausing once in a while to look around her fearfully, lest she was observed; and it pleased her to think that she had escaped forever, that she would never go back: she cried aloud, as she skipped, "i won't go back, i won't go back," keeping time with her feet until she was out of breath and almost intoxicated, delirious, casting herself down, her heart beating wildly, on a bank of ferns, burying her face in them. she had really stopped because a pebble had got into her shoe, and as she took it out she looked at her bare heel and remarked ruefully:--"those twenty-five cent stockings aren't worth buying!" economic problems, however, were powerless to worry her to-day, when the sun shone and the wind blew and the ferns, washed by the rill running through the culvert under the road, gave forth a delicious moist odour reminding her of the flower store where her sister lise had once been employed. but at length she arose, and after an hour or more of sauntering the farming landscape was left behind, the crumbling stone fences were replaced by a well-kept retaining wall capped by a privet hedge, through which, between stone pillars, a driveway entered and mounted the shaded slope, turning and twisting until lost to view. but afar, standing on the distant crest, through the tree trunks and foliage janet saw one end of the mansion to which it led, and ventured timidly but eagerly in among the trees in the hope of satisfying her new-born curiosity. try as she would, she never could get any but disappointing and partial glimpses of a house which, because of the mystery of its setting, fired her imagination, started her to wondering why it was that some were permitted to live in the midst of such beauty while she was condemned to spend her days in fillmore street and the prison of the mill. she was not even allowed to look at it! the thought was like a cloud across the sun. however, when she had regained the tarvia road and walked a little way the shadow suddenly passed, and she stood surprised. the sight of a long common with its ancient trees in the fullness of glory, dense maples, sturdy oaks, strong, graceful elms that cast flickering, lacy shadows across the road filled her with satisfaction, with a sense of peace deepened by the awareness, in the background, ranged along the common on either side, of stately, dignified buildings, each in an appropriate frame of foliage. with the essence rather than the detail of all this her consciousness became steeped; she was naturally ignorant of the great good fortune of silliston academy of having been spared with one or two exceptions--donations during those artistically lean years of the nineteenth century when american architecture affected the gothic, the mansard, and the subsequent hybrid. she knew this must be silliston, the seat of that famous academy of which she had heard. the older school buildings and instructors' houses, most of them white or creamy yellow, were native colonial, with tall, graceful chimneys and classic pillars and delicate balustrades, eloquent at once of the racial inheritance of the republic and of a bygone individuality, dignity, and pride. and the modern architect, of whose work there was an abundance, had graciously and intuitively held this earlier note and developed it. he was an american, but an american who had been trained. the result was harmony, life as it should proceed, the new growing out of the old. and no greater tribute can be paid to janet bumpus than that it pleased her, struck and set exquisitely vibrating within her responsive chords. for the first time in her adult life she stood in the presence of tradition, of a tradition inherently if unconsciously the innermost reality of her being a tradition that miraculously was not dead, since after all the years it had begun to put forth these vigorous shoots.... what janet chiefly realized was the delicious, contented sense of having come, visually at least, to the home for which she had longed. but her humour was that of a child who has strayed, to find its true dwelling place in a region of beauty hitherto unexplored and unexperienced, tinged, therefore, with unreality, with mystery,--an effect enhanced by the chance stillness and emptiness of the place. she wandered up and down the common, whose vivid green was starred with golden dandelions; and then, spying the arched and shady vista of a lane, entered it, bent on new discoveries. it led past one of the newer buildings, the library--as she read in a carved inscription over the door--plunged into shade again presently to emerge at a square farmhouse, ancient and weathered, with a great square chimney thrust out of the very middle of the ridge-pole,--a landmark left by one of the earliest of silliston's settlers. presiding over it, embracing and protecting it, was a splendid tree. the place was evidently in process of reconstruction and repair, the roof had been newly shingled, new frames, with old-fashioned, tiny panes had been put in the windows; a little garden was being laid out under the sheltering branches of the tree, and between the lane and the garden, half finished, was a fence of an original and pleasing design, consisting of pillars placed at intervals with upright pickets between, the pickets sawed in curves, making a line that drooped in the middle. janet did not perceive the workman engaged in building this fence until the sound of his hammer attracted her attention. his back was bent, he was absorbed in his task. "are there any stores near here?" she inquired. he straightened up. "why yes," he replied, "come to think of it, i have seen stores, i'm sure i have." janet laughed; his expression, his manner of speech were so delightfully whimsical, so in keeping with the spirit of her day, and he seemed to accept her sudden appearance in the precise make-believe humour she could have wished. and yet she stood a little struck with timidity, puzzled by the contradictions he presented of youth and age, of shrewdness, experience and candour, of gentility and manual toil. he must have been about thirty-five; he was hatless, and his hair, uncombed but not unkempt, was greying at the temples; his eyes--which she noticed particularly--were keen yet kindly, the irises delicately stencilled in a remarkable blue; his speech was colloquial yet cultivated, his workman's clothes belied his bearing. "yes, there are stores, in the village," he went on, "but isn't it a holiday, or sunday--perhaps--or something of the kind?" "it's decoration day," she reminded him, with deepening surprise. "so it is! and all the storekeepers have gone on picnics in their automobiles, or else they're playing golf. nobody's working today." "but you--aren't you working?" she inquired. "working?" he repeated. "i suppose some people would call it work. i--i hadn't thought of it in that way." "you mean--you like it," janet was inspired to say. "well, yes," he confessed. "i suppose i do." her cheeks dimpled. if her wonder had increased, her embarrassment had flown, and he seemed suddenly an old acquaintance. she had, however, profound doubts now of his being a carpenter. "were you thinking of going shopping?" he asked, and at the very ludicrousness of the notion she laughed again. she discovered a keen relish for this kind of humour, but it was new to her experience, and she could not cope with it. "only to buy some crackers, or a sandwich," she replied, and blushed. "oh," he said. "down in the village, on the corner where the cars stop, is a restaurant. it's not as good as the parker house in boston, i believe, but they do have sandwiches, yes, and coffee. at least they call it coffee." "oh, thank you," she said. "you'd better wait till you try it," he warned her. "oh, i don't mind, i don't want much." and she was impelled to add: "it's such a beautiful day." "it's absurd to get hungry on such a day--absurd," he agreed. "yes, it is," she laughed. "i'm not really hungry, but i haven't time to get back to hampton for dinner." suddenly she grew hot at the thought that he might suspect her of hinting. "you see, i live in hampton," she went on hurriedly, "i'm a stenographer there, in the chippering mill, and i was just out for a walk, and--i came farther than i intended." she had made it worse. but he said, "oh, you came from hampton!" with an intonation of surprise, of incredulity even, that soothed and even amused while it did not deceive her. not that the superior intelligence of which she had begun to suspect him had been put to any real test by the discovery of her home, and she was quite sure her modest suit of blue serge and her $ . pongee blouse proclaimed her as a working girl of the mill city. "i've been to hampton," he declared, just as though it were four thousand miles away instead of four. "but i've never been here before, to silliston," she responded in the same spirit: and she added wistfully, "it must be nice to live in such a beautiful place as this!" "yes, it is nice," he agreed. "we have our troubles, too,--but it's nice." she ventured a second, appraising glance. his head, which he carried a little flung back, his voice, his easy and confident bearing--all these contradicted the saw and the hammer, the flannel shirt, open at the neck, the khaki trousers still bearing the price tag. and curiosity beginning to get the better of her, she was emboldened to pay a compliment to the fence. if one had to work, it must be a pleasure to work on things pleasing to the eye--such was her inference. "why, i'm glad you like it," he said heartily. "i was just hoping some one would come along here and admire it. now--what colour would you paint it?" "are you a painter, too?" "after a fashion. i'm a sort of man of all work--i thought of painting it white, with the pillars green." "i think that would be pretty," she answered, judicially, after a moment's thought. "what else can you do?" he appeared to be pondering his accomplishments. "well, i can doctor trees," he said, pointing an efficient finger at the magnificent maple sheltering, like a guardian deity, the old farmhouse. "i put in those patches." "they're cement," she exclaimed. "i never heard of putting cement in trees." "they don't seem to mind." "are the holes very deep?" "pretty deep." "but i should think the tree would be dead." "well, you see the life of a tree is right under the bark. if you can keep the outer covering intact, the tree will live." "why did you let the holes get so deep?" "i've just come here. the house was like the tree the shingles all rotten, but the beams were sound. those beams were hewn out of the forest two hundred and fifty years ago." "gracious!" said janet. "and how old is the tree?" "i should say about a hundred. i suppose it wouldn't care to admit it." "how do you know?" she inquired. "oh, i'm very intimate with trees. i find out their secrets." "it's your house!" she exclaimed, somewhat appalled by the discovery. "yes--yes it is," he answered, looking around at it and then in an indescribably comical manner down at his clothes. his gesture, his expression implied that her mistake was a most natural one. "excuse me, i thought--" she began, blushing hotly, yet wanting to laugh again. "i don't blame you--why shouldn't you?" he interrupted her. "i haven't got used to it yet, and there is something amusing about--my owning a house. when the parlour's finished i'll have to wear a stiff collar, i suppose, in order to live up to it." her laughter broke forth, and she tried to imagine him in a stiff collar.... but she was more perplexed than ever. she stood balancing on one foot, poised for departure. "i ought to be going," she said, as though she had been paying him a formal visit. "don't hurry," he protested cordially. "why hurry back to hampton?" "i never want to go back!" she cried with a vehemence that caused him to contemplate her anew, suddenly revealing the intense, passionate quality which had so disturbed mr. ditmar. she stood transformed. "i hate it!" she declared. "it's so ugly, i never want to see it again." "yes, it is ugly," he confessed. "since you admit it, i don't mind saying so. but it's interesting, in a way." though his humorous moods had delighted her, she felt subtly flattered because he had grown more serious. "it is interesting," she agreed. she was almost impelled to tell him why, in her excursions to the various quarters, she had found hampton interesting, but a shyness born of respect for the store of knowledge she divined in him restrained her. she was curious to know what this man saw in hampton. his opinion would be worth something. unlike her neighbours in fillmore street, he was not what her sister lise would call "nutty"; he had an air of fine sanity, of freedom, of detachment,--though the word did not occur to her; he betrayed no bitter sense of injustice, and his beliefs were uncoloured by the obsession of a single panacea. "why do you think it's interesting?" she demanded. "well, i'm always expecting to hear that it's blown up. it reminds me of nitro-glycerine," he added, smiling. she repeated the word. "an explosive, you know--they put it in dynamite. they say a man once made it by accident, and locked up his laboratory and ran home--and never went back." "i know what you mean!" she cried, her eyes alight with excitement. "all those foreigners! i've felt it that something would happen, some day, it frightened me, and yet i wished that something would happen. only, i never would have thought of--nitro-glycerine." she was unaware of the added interest in his regard. but he answered lightly enough:--"oh, not only the foreigners. human chemicals--you can't play with human chemicals any more than you can play with real ones--you've got to know something about chemistry." this remark was beyond her depth. "who is playing with them?" she asked. "everybody--no one in particular. nobody seems to know much about them, yet," he replied, and seemed disinclined to pursue the subject. a robin with a worm in its bill was hopping across the grass; he whistled softly, the bird stopped, cocking its head and regarding them. suddenly, in conflict with her desire to remain indefinitely talking with this strange man, janet felt an intense impulse to leave. she could bear the conversation no longer, she might burst into tears--such was the extraordinary effect he had produced on her. "i must go,--i'm ever so much obliged to you," she said. "drop in again," he said, as he took her trembling hand .... when she had walked a little way she looked back over her shoulder to see him leaning idly against the post, gazing after her, and waving his hammer in friendly fashion. for a while her feet fairly flew, and her heart beat tumultuously, keeping time with her racing thoughts. she walked about the common, seeing nothing, paying no attention to the passers-by, who glanced at her curiously. but at length as she grew calmer the needs of a youthful and vigorous body became imperative, and realizing suddenly that she was tired and hungry, sought and found the little restaurant in the village below. she journeyed back to hampton pondering what this man had said to her; speculating, rather breathlessly, whether he had been impelled to conversation by a natural kindness and courtesy, or whether he really had discovered something in her worthy of addressing, as he implied. resentment burned in her breast, she became suddenly blinded by tears: she might never see him again, and if only she were "educated" she might know him, become his friend. even in this desire she was not conventional, and in the few moments of their contact he had developed rather than transformed what she meant by "education." she thought of it not as knowledge reeking of books and schools, but as the acquirement of the freemasonry which he so evidently possessed, existence on terms of understanding, confidence, and freedom with nature; as having the world open up to one like a flower filled with colour and life. she thought of the robin, of the tree whose secrets he had learned, of a mental range including even that medley of human beings amongst whom she lived. and the fact that something of his meaning had eluded her grasp made her rebel all the more bitterly against the lack of a greater knowledge .... often during the weeks that followed he dwelt in her mind as she sat at her desk and stared out across the river, and several times that summer she started to walk to silliston. but always she turned back. perhaps she feared to break the charm of that memory.... chapter iv our american climate is notoriously capricious. even as janet trudged homeward on that memorial day afternoon from her cinderella-like adventure in silliston the sun grew hot, the air lost its tonic, becoming moist and tepid, white clouds with dark edges were piled up in the western sky. the automobiles of the holiday makers swarmed ceaselessly over the tarvia. valiantly as she strove to cling to her dream, remorseless reality was at work dragging her back, reclaiming her; excitement and physical exercise drained her vitality, her feet were sore, sadness invaded her as she came in view of the ragged outline of the city she had left so joyfully in the morning. summer, that most depressing of seasons in an environment of drab houses and grey pavements, was at hand, listless householders and their families were already, seeking refuge on front steps she passed on her way to fillmore street. it was about half past five when she arrived. lise, her waist removed, was seated in a rocking chair at the window overlooking the littered yards and the backs of the tenements on rutger street. and lise, despite the heaviness of the air, was dreaming. of such delicate texture was the fabric of janet's dreams that not only sordid reality, but contact with other dreams of a different nature, such as her sister's, often sufficed to dissolve them. she resented, for instance, the presence in the plush oval of mr. eustace arlington; the movie star whose likeness had replaced mr. wiley's, and who had played the part of the western hero in "leila of hawtrey's." with his burning eyes and sensual face betraying the puffiness that comes from over-indulgence, he was not janet's ideal of a hero, western or otherwise. and now lise was holding a newspaper: not the banner, whose provinciality she scorned, but a popular boston sheet to be had for a cent, printed at ten in the morning and labelled "three o'clock edition," with huge red headlines stretched across the top of the page:-- "jury finds in miss nealy's favor." as janet entered lise looked up and exclaimed:--"say, that nealy girl's won out!" "who is she?" janet inquired listlessly. "you are from the country, all right," was her sister's rejoinder. "i would have bet there wasn't a reub in the state that wasn't wise to the ferris breach of promise case, and here you blow in after the show's over and want to know who nelly nealy is. if that doesn't beat the band!" "this woman sued a man named ferris--is that it?" "a man named ferris!" lise repeated, with the air of being appalled by her sister's ignorance. "i guess you never heard of ferris, either--the biggest copper man in boston. he could buy hampton, and never feel it, and they say his house in brighton cost half a million dollars. nelly nealy put her damages at one hundred and fifty thousand and stung him for seventy five. i wish i'd been in court when that jury came back! there's her picture." to janet, especially in the mood of reaction in which she found herself that evening, lise's intense excitement, passionate partisanship and approval of miss nealy were incomprehensible, repellent. however, she took the sheet, gazing at the image of the lady who, recently an obscure stenographer, had suddenly leaped into fame and become a "headliner," the envied of thousands of working girls all over new england. miss nealy, in spite of the "glare of publicity" she deplored, had borne up admirably under the strain, and evidently had been able to consume three meals a day and give some thought to her costumes. her smile under the picture hat was coquettish, if not bold. the special article, signed by a lady reporter whose sympathies were by no means concealed and whose talents were given free rein, related how the white-haired mother had wept tears of joy; how miss nealy herself had been awhile too overcome to speak, and then had recovered sufficiently to express her gratitude to the twelve gentlemen who had vindicated the honour of american womanhood. mr. ferris, she reiterated, was a brute; never as long as she lived would she be able to forget how she had loved and believed in him, and how, when at length she unwillingly became convinces of his perfidy, she had been "prostrated," unable to support her old mother. she had not, naturally, yet decided how she would invest her fortune; as for going on the stage, that had been suggested, but she had made no plans. "scores of women sympathizers" had escorted her to a waiting automobile.... janet, impelled by the fascination akin to disgust, read thus far, and flinging the newspaper on the floor, began to tidy herself for supper. but presently, when she heard lise sigh, she could contain herself no longer. "i don't see how you can read such stuff as that," she exclaimed. "it's--it's horrible." "horrible?" lise repeated. janet swung round from the washbasin, her hands dripping. "instead of getting seventy five thousand dollars she ought to be tarred and feathered. she's nothing but a blackmailer." lise, aroused from her visions, demanded vehemently "ain't he a millionaire?" "what difference does that make?" janet retorted. "and you can't tell me she didn't know what she was up to all along--with that face." "i'd have sued him, all right," declared lise, defiantly. "then you'd be a blackmailer, too. i'd sooner scrub floors, i'd sooner starve than do such a thing--take money for my affections. in the first place, i'd have more pride, and in the second place, if i really loved a man, seventy five thousand or seventy five million dollars wouldn't help me any. where do you get such ideas? decent people don't have them." janet turned to the basin again and began rubbing her face vigorously--ceasing for an instance to make sure of the identity of a sound reaching her ears despite the splashing of water. lise was sobbing. janet dried her face and hands, arranged her hair, and sat down on the windowsill; the scorn and anger, which had been so intense as completely to possess her, melting into a pity and contempt not unmixed with bewilderment. ordinarily lise was hard, impervious to such reproaches, holding her own in the passionate quarrels that occasionally took place between them yet there were times, such as this, when her resistance broke down unexpectedly, and she lost all self control. she rocked to and fro in the chair, her shoulders bowed, her face hidden in her hands. janet reached out and touched her. "don't be silly," she began, rather sharply, "just because i said it was a disgrace to have such ideas. well, it is." "i'm not silly," said lise. "i'm sick of that job at the bagatelle" --sob--"there's nothing in it--i'm going to quit--i wish to god i was dead! standing on your feet all day till you're wore out for six dollars a week--what's there in it?"--sob--"with that guy walters who walks the floor never lettin' up on you. he come up to me yesterday and says, `i didn't know you was near sighted, miss bumpus' just because there was a customer annie hatch was too lazy to wait on"--sob--"that's his line of dope--thinks he's sarcastic--and he's sweet on annie. tomorrow i'm going to tell him to go to hell. i'm through i'm sick of it, i tell you"--sob--"i'd rather be dead than slave like that for six dollars." "where are you going?" asked janet. "i don't know--i don't care. what's the difference? any place'd be better than this." for awhile she continued to cry on a ridiculously high, though subdued, whining note, her breath catching at intervals. a feeling of helplessness, of utter desolation crept over janet; powerless to comfort herself, how could she comfort her sister? she glanced around the familiar, sordid room, at the magazine pages against the faded wall-paper, at the littered bureau and the littered bed, over which lise's clothes were flung. it was hot and close even now, in summer it would be stifling. suddenly a flash of sympathy revealed to her a glimpse of the truth that lise, too, after her own nature, sought beauty and freedom! never did she come as near comprehending lise as in such moments as this, and when, on dark winter mornings, her sister clung to her, terrified by the siren. lise was a child, and the thought that she, janet, was powerless to change her was a part of the tragic tenderness. what would become of lise? and what would become of her, janet?... so she clung, desperately, to her sister's hand until at last lise roused herself, her hair awry, her face puckered and wet with tears and perspiration. "i can't stand it any more--i've just got to go away anywhere," she said, and the cry found an echo in janet's heart.... but the next morning lise went back to the bagatelle, and janet to the mill.... the fact that lise's love affairs had not been prospering undoubtedly had something to do with the fit of depression into which she had fallen that evening. a month or so before she had acquired another beau. it was understood by lise's friends and lise's family, though not by the gentleman himself, that his position was only temporary or at most probationary; he had not even succeeded to the rights, title, and privileges of the late mr. wiley, though occupying a higher position in the social scale--being the agent of a patent lawn sprinkler with an office in faber street. "stick to him and you'll wear diamonds--that's what he tries to put across," was lise's comment on mr. frear's method, and thus janet gained the impression that her sister's feelings were not deeply involved. "if i thought he'd make good with the sprinkler i might talk business. but say, he's one of those ginks that's always tryin' to beat the bank. he's never done a day's work in his life. last year he was passing around foley's magazine, and before that he was with the race track that went out of business because the ministers got nutty over it. well, he may win out," she added reflectively, "those guys sometimes do put the game on the blink. he sure is a good spender when the orders come in, with a line of talk to make you holler for mercy." mr. frear's "line of talk" came wholly, astonishingly, from one side of his mouth--the left side. as a muscular feat it was a triumph. a deaf person on his right side would not have known he was speaking. the effect was secretive, extraordinarily confidential; enabling him to sell sprinklers, it ought to have helped him to make love, so distinctly personal was it, implying as it did that the individual addressed was alone of all the world worthy of consideration. among his friends it was regarded as an accomplishment, but lise was critical, especially since he did not look into one's eyes, but gazed off into space, as though he weren't talking at all. she had once inquired if the right side of his face was paralyzed. she permitted him to take her, however, to gruber's cafe, to the movies, and one or two select dance halls, and to slattery's riverside park, where one evening she had encountered the rejected mr. wiley. "say, he was sore!" she told janet the next morning, relating the incident with relish, "for two cents he would have knocked charlie over the ropes. i guess he could do it, too, all right." janet found it curious that lise should display such vindictiveness toward mr. wiley, who was more sinned against than sinning. she was moved to inquire after his welfare. "he's got one of them red motorcycles," said lise. "he was gay with it too--when we was waiting for the boulevard trolley he opened her up and went right between charlie and me. i had to laugh. he's got a job over in haverhill you can't hold that guy under water long." apparently lise had no regrets. but her premonitions concerning mr. frear proved to be justified. he did not "make good." one morning the little office on faber street where the sprinklers were displayed was closed, hampton knew him no more, and the police alone were sincerely regretful. it seemed that of late he had been keeping all the money for the sprinklers, and spending a good deal of it on lise. at the time she accepted the affair with stoical pessimism, as one who has learned what to expect of the world, though her moral sense was not profoundly disturbed by the reflection that she had indulged in the delights of slattery's and gruber's and a sunday at "the beach" at the expense of the cascade sprinkler company of boston. mr. frear inconsiderately neglected to prepare her for his departure, the news of which was conveyed to her in a singular manner, and by none other than mr. johnny tiernan of the tin shop,--their conversation throwing some light, not only on lise's sophistication, but on the admirable and intricate operation of hampton's city government. about five o'clock lise was coming home along fillmore street after an uneventful, tedious and manless holiday spent in the company of miss schuler and other friends when she perceived mr. tiernan seated on his steps, grinning and waving a tattered palm-leaf fan. "the mercury is sure on the jump," he observed. "you'd think it was july." and lise agreed. "i suppose you'll be going to tim slattery's place tonight," he went on. "it's the coolest spot this side of the atlantic ocean." there was, apparently, nothing cryptic in this remark, yet it is worth noting that lise instantly became suspicious. "why would i be going out there?" she inquired innocently, darting at him a dark, coquettish glance. mr. tiernan regarded her guilelessly, but there was admiration in his soul; not because of her unquestioned feminine attractions,--he being somewhat amazingly proof against such things,--but because it was conveyed to him in some unaccountable way that her suspicions were aroused. the brain beneath that corkscrew hair was worthy of a richelieu. mr. tiernan's estimate of miss lise bumpus, if he could have been induced to reveal it, would have been worth listening to. "and why wouldn't you?" he replied heartily. "don't i see all the pretty young ladies out there, including yourself, and you dancing with the cascade man. why is it you'll never give me a dance?" "why is it you never ask me?" demanded lise. "what chance have i got, against him?" "he don't own me," said lise. mr. tiernan threw back his head, and laughed. "well, if you're there to-night, tangoin' with him and i come up and says, `miss bumpus, the pleasure is mine,' i'm wondering what would happen." "i'm not going to slattery's to-night," she declared having that instant arrived at this conclusion. "and where then? i'll come along, if there's a chance for me." "quit your kidding," lise reproved him. mr. tiernan suddenly looked very solemn: "kidding, is it? me kiddin' you? give me a chance, that's all i'm asking. where will you be, now?" "is frear wanted?" she demanded. mr. tiernan's expression changed. his nose seemed to become more pointed, his eyes to twinkle more merrily than ever. he didn't take the trouble, now, to conceal his admiration. "sure, miss bumpus," he said, "if you was a man, we'd have you on the force to-morrow." "what's he wanted for?" "well," said johnny, "a little matter of sprinklin'. he's been sprinklin' his company's water without a license." she was silent a moment before she exclaimed:--"i ought to have been wise that he was a crook!" "well," said johnny consolingly, "there's others that ought to have been wise, too. the cascade people had no business takin' on a man that couldn't use but half of his mouth." this seemed to lise a reflection on her judgment. she proceeded to clear herself. "he was nothing to me. he never gave me no rest. he used to come 'round and pester me to go out with him--" "sure!" interrupted mr. tiernan. "don't i know how it is with the likes of him! a good time's a good time, and no harm in it. but the point is" and here he cocked his nose--"the point is, where is he? where will he be tonight?" all at once lise grew vehement, almost tearful. "i don't know--honest to god, i don't. if i did i'd tell you. last night he said he might be out of town. he didn't say where he was going." she fumbled in her bag, drawing out an imitation lace handkerchief and pressing it to her eyes. "there now!" exclaimed mr. tiernan, soothingly. "how would you know? and he deceivin' you like he did the company--" "he didn't deceive me," cried lise. "listen," said mr. tiernan, who had risen and laid his hand on her arm. "it's not young ladies like you that works and are self-respecting that any one would be troublin', and you the daughter of such a fine man as your father. run along, now, i won't be detaining you, miss bumpus, and you'll accept my apology. i guess we'll never see him in hampton again...." some twenty minutes later he sauntered down the street, saluting acquaintances, and threading his way across the common entered a grimy brick building where a huge policeman with an insignia on his arm was seated behind a desk. mr. tiernan leaned on the desk, and reflectively lighted a thomas-jefferson-five-cent cigar, union label, the excellencies of which were set forth on large signs above the "ten foot" buildings on faber street. "she don't know nothing, mike," he remarked. "i guess he got wise this morning." the sergeant nodded.... chapter v to feel potential within one's self the capacity to live and yet to have no means of realizing this capacity is doubtless one of the least comfortable and agreeable of human experiences. such, as summer came on, was janet's case. the memory of that visit to silliston lingered in her mind, sometimes to flare up so vividly as to make her existence seem unbearable. how wonderful, she thought, to be able to dwell in such a beautiful place, to have as friends and companions such amusing and intelligent people as the stranger with whom she had talked! were all the inhabitants of silliston like him? they must be, since it was a seat of learning. lise's cry, "i've just got to go away, anywhere," found an echo in janet's soul. why shouldn't she go away? she was capable of taking care of herself, she was a good stenographer, her salary had been raised twice in two years,--why should she allow consideration for her family to stand in the way of what she felt would be self realization? unconsciously she was a true modern in that the virtues known as duty and self sacrifice did not appeal to her,--she got from them neither benefit nor satisfaction, she understood instinctively that they were impeding to growth. unlike lise, she was able to see life as it is, she did not expect of it miracles, economic or matrimonial. nothing would happen unless she made it happen. she was twenty-one, earning nine dollars a week, of which she now contributed five to the household,--her father, with characteristic incompetence, having taken out a larger insurance policy than he could reasonably carry. of the remaining four dollars she spent more than one on lunches, there were dresses and underclothing, shoes and stockings to buy, in spite of darning and mending; little treats with eda that mounted up; and occasionally the dentist--for janet would not neglect her teeth as lise neglected hers. she managed to save something, but it was very little. and she was desperately unhappy when she contemplated the grey and monotonous vista of the years ahead, saw herself growing older and older, driven always by the stern necessity of accumulating a margin against possible disasters; little by little drying up, losing, by withering disuse, those rich faculties of enjoyment with which she was endowed, and which at once fascinated and frightened her. marriage, in such an environment, offered no solution; marriage meant dependence, from which her very nature revolted: and in her existence, drab and necessitous though it were, was still a remnant of freedom that marriage would compel her to surrender.... one warm evening, oppressed by such reflections, she had started home when she remembered having left her bag in the office, and retraced her steps. as she turned the corner of west street, she saw, beside the canal and directly in front of the bridge, a new and smart-looking automobile, painted crimson and black, of the type known as a runabout, which she recognized as belonging to mr. ditmar. indeed, at that moment mr. ditmar himself was stepping off the end of the bridge and about to start the engine when, dropping the crank, he walked to the dashboard and apparently became absorbed in some mechanisms there. was it the glance cast in her direction that had caused him to delay his departure? janet was seized by a sudden and rather absurd desire to retreat, but canal street being empty, such an action would appear eccentric, and she came slowly forward, pretending not to see her employer, ridiculing to herself the idea that he had noticed her. much to her annoyance, however, her embarrassment persisted, and she knew it was due to the memory of certain incidents, each in itself almost negligible, but cumulatively amounting to a suspicion that for some months he had been aware of her: many times when he had passed through the outer office she had felt his eyes upon her, had been impelled to look up from her work to surprise in them a certain glow to make her bow her head again in warm confusion. now, as she approached him, she was pleasantly but rather guiltily conscious of the more rapid beating of the blood that precedes an adventure, yet sufficiently self-possessed to note the becoming nature of the light flannel suit axed rather rakish panama he had pushed back from his forehead. it was not until she had almost passed him that he straightened up, lifted the panama, tentatively, and not too far, startling her. "good afternoon, miss bumpus," he said. "i thought you had gone." "i left my bag in the office," she replied, with the outward calmness that rarely deserted her--the calmness, indeed, that had piqued him and was leading him on to rashness. "oh," he said. "simmons will get it for you." simmons was the watchman who stood in the vestibule of the office entrance. "thanks. i can get it myself," she told him, and would have gone on had he not addressed her again. "i was just starting out for a spin. what do you think of the car? it's good looking, isn't it?" he stood off and surveyed it, laughing a little, and in his laugh she detected a note apologetic, at variance with the conception she had formed of his character, though not alien, indeed, to the dust-coloured vigour of the man. she scarcely recognized ditmar as he stood there, yet he excited her, she felt from him an undercurrent of something that caused her inwardly to tremble. "see how the lines are carried through." he indicated this by a wave of his hand, but his eyes were now on her. "it is pretty," she agreed. in contrast to the defensive tactics which other ladies of his acquaintance had adopted, tactics of a patently coy and coquettish nature, this self-collected manner was new and spicy, challenging to powers never as yet fully exerted while beneath her manner he felt throbbing that rare and dangerous thing in women, a temperament, for which men have given their souls. this conviction of her possession of a temperament,--he could not have defined the word, emotional rather than intellectual, produced the apologetic attitude she was quick to sense. he had never been, at least during his maturity, at a loss with the other sex, and he found the experience delicious. "you like pretty things, i'm sure of that," he hazarded. but she did not ask him how he knew, she simply assented. he raised the hood, revealing the engine. "isn't that pretty? see how nicely everything is adjusted in that little space to do the particular work for which it is designed." thus appealed to, she came forward and stopped, still standing off a little way, but near enough to see, gazing at the shining copper caps on the cylinders, at the bright rods and gears. "it looks intricate," said mr. ditmar, "but really it's very simple. the gasoline comes in here from the tank behind--this is called the carburetor, it has a jet to vaporize the gasoline, and the vapour is sucked into each of these cylinders in turn when the piston moves--like this." he sought to explain the action of the piston. "that compresses it, and then a tiny electric spark comes just at the right moment to explode it, and the explosion sends the piston down again, and turns the shaft. well, all four cylinders have an explosion one right after another, and that keeps the shaft going." whereupon the most important personage in hampton, the head of the great chippering mill proceeded, for the benefit of a humble assistant stenographer, to remove the floor boards behind the dash. "there's the shaft, come here and look at it." she obeyed, standing beside him, almost touching him, his arm, indeed, brushing her sleeve, and into his voice crept a tremor. "the shaft turns the rear wheels by means of a gear at right angles on the axle, and the rear wheels drive the car. do you see?" "yes," she answered faintly, honesty compelling her to add: "a little." he was looking, now, not at the machinery, but intently at her, and she could feel the blood flooding into her cheeks and temples. she was even compelled for an instant to return his glance, and from his eyes into hers leaped a flame that ran scorching through her body. then she knew with conviction that the explanation of the automobile had been an excuse; she had comprehended almost nothing of it, but she had been impressed by the facility with which he described it, by his evident mastery over it. she had noticed his hands, how thick his fingers were and close together; yet how deftly he had used them, without smearing the cuffs of his silk shirt or the sleeves of his coat with the oil that glistened everywhere. "i like machinery," he told her as he replaced the boards. "i like to take care of it myself." "it must be interesting," she assented, aware of the inadequacy of the remark, and resenting in herself an inarticulateness seemingly imposed by inhibition connected with his nearness. fascination and antagonism were struggling within her. her desire to get away grew desperate. "thank you for showing it to me." with an effort of will she moved toward the bridge, but was impelled by a consciousness of the abruptness of her departure to look back at him once--and smile, to experience again the thrill of the current he sped after her. by lifting his hat, a little higher, a little more confidently than in the first instance, he made her leaving seem more gracious, the act somehow conveying an acknowledgment on his part that their relationship had changed. once across the bridge and in the mill, she fairly ran up the stairs and into the empty office, to perceive her bag lying on the desk where she had left it, and sat down for a few minutes beside the window, her heart pounding in her breast as though she had barely escaped an accident threatening her with physical annihilation. something had happened to her at last! but what did it mean? where would it lead? her fear, her antagonism, of which she was still conscious, her resentment that ditmar had thus surreptitiously chosen to approach her in a moment when they were unobserved were mingled with a throbbing exultation in that he had noticed her, that there was something in her to attract him in that way, to make his voice thicker and his smile apologetic when he spoke to her. of that "something-in-her" she had been aware before, but never had it been so unmistakably recognized and beckoned to from without. she was at once terrified, excited--and flattered. at length, growing calmer, she made her way out of the building. when she reached the vestibule she had a moment of sharp apprehension, of paradoxical hope, that ditmar might still be there, awaiting her. but he had gone.... in spite of her efforts to dismiss the matter from her mind, to persuade herself there had been no significance in the encounter, when she was seated at her typewriter the next morning she experienced a renewal of the palpitation of the evening before, and at the sound of every step in the corridor she started. of this tendency she was profoundly ashamed. and when at last ditmar arrived, though the blood rose to her temples, she kept her eyes fixed on the keys. he went quickly into his room: she was convinced he had not so much as glanced at her.... as the days went by, however, she was annoyed by the discovery that his continued ignoring of her presence brought more resentment than relief, she detected in it a deliberation implying between them a guilty secret: she hated secrecy, though secrecy contained a thrill. then, one morning when she was alone in the office with young caldwell, who was absorbed in some reports, ditmar entered unexpectedly and looked her full in the eyes, surprising her into answering his glance before she could turn away, hating herself and hating him. hate, she determined, was her prevailing sentiment in regard to mr. ditmar. the following monday miss ottway overtook her, at noon, on the stairs. "janet, i wanted to speak to you, to tell you i'm leaving," she said. "leaving!" repeated janet, who had regarded miss ottway as a fixture. "i'm going to boston," miss ottway explained, in her deep, musical voice. "i've always wanted to go, i have an unmarried sister there of whom i'm very fond, and mr. ditmar knows that. he's got me a place with the treasurer, mr. semple." "oh, i'm sorry you're going, though of course i'm glad for you," janet said sincerely, for she liked and respected miss ottway, and was conscious in the older woman of a certain kindly interest. "janet, i've recommended you to mr. ditmar for my place." "oh!" cried janet, faintly. "it was he who asked about you, he thinks you are reliable and quick and clever, and i was very glad to say a good word for you, my dear, since i could honestly do so." miss ottway drew janet's arm through hers and patted it affectionately. "of course you'll have to expect some jealousy, there are older women in the other offices who will think they ought to have the place, but if you attend to your own affairs, as you always have done, there won't be any trouble." "oh, i won't take the place, i can't!" janet cried, so passionately that miss ottway looked at her in surprise. "i'm awfully grateful to you," she added, flushing crimson, "i--i'm afraid i'm not equal to it." "nonsense," said the other with decision. "you'd be very foolish not to try it. you won't get as much as i do, at first, at any rate, but a little more money won't be unwelcome, i guess. mr. ditmar will speak to you this afternoon. i leave on saturday. i'm real glad to do you a good turn, janet, and i know you'll get along," miss ottway added impulsively as they parted at the corner of faber street. "i've always thought a good deal of you." for awhile janet stood still, staring after the sturdy figure of her friend, heedless of the noonday crowd that bumped her. then she went to grady's quick lunch counter and ordered a sandwich and a glass of milk, which she consumed slowly, profoundly sunk in thought. presently eda rawle arrived, and noticing her preoccupation, inquired what was the matter. "nothing," said janet.... at two o'clock, when ditmar returned to the office, he called miss ottway, who presently came out to summon janet to his presence. fresh, immaculate, yet virile in his light suit and silk shirt with red stripes, he was seated at his desk engaged in turning over some papers in a drawer. he kept her waiting a moment, and then said, with apparent casualness:--"is that you, miss bumpus? would you mind closing the door?" janet obeyed, and again stood before him. he looked up. a suggestion of tenseness in her pose betraying an inner attitude of alertness, of defiance, conveyed to him sharply and deliciously once more the panther-like impression he had received when first, as a woman, she had come to his notice. the renewed and heightened perception of this feral quality in her aroused a sense of danger by no means unpleasurable, though warning him that he was about to take an unprecedented step, being drawn beyond the limits of caution he had previously set for himself in divorcing business and sex. though he was by no means self-convinced of an intention to push the adventure, preferring to leave its possibilities open, he strove in voice and manner to be business-like; and instinct, perhaps, whispered that she might take alarm. "sit down, miss bumpus," he said pleasantly, as he closed the drawer. she seated herself on an office chair. "do you like your work here?" he inquired. "no," said janet. "why not?" he demanded, staring at her. "why should i?" she retorted. "well--what's the trouble with it? it isn't as hard as it would be in some other places, is it?" "i'm not saying anything against the place." "what, then?" "you asked me if i liked my work. i don't." "then why do you do it?" he demanded. "to live," she replied. he smiled, but his gesture as he stroked his moustache implied a slight annoyance at her composure. he found it difficult with this dark, self-contained young woman to sustain the role of benefactor. "what kind of work would you like to do?" he demanded. "i don't know. i haven't got the choice, anyway," she said. he observed that she did her work well, to which she made no answer. she refused to help him, although miss ottway must have warned her. she acted as though she were conferring the favour. and yet, clearing his throat, he was impelled to say:--"miss ottway's leaving me, she's going into the boston office with mr. semple, the treasurer of the corporation. i shall miss her, she's an able and reliable woman, and she knows my ways." he paused, fingering his paper knife. "the fact is, miss bumpus, she's spoken highly of you, she tells me you're quick and accurate and painstaking--i've noticed that for myself. she seems to think you could do her work, and recommends that i give you a trial. you understand, of course, that the position is in a way confidential, and that you could not expect at first, at any rate, the salary miss ottway has had, but i'm willing to offer you fourteen dollars a week to begin with, and afterwards, if we get along together, to give you more. what do you say?" "i'd like to try it, mr. ditmar," janet said, and added nothing, no word of gratitude or of appreciation to that consent. "very well then," he replied, "that's settled. miss ottway will explain things to you, and tell you about my peculiarities. and when she goes you can take her desk, by the window nearest my door." ditmar sat idle for some minutes after she had gone, staring through the open doorway into the outer office.... to ditmar she had given no evidence of the storm his offer had created in her breast, and it was characteristic also that she waited until supper was nearly over to inform her family, making the announcement in a matter-of-fact tone, just as though it were not the unique piece of good fortune that had come to the bumpuses since edward had been eliminated from the mercantile establishment at dolton. the news was received with something like consternation. for the moment hannah was incapable of speech, and her hand trembled as she resumed the cutting of the pie: but hope surged within her despite her effort to keep it down, her determination to remain true to the fatalism from which she had paradoxically derived so much comfort. the effect on edward, while somewhat less violent, was temporarily to take away his appetite. hope, to flower in him, needed but little watering. great was his faith in the bumpus blood, and secretly he had always regarded his eldest daughter as the chosen vessel for their redemption. "well, i swan!" he exclaimed, staring at her in admiration and neglecting his pie, "i've always thought you had it in you to get on, janet. i guess i've told you you've always put me in mind of eliza bumpus--the one that held out against the indians till her husband came back with the neighbours. i was just reading about her again the other night." "yes, you've told us, edward," said hannah. "she had gumption," he went on, undismayed. "and from what i can gather of her looks i calculate you favour her--she was dark and not so very tall--not so tall as you, i guess. so you're goin'" (he pronounced it very slowly) "you're goin' to be mr. ditmar's private stenographer! he's a smart man, mr. ditmar, he's a good man, too. all you've got to do is to behave right by him. he always speaks to me when he passes by the gate. i was sorry for him when his wife died--a young woman, too. and he's never married again! well, i swan!" "you'd better quit swanning," exclaimed hannah. "and what's mr. ditmar's goodness got to do with it? he's found-out janet has sense, she's willing and hard working, he won't" (pronounced want) "he won't be the loser by it, and he's not giving her what he gave miss ottway. it's just like you, thinking he's doing her a good turn." "i'm not saying janet isn't smart," he protested, "but i know it's hard to get work with so many folks after every job." "maybe it ain't so hard when you've got some get-up and go," hannah retorted rather cruelly. it was thus characteristically and with unintentional sharpness she expressed her maternal pride by a reflection not only upon edward, but lise also. janet had grown warm at the mention of ditmar's name. "it was miss ottway who recommended me," she said, glancing at her sister, who during this conversation had sat in silence. lise's expression, normally suggestive of a discontent not unbecoming to her type, had grown almost sullen. hannah's brisk gathering up of the dishes was suddenly arrested. "lise, why don't you say something to your sister? ain't you glad she's got the place?" "sure, i'm glad," said lise, and began to unscrew the top of the salt shaker. "i don't see why i couldn't get a raise, too. i work just as hard as she does." edward, who had never got a "raise" in his life, was smitten with compunction and sympathy. "give 'em time, lise," he said consolingly. "you ain't so old as janet." "time!" she cried, flaring up and suddenly losing her control. "i've got a picture of waiters giving me a raise i know the girls that get raises from him." "you ought to be ashamed of yourself," hannah declared. "there--you've spilled the salt!" but lise, suddenly bursting into tears, got up and left the room. edward picked up the banner and pretended to read it, while janet collected the salt and put it back into the shaker. hannah, gathering up the rest of the dishes, disappeared into the kitchen, but presently returned, as though she had forgotten something. "hadn't you better go after her?" she said to janet. "i'm afraid it won't be any use. she's got sort of queer, lately--she thinks they're down on her." "i'm sorry i spoke so sharp. but then--" hannah shook her head, and her sentence remained unfinished. janet sought her sister, but returned after a brief interval, with the news that lise had gone out. one of the delights of friendship, as is well known, is the exchange of confidences of joy or sorrow, but there was, in janet's promotion, something intensely personal to increase her natural reserve. her feelings toward ditmar were so mingled as to defy analysis, and several days went by before she could bring herself to inform eda rawle of the new business relationship in which she stood to the agent of the chippering mill. the sky was still bright as they walked out warren street after supper, eda bewailing the trials of the day just ended: mr. frye, the cashier of the bank, had had one of his cantankerous fits, had found fault with her punctuation, nothing she had done had pleased him. but presently, when they had come to what the banner called the "residential district," she was cheered by the sight of the green lawns, the flowerbeds and shrubbery, the mansions of those inhabitants of hampton unfamiliar with boardinghouses and tenements. before one of these she paused, retaining janet by the arm, exclaiming wistfully: "wouldn't you like to live there? that belongs to your boss." janet, who had been dreaming as she gazed at the facade of rough stucco that once had sufficed to fill the ambitions of the late mrs. ditmar, recognized it as soon as eda spoke, and dragged her friend hastily, almost roughly along the sidewalk until they had reached the end of the block. janet was red. "what's the matter?" demanded eda, as soon as she had recovered from her surprise. "nothing," said janet. "only--i'm in his office." "but what of it? you've got a right to look at his house, haven't you?" "why yes,--a right," janet assented. knowing eda's ambitions for her were not those of a business career, she was in terror lest her friend should scent a romance, and for this reason she had never spoken of the symptoms ditmar had betrayed. she attempted to convey to eda the doubtful taste of staring point-blank at the house of one's employer, especially when he might be concealed behind a curtain. "you see," she added, "miss ottway's recommended me for her place--she's going away." "janet!" cried eda. "why didn't you tell me?" "well," said janet guiltily, "it's only a trial. i don't know whether he'll keep me or not." "of course he'll keep you," said eda, warmly. "if that isn't just like you, not saying a word about it. gee, if i'd had a raise like that i just couldn't wait to tell you. but then, i'm not smart like you." "don't be silly," said janet, out of humour with herself, and annoyed because she could not then appreciate eda's generosity. "we've just got to celebrate!" declared eda, who had the gift, which janet lacked, of taking her joys vicariously; and her romantic and somewhat medieval proclivities would permit no such momentous occasion to pass without an appropriate festal symbol. "we'll have a spree on saturday--the circus is coming then." "it'll be my spree," insisted janet, her heart warming. "i've got the raise...." on saturday, accordingly, they met at grady's for lunch, eda attired in her best blouse of pale blue, and when they emerged from the restaurant, despite the torrid heat, she beheld faber street as in holiday garb as they made their way to the cool recesses of winterhalter's to complete the feast. that glorified drug-store with the five bays included in its manifold functions a department rivalling delmonico's, with electric fans and marble-topped tables and white-clad waiters who took one's order and filled it at the soda fountain. it mattered little to eda that the young man awaiting their commands had pimples and long hair and grinned affectionately as he greeted them. "hello, girls!" he said. "what strikes you to-day?" "me for a raspberry nut sundae," announced eda, and janet, being unable to imagine any more delectable confection, assented. the penetrating odour peculiar to drugstores, dominated by menthol and some unnamable but ancient remedy for catarrh, was powerless to interfere with their enjoyment. the circus began at two. rather than cling to the straps of a crowded car they chose to walk, following the familiar route of the trolley past the car barns and the base-ball park to the bare field under the seared face of torrey's hill, where circuses were wont to settle. a sirocco-like breeze from the southwest whirled into eddies the clouds of germ-laden dust stirred up by the automobiles, blowing their skirts against their legs, and sometimes they were forced to turn, clinging to their hats, confused and giggling, conscious of male glances. the crowd, increasing as they proceeded, was in holiday mood; young men with a newly-washed aspect, in faber street suits, chaffed boisterously groups of girls, who retorted with shrill cries and shrieks of laughter; amorous couples strolled, arm in arm, oblivious, as though the place were as empty as eden; lady-killers with exaggerated square shoulders, wearing bright neckties, their predatory instincts alert, hovered about in eager search of adventure. there were men-killers, too, usually to be found in pairs, in startling costumes they had been persuaded were the latest paris models,--imitations of french cocottes in hampton, proof of the smallness of our modern world. eda regarded them superciliously. "they'd like you to think they'd never been near a loom or a bobbin!" she exclaimed. in addition to these more conspicuous elements, the crowd contained sober operatives of the skilled sort possessed of sufficient means to bring hither their families, including the baby; there were section-hands and foremen, slashers, mule spinners, beamers, french-canadians, irish, scotch, welsh and english, germans, with only an occasional italian, lithuanian, or jew. peanut and popcorn men, venders of tamales and chile-con-carne hoarsely shouted their wares, while from afar could be heard the muffled booming of a band. janet's heart beat faster. she regarded with a tinge of awe the vast expanse of tent that rose before her eyes, the wind sending ripples along the heavy canvas from circumference to tent pole. she bought the tickets; they entered the circular enclosure where the animals were kept; where the strong beams of the sun, in trying to force their way through the canvas roof, created an unnatural, jaundiced twilight, the weirdness of which was somehow enhanced by the hoarse, amazingly penetrating growls of beasts. suddenly a lion near them raised a shaggy head, emitting a series of undulating, soul-shaking roars. "ah, what's eatin' you?" demanded a thick-necked youth, pretending not to be awestricken by this demonstration. "suppose he'd get out!" cried eda, drawing janet away. "i wouldn't let him hurt you, dearie," the young man assured her. "you!" she retorted contemptuously, but grinned in spite of herself, showing her gums. the vague feeling of terror inspired by this tent was a part of its fascination, for it seemed pregnant with potential tragedies suggested by the juxtaposition of helpless babies and wild beasts, the babies crying or staring in blank amazement at padding tigers whose phosphorescent eyes never left these morsels beyond the bars. the two girls wandered about, their arms closely locked, but the strange atmosphere, the roars of the beasts, the ineffable, pungent odour of the circus, of sawdust mingled with the effluvia of animals, had aroused an excitement that was slow in subsiding. some time elapsed before they were capable of taking a normal interest in the various exhibits. "`adjutant bird,'" janet read presently from a legend on one of the compartments of a cage devoted to birds, and surveying the somewhat dissolute occupant. "why, he's just like one of those tall mashers who stay at the wilmot and stand on the sidewalk,--travelling men, you know." "say-isn't he?" eda agreed. "isn't he pleased with himself, and his feet crossed!" "and see this one, eda--he's a 'harpy eagle.' there's somebody we know looks just like that. wait a minute--i'll tell you--it's the woman who sits in the cashier's cage at grady's." "if it sure isn't!" said eda. "she has the same fluffy, light hair--hairpins can't keep it down, and she looks at you in that same sort of surprised way with her head on one side when you hand in your check." "why, it's true to the life!" cried eda enthusiastically. "she thinks she's got all the men cinched,--she does and she's forty if she's a day." these comparisons brought them to a pitch of risible enjoyment amply sustained by the spectacle in the monkey cage, to which presently they turned. a chimpanzee, with a solicitation more than human, was solemnly searching a friend for fleas in the midst of a pandemonium of chattering and screeching and chasing, of rattling of bars and trapezes carried on by their companions. "well, young ladies," said a voice, "come to pay a call on your relations--have ye?" eda giggled hysterically. an elderly man was standing beside them. he was shabbily dressed, his own features were wizened, almost simian, and by his friendly and fatuous smile janet recognized one of the harmless obsessed in which hampton abounded. "relations!" eda exclaimed. "you and me, yes, and her," he answered, looking at janet, though at first he had apparently entertained some doubt as to this inclusion, "we're all descended from them." his gesture triumphantly indicated the denizens of the cage. "what are you giving us?" said eda. "ain't you never read darwin?" he demanded. "if you had, you'd know they're our ancestors, you'd know we came from them instead of adam and eve. that there's a fable." "i'll never believe i came from them," cried eda, vehement in her disgust. but janet laughed. "what's the difference? some of us aren't any better than monkeys, anyway." "that's so," said the man approvingly. "that's so." he wanted to continue the conversation, but they left him rather ruthlessly. and when, from the entrance to the performance tent, they glanced back over their shoulders, he was still gazing at his cousins behind the bars, seemingly deriving an acute pleasure from his consciousness of the connection.... chapter vi modern business, by reason of the mingling of the sexes it involves, for the playwright and the novelist and the sociologist is full of interesting and dramatic situations, and in it may be studied, undoubtedly, one phase of the evolution tending to transform if not disintegrate certain institutions hitherto the corner-stones of society. our stage is set. a young woman, conscious of ability, owes her promotion primarily to certain dynamic feminine qualities with which she is endowed. and though she may make an elaborate pretense of ignoring the fact, in her heart she knows and resents it, while at the same time, paradoxically, she gets a thrill from it,--a sustaining and inspiring thrill of power! on its face it is a business arrangement; secretly,--attempt to repudiate this as one may,--it is tinged with the colours of high adventure. when janet entered into the intimate relationship with mr. claude ditmar necessitated by her new duties as his private stenographer her attitude, slightly defiant, was the irreproachable one of a strict attention to duty. all unconsciously she was a true daughter of the twentieth century, and probably a feminist at heart, which is to say that her conduct was determined by no preconceived or handed-down notions of what was proper and lady-like. for feminism, in a sense, is a return to atavism, and sex antagonism and sex attraction are functions of the same thing. there were moments when she believed herself to hate mr. ditmar, when she treated him with an aloofness, an impersonality unsurpassed; moments when he paused in his dictation to stare at her in astonishment. he, who flattered himself that he understood women! she would show him!--such was her dominating determination. her promotion assumed the guise of a challenge, of a gauntlet flung down at the feet of her sex. in a certain way, an insult, though incredibly stimulating. if he flattered himself that he had done her a favour, if he entertained the notion that he could presently take advantage of the contact with her now achieved to make unbusinesslike advances--well, he would find out. he had proclaimed his desire for an able assistant in miss ottway's place--he would get one, and nothing more. she watched narrowly, a l'affut, as the french say, for any signs of sentiment, and indeed this awareness of her being on guard may have had some influence on mr. ditmar's own attitude, likewise irreproachable.... a rather anaemic young woman, a miss annie james, was hired for janet's old place. in spite of this aloofness and alertness, for the first time in her life janet felt the exuberance of being in touch with affairs of import. hitherto the mill had been merely a greedy monster claiming her freedom and draining her energies in tasks routine, such as the copying of meaningless documents and rows of figures; now, supplied with stimulus and a motive, the corporation began to take on significance, and she flung herself into the work with an ardour hitherto unknown, determined to make herself so valuable to ditmar that the time would come when he could not do without her. she strove to memorize certain names and addresses, lest time be lost in looking them up, to familiarize herself with the ordinary run of his correspondence, to recall what letters were to be marked "personal," to anticipate matters of routine, in order that he might not have the tedium of repeating instructions; she acquired the faculty of keeping his engagements in her head; she came early to the office, remaining after hours, going through the files, becoming familiar with his system; and she learned to sort out his correspondence, sifting the important from the unimportant, to protect him, more and more, from numerous visitors who called only to waste his time. her instinct for the detection of book-agents, no matter how brisk and businesslike they might appear, was unerring--she remembered faces and the names belonging to them: an individual once observed to be persona non grata never succeeded in passing her twice. on one occasion ditmar came out of his office to see the back of one of these visitors disappearing into the corridor. "who was that?" he asked. "his name is mccalla," she said. "i thought you didn't want to be bothered." "but how in thunder did you get rid of him?" he demanded. "oh, i just wouldn't let him in," she replied demurely. and ditmar went away, wondering.... thus she studied him, without permitting him to suspect it, learning his idiosyncrasies, his attitude toward all those with whom daily he came in contact, only to find herself approving. she was forced to admit that he was a judge of men, compelled to admire his adroitness in dealing with them. he could be democratic or autocratic as occasion demanded; he knew when to yield, and when to remain inflexible. one morning, for instance, there arrived from new york a dapper salesman whose jauntily tied bow, whose thin hair--carefully parted to conceal an incipient baldness--whose wary and slightly weary eyes all impressively suggested the metropolitan atmosphere of high pressure and sophistication from which he had emerged. he had a machine to sell; an amazing machine, endowed with human intelligence and more than human infallibility; for when it made a mistake it stopped. it was designed for the express purpose of eliminating from the payroll the skilled and sharp-eyed women who are known as "drawers-in," who sit all day long under a north light patiently threading the ends of the warp through the heddles of the loom harness. janet's imagination was gradually fired as she listened to the visitor's eloquence; and the textile industry, which hitherto had seemed to her uninteresting and sordid, took on the colours of romance. "now i've made up my mind we'll place one with you, mr. ditmar," the salesman concluded. "i don't object to telling you we'd rather have one in the chippering than in any mill in new england." janet was surprised, almost shocked to see ditmar shake his head, yet she felt a certain reluctant admiration because he had not been swayed by blandishments. at such moments, when he was bent on refusing a request, he seemed physically to acquire massiveness,--and he had a dogged way of chewing his cigar. "i don't want it, yet," he replied, "not until you improve it." and she was impressed by the fact that he seemed to know as much about the machine as the salesman himself. in spite of protests, denials, appeals, he remained firm. "when you get rid of the defects i've mentioned come back, mr. hicks--but don't come back until then." and mr. hicks departed, discomfited.... ditmar knew what he wanted. of the mill he was the absolute master, familiar with every process, carrying constantly in his mind how many spindles, how many looms were at work; and if anything untoward happened, becoming aware of it by what seemed to janet a subconscious process, sending for the superintendent of the department: for mr. orcutt, perhaps, whose office was across the hall--a tall, lean, spectacled man of fifty who looked like a schoolmaster. "orcutt, what's the matter with the opener in cooney's room?" "why, the blower's out of order." "well, whose fault is it?".... he knew every watchman and foreman in the mill, and many of the second hands. the old workers, men and women who had been in the chippering employ through good and bad times for years, had a place in his affections, but toward the labour force in general his attitude was impersonal. the mill had to be run, and people to be got to run it. with him, first and last and always it was the mill, and little by little what had been for janet a heterogeneous mass of machinery and human beings became unified and personified in claude ditmar. it was odd how the essence and quality of that great building had changed for her; how the very roaring of the looms, as she drew near the canal in the mornings, had ceased to be sinister and depressing, but bore now a burden like a great battle song to excite and inspire, to remind her that she had been snatched as by a miracle from the commonplace. and all this was a function of ditmar. life had become portentous. and she was troubled by no qualms of logic, but gloried, womanlike, in her lack of it. she did not ask herself why she had deliberately enlarged upon miss ottway's duties, invaded debatable ground in part inevitably personal, flung herself with such abandon into the enterprise of his life's passion, at the same time maintaining a deceptive attitude of detachment, half deceiving herself that it was zeal for the work by which she was actuated. in her soul she knew better. she was really pouring fuel on the flames. she read him, up to a certain point--as far as was necessary; and beneath his attempts at self-control she was conscious of a dynamic desire that betrayed itself in many acts and signs,--as when he brushed against her; and occasionally when he gave evidence with his subordinates of a certain shortness of temper unusual with him she experienced a vaguely alarming but delicious thrill of power. and this, of all men, was the great mr. ditmar! was she in love with him? that question did not trouble her either. she continued to experience in his presence waves of antagonism and attraction, revealing to her depths and possibilities of her nature that frightened while they fascinated. it never occurred to her to desist. that craving in her for high adventure was not to be denied. on summer evenings it had been ditmar's habit when in hampton to stroll about his lawn, from time to time changing the position of the sprinkler, smoking a cigar, and reflecting pleasantly upon his existence. his house, as he gazed at it against the whitening sky, was an eminently satisfactory abode, his wife was dead, his children gave him no trouble; he felt a glow of paternal pride in his son as the boy raced up and down the sidewalk on a bicycle; george was manly, large and strong for his age, and had a domineering way with other boys that gave ditmar secret pleasure. of amy, who was showing a tendency to stoutness, and who had inherited her mother's liking for candy and romances, ditmar thought scarcely at all: he would glance at her as she lounged, reading, in a chair on the porch, but she did not come within his range of problems. he had, in short, everything to make a reasonable man content, a life nicely compounded of sustenance, pleasure, and business,--business naturally being the greatest of these. he was--though he did not know it--ethically and philosophically right in squaring his morals with his occupation, and his had been the good fortune to live in a world whose codes and conventions had been carefully adjusted to the pursuit of that particular brand of happiness he had made his own. why, then, in the name of that happiness, of the peace and sanity and pleasurable effort it had brought him, had he allowed and even encouraged the advent of a new element that threatened to destroy the equilibrium achieved? an element refusing to be classified under the head of property, since it involved something he desired and could not buy? a woman who was not property, who resisted the attempt to be turned into property, was an anomaly in ditmar's universe. he had not, of course, existed for more than forty years without having heard and read of and even encountered in an acquaintance or two the species of sex attraction sentimentally called love that sometimes made fools of men and played havoc with more important affairs, but in his experience it had never interfered with his sanity or his appetite or the chippering mill: it had never made his cigars taste bitter; it had never caused a deterioration in the appreciation of what he had achieved and held. but now he was experiencing strange symptoms of an intensity out of all proportion to that of former relations with the other sex. what was most unusual for him, he was alarmed and depressed, at moments irritable. he regretted the capricious and apparently accidental impulse that had made him pretend to tinker with his automobile that day by the canal, that had led him to the incomparable idiocy of getting rid of miss ottway and installing the disturber of his peace as his private stenographer. what the devil was it in her that made him so uncomfortable? when in his office he had difficulty in keeping his mind on matters of import; he would watch her furtively as she went about the room with the lithe and noiseless movements that excited him the more because he suspected beneath her outward and restrained demeanour a fierceness he craved yet feared. he thought of her continually as a panther, a panther he had caught and could not tame; he hadn't even caught her, since she might escape at any time. he took precautions not to alarm her. when she brushed against him he trembled. continually she baffled and puzzled him, and he never could tell of what she was thinking. she represented a whole set of new and undetermined values for which he had no precedents, and unlike every woman he had known--including his wife--she had an integrity of her own, seemingly beyond the reach of all influences economic and social. all the more exasperating, therefore, was a propinquity creating an intimacy without substance, or without the substance he craved for she had magically become for him a sort of enveloping, protecting atmosphere. in an astonishingly brief time he had fallen into the habit of talking things over with her; naturally not affairs of the first importance, but matters such as the economy of his time: when, for instance, it was most convenient for him to go to boston; and he would find that she had telephoned, without being told, to the office there when to expect him, to his chauffeur to be on hand. he never had to tell her a thing twice, nor did she interrupt--as miss ottway sometimes had done--the processes of his thought. without realizing it he fell into the habit of listening for the inflections of her voice, and though he had never lacked the power of making decisions, she somehow made these easier for him especially if, a human equation were involved. he had, at least, the consolation--if it were one--of reflecting that his reputation was safe, that there would be no scandal, since two are necessary to make the kind of scandal he had always feared, and miss bumpus, apparently, had no intention of being the second party. yet she was not virtuous, as he had hitherto defined the word. of this he was sure. no woman who moved about as she did, who had such an effect on him, who had on occasions, though inadvertently, returned the lightning of his glances, whose rare laughter resembled grace notes, and in whose hair was that almost imperceptible kink, could be virtuous. this instinctive conviction inflamed him. for the first time in his life he began to doubt the universal conquering quality of his own charms,--and when such a thing happens to a man like ditmar he is in danger of hell-fire. he indulged less and less in the convivial meetings and excursions that hitherto had given him relaxation and enjoyment, and if his cronies inquired as to the reasons for his neglect of them he failed to answer with his usual geniality. "everything going all right up at the mills, colonel?" he was asked one day by mr. madden, the treasurer of a large shoe company, when they met on the marble tiles of the hall in their boston club. "all right. why?" "well," replied madden, conciliatingly, "you seem kind of preoccupied, that's all. i didn't know but what the fifty-four hour bill the legislature's just put through might be worrying you." "we'll handle that situation when the time comes," said ditmar. he accepted a gin rickey, but declined rather curtly the suggestion of a little spree over sunday to a resort on the cape which formerly he would have found enticing. on another occasion he encountered in the lobby of the parker house a more intimate friend, chester sprole, sallow, self-made, somewhat corpulent, one of those lawyers hail fellows well met in business circles and looked upon askance by the brahmins of their profession; more than half politician, he had been in congress, and from time to time was retained by large business interests because of his persuasive gifts with committees of the legislature--though these had been powerless to avert the recent calamity of the women and children's fifty-four hour bill. mr. sprole's hair was prematurely white, and the crow's-feet at the corners of his eyes were not the result of legal worries. "hullo, dit," he said jovially. "hullo, ches," said ditmar. "now you're the very chap i wanted to see. where have you been keeping yourself lately? come out to the farm to-night,--same of the boys'll be there." mr. sprole, like many a self-made man, was proud of his farm, though he did not lead a wholly bucolic existence. "i can't, ches," answered ditmar. "i've got to go back to hampton." this statement mr. sprole unwisely accepted as a fiction. he took hold of ditmar's arm. "a lady--eh--what?" "i've got to go back to hampton," repeated ditmar, with a suggestion of truculence that took his friend aback. not for worlds would mr. sprole have offended the agent of the chippering mill. "i was only joking, claude," he hastened to explain. ditmar, somewhat mollified but still dejected, sought the dining-room when the lawyer had gone. "all alone to-night, colonel?" asked the coloured head waiter, obsequiously. ditmar demanded a table in the corner, and consumed a solitary meal. very naturally janet was aware of the change in ditmar, and knew the cause of it. her feelings were complicated. he, the most important man in hampton, the self-sufficient, the powerful, the hitherto distant and unattainable head of the vast organization known as the chippering mill, of which she was an insignificant unit, at times became for her just a man--a man for whom she had achieved a delicious contempt. and the knowledge that she, if she chose, could sway and dominate him by the mere exercise of that strange feminine force within her was intoxicating and terrifying. she read this in a thousand signs; in his glances; in his movements revealing a desire to touch her; in little things he said, apparently insignificant, yet fraught with meaning; in a constant recurrence of the apologetic attitude--so alien to the ditmar formerly conceived--of which he had given evidence that day by the canal: and from this attitude emanated, paradoxically, a virile and galvanic current profoundly disturbing. sometimes when he bent over her she experienced a commingled ecstasy and fear that he would seize her in his arms. yet the tension was not constant, rising and falling with his moods and struggles, all of which she read--unguessed by him--as easily as a printed page by the gift that dispenses with laborious processes of the intellect. on the other hand, a resentment boiled within her his masculine mind failed to fathom. stevenson said of john knox that many women had come to learn from him, but he had never condescended to become a learner in return--a remark more or less applicable to ditmar. she was, perforce, thrilled that he was virile and wanted her, but because he wanted her clandestinely her pride revolted, divining his fear of scandal and hating him for it like a thoroughbred. to do her justice, marriage never occurred to her. she was not so commonplace. there were times, however, when the tension between them would relax, when some incident occurred to focus ditmar's interest on the enterprise that had absorbed and unified his life, the chippering mill. one day in september, for instance, after an absence in new york, he returned to the office late in the afternoon, and she was quick to sense his elation, to recognize in him the restored presence of the quality of elan, of command, of singleness of purpose that had characterized him before she had become his stenographer. at first, as he read his mail, he seemed scarcely conscious of her presence. she stood by the window, awaiting his pleasure, watching the white mist as it rolled over the floor of the river, catching glimpses in vivid, saffron blurs of the lights of the arundel mill on the farther shore. autumn was at hand. suddenly she heard ditmar speaking. "would you mind staying a little while longer this evening, miss bumpus?" "not at all," she replied, turning. on his face was a smile, almost boyish. "the fact is, i think i've got hold of the biggest single order that ever came into any mill in new england," he declared. "oh, i'm glad," she said quickly. "the cotton cards--?" he demanded. she knew he referred to the schedules, based on the current prices of cotton, made out in the agent's office and sent in duplicate to the selling house, in boston. she got them from the shelf; and as he went over them she heard him repeating the names of various goods now become familiar, pongees, poplins, percales and voiles, garbardines and galateas, lawns, organdies, crepes, and madras shirtings, while he wrote down figures on a sheet of paper. so complete was his absorption in this task that janet, although she had resented the insinuating pressure of his former attitude toward her, felt a paradoxical sensation of jealousy. presently, without looking up, he told her to call up the boston office and ask for mr. fraile, the cotton buyer; and she learned from the talk over the telephone though it was mostly about "futures"--that ditmar had lingered for a conference in boston on his way back from new york. afterwards, having dictated two telegrams which she wrote out on her machine, he leaned back in his chair; and though the business for the day was ended, showed a desire to detain her. his mood became communicative. "i've been on the trail of that order for a month," he declared. "of course it isn't my business to get orders, but to manage this mill, and that's enough for one man, god knows. but i heard the bradlaughs were in the market for these goods, and i told the selling house to lie low, that i'd go after it. i knew i could get away with it, if anybody could. i went to the bradlaughs and sat down on 'em, i lived with 'em, ate with 'em, brought 'em home at night. i didn't let 'em alone a minute until they handed it over. i wasn't going to give any other mill in new england or any of those southern concerns a chance to walk off with it--not on your life! why, we have the facilities. there isn't another mill in the country can turn it out in the time they ask, and even we will have to go some to do it. but we'll do it, by george, unless i'm struck by lightning." he leaned forward, hitting the desk with his fist, and janet, standing beside him, smiled. she had the tempting gift of silence. forgetting her twinge of jealousy, she was drawn toward him now, and in this mood of boyish exuberance, of self-confidence and pride in his powers and success she liked him better than ever before. she had, for the first time, the curious feeling of being years older than he, yet this did not detract from a new-born admiration. "i made this mill, and i'm proud of it," he went on. "when old stephen chippering put me in charge he was losing money, he'd had three agents in four years. the old man knew i had it in me, and i knew it, if i do say it myself. all this union labour talk about shorter hours makes me sick--why, there was a time when i worked ten and twelve hours a day, and i'm man enough to do it yet, if i have to. when the last agent--that was cort--was sacked i went to boston on my own hook and tackled the old gentleman--that's the only way to get anywhere. i couldn't bear to see the mill going to scrap, and i told him a thing or two,--i had the facts and the figures. stephen chippering was a big man, but he had a streak of obstinacy in him, he was conservative, you bet. i had to get it across to him there was a lot of dead wood in this plant, i had to wake him up to the fact that the twentieth century was here. he had to be shown--he was from boston, you know--" ditmar laughed--"but he was all wool and a yard wide, and he liked me and trusted me. "that was in nineteen hundred. i can remember the interview as well as if it had happened last night--we sat up until two o'clock in the morning in that library of his with the marble busts and the leather-bound books and the double windows looking out over the charles, where the wind was blowing a gale. and at last he said, `all right, claude, go ahead. i'll put you in as agent, and stand behind you.' and by thunder, he did stand behind me. he was quiet, the finest looking old man i ever saw in my life, straight as a ramrod, with a little white goatee and a red, weathered face full of creases, and a skin that looked as if it had been pricked all over with needles--the old boston sort. they don't seem to turn 'em out any more. why, i have a picture of him here." he opened a drawer in his desk and drew out a photograph. janet gazed at it sympathetically. "it doesn't give you any notion of those eyes of his," ditmar said, reminiscently. "they looked right through a man's skull, no matter how thick it was. if anything went wrong, i never wasted any time in telling him about it, and i guess it was one reason he liked me. some of the people up here didn't understand him, kow-towed to him, they were scared of him, and if he thought they had something up their sleeves he looked as if he were going to eat 'em alive. regular fighting eyes, the kind that get inside of a man and turn the light on. and he sat so still--made you ashamed of yourself. well, he was a born fighter, went from harvard into the rebellion and was left for dead at seven oaks, where one of the company found him and saved him. he set that may up for life, and never talked about it, either. see what he wrote on the bottom--'to my friend, claude ditmar, stephen chippering.' and believe me, when he once called a man a friend he never took it back. i know one thing, i'll never get another friend like him." with a gesture that gave her a new insight into ditmar, reverently he took the picture from her hand and placed it back in the drawer. she was stirred, almost to tears, and moved away from him a little, as though to lessen by distance the sudden attraction he had begun to exert: yet she lingered, half leaning, half sitting on the corner of the big desk, her head bent toward him, her eyes filled with light. she was wondering whether he could ever love a woman as he loved this man of whom he had spoken, whether he could be as true to a woman. his own attitude seemed never to have been more impersonal, but she had ceased to resent it; something within her whispered that she was the conductor, the inspirer.. "i wish stephen chippering could have lived to see this order," he exclaimed, "to see the chippering mill to-day! i guess he'd be proud of it, i guess he wouldn't regret having put me in as agent." janet did not reply. she could not. she sat regarding him intently, and when he raised his eyes and caught her luminous glance, his expression changed, she knew stephen chippering had passed from his mind. "i hope you like it here," he said. his voice had become vibrant, ingratiating, he had changed from the master to the suppliant--and yet she was not displeased. power had suddenly flowed back into her, and with it an exhilarating self-command. "i do like it," she answered. "but you said, when i asked you to be my stenographer, that you didn't care for your work." "oh, this is different." "how?" "i'm interested, the mill means something to me now you see, i'm not just copying things i don't know anything about." "i'm glad you're interested," he said, in the same odd, awkward tone. "i've never had any one in the office who did my work as well. now miss ottway was a good stenographer, she was capable, and a fine woman, but she never got the idea, the spirit of the mill in her as you've got it, and she wasn't able to save me trouble, as you do. it's remarkable how you've come to understand, and in such a short time." janet coloured. she did not look at him, but had risen and begun to straighten out the papers beside her. "there are lots of other things i'd like to understand," she said. "what?" he demanded. "well--about the mill. i never thought much about it before, i always hated it," she cried, dropping the papers and suddenly facing him. "it was just drudgery. but now i want to learn everything, all i can, i'd like to see the machinery." "i'll take you through myself--to-morrow," he declared. his evident agitation made her pause. they were alone, the outer office deserted, and the ditmar she saw now, whom she had summoned up with ridiculous ease by virtue of that mysterious power within her, was no longer the agent of the chippering mill, a boy filled with enthusiasm by a business achievement, but a man, the incarnation and expression of masculine desire desire for her. she knew she could compel him, if she chose, to throw caution to the winds. "oh no!" she exclaimed. she was afraid of him, she shrank from such a conspicuous sign of his favour. "why not?" he asked. "because i don't want you to," she said, and realized, as soon as she had spoken, that her words might imply the existence of a something between them never before hinted at by her. "i'll get mr. caldwell to take me through." she moved toward the door, and turned; though still on fire within, her manner had become demure, repressed. "did you wish anything more this evening?" she inquired. "that's all," he said, and she saw that he was gripping the arms of his chair.... chapter vii autumn was at hand. all day it had rained, but now, as night fell and janet went homeward, the white mist from the river was creeping stealthily over the city, disguising the familiar and sordid landmarks. these had become beautiful, mysterious, somehow appealing. the electric arcs, splotches in the veil, revealed on the common phantom trees; and in the distance, against the blurred lights from the warren street stores skirting the park could be seen phantom vehicles, phantom people moving to and fro. thus, it seemed to janet, invaded by a pearly mist was her own soul, in which she walked in wonder,--a mist shot through and through with soft, exhilarating lights half disclosing yet transforming and etherealizing certain landmark's there on which, formerly, she had not cared to gaze. she was thinking of ditmar as she had left him gripping his chair, as he had dismissed her for the day, curtly, almost savagely. she had wounded and repelled him, and lingering in her was that exquisite touch of fear--a fear now not so much inspired by ditmar as by the semi-acknowledged recognition of certain tendencies and capacities within herself. yet she rejoiced in them, she was glad she had hurt ditmar, she would hurt him again. still palpitating, she reached the house in fillmore street, halting a moment with her hand on the door, knowing her face was flushed, anxious lest her mother or lise might notice something unusual in her manner. but, when she had slowly mounted the stairs and lighted the gas in the bedroom the sight of her sister's clothes cast over the chairs was proof that lise had already donned her evening finery and departed. the room was filled with the stale smell of clothes, which janet detested. she flung open the windows. she took off her hat and swiftly tidied herself, yet the relief she felt at lise's absence was modified by a sudden, vehement protest against sordidness. why should she not live by herself amidst clean and tidy surroundings? she had begun to earn enough, and somehow a vista had been opened up--a vista whose end she could not see, alluring, enticing.... in the dining-room, by the cleared table, her father was reading the banner; her mother appeared in the kitchen door. "what in the world happened to you, janet?" she exclaimed. "nothing," said janet. "mr. ditmar asked me to stay--that was all. he'd been away." "i was worried, i was going to make your father go down to the mill. i've saved you some supper." "i don't want much," janet told her, "i'm not hungry." "i guess you have to work too hard in that new place," said hannah, as she brought in the filled plate from the oven. "well, it seems to agree with her, mother," declared edward, who could always be counted on to say the wrong thing with the best of intentions. "i never saw her looking as well--why, i swan, she's getting real pretty!" hannah darted at him a glance, but restrained herself, and janet reddened as she tried to eat the beans placed before her. the pork had browned and hardened at the edges, the gravy had spread, a crust covered the potatoes. when her father resumed his reading of the banner and her mother went back into the kitchen she began to speculate rather resentfully and yet excitedly why it was that this adventure with a man, with ditmar, made her look better, feel better,--more alive. she was too honest to disguise from herself that it was an adventure, a high one, fraught with all sorts of possibilities, dangers, and delights. her promotion had been merely incidental. both her mother and father, did they know the true circumstances,--that mr. ditmar desired her, was perhaps in love with her--would be disturbed. undoubtedly they would have believed that she could "take care" of herself. she knew that matters could not go on as they were, that she would either have to leave mr. ditmar or--and here she baulked at being logical. she had no intention of leaving him: to remain, according to the notions of her parents, would be wrong. why was it that doing wrong agreed with her, energized her, made her more alert, cleverer, keying up her faculties? turned life from a dull affair into a momentous one? to abandon ditmar would be to slump back into the humdrum, into something from which she had magically been emancipated, symbolized by the home in which she sat; by the red-checked tablecloth, the ugly metal lamp, the cherry chairs with the frayed seats, the horsehair sofa from which the stuffing protruded, the tawdry pillow with its colours, once gay, that lise had bought at a bargain at the bagatelle.... the wooden clock with the round face and quaint landscape below--the family's most cherished heirloom--though long familiar, was not so bad; but the two yellowed engravings on the wall offended her. they had been wedding presents to edward's father. one represented a stupid german peasant woman holding a baby, and standing in front of a thatched cottage; its companion was a sylvan scene in which certain wooden rustics were supposed to be enjoying themselves. between the two, and dotted with flyspecks, hung an insurance calendar on which was a huge head of a lady, florid, fluffy-haired, flirtatious. lise thought her beautiful. the room was ugly. she had long known that, but tonight the realization came to her that what she chiefly resented in it was the note it proclaimed--the note of a mute acquiescence, without protest or struggle, in what life might send. it reflected accurately the attitude of her parents, particularly of her father. with an odd sense of detachment, of critical remoteness and contempt she glanced at him as he sat stupidly absorbed in his newspaper, his face puckered, his lips pursed, and ditmar rose before her--ditmar, the embodiment of an indomitableness that refused to be beaten and crushed. she thought of the story he had told her, how by self-assertion and persistence he had become agent of the chippering mill, how he had convinced mr. stephen chippering of his ability. she could not think of the mill as belonging to the chipperings and the other stockholders, but to ditmar, who had shaped it into an expression of himself, since it was his ideal. and now it seemed that he had made it hers also. she regretted having repulsed him, pushed her plate away from her, and rose. "you haven't eaten anything," said hannah, who had come into the room. "where are you going?" "out--to eda's," janet answered.... "it's late," hannah objected. but janet departed. instead of going to eda's she walked alone, seeking the quieter streets that her thoughts might flow undisturbed. at ten o'clock, when she returned, the light was out in the diningroom, her sister had not come in, and she began slowly to undress, pausing every now and then to sit on the bed and dream; once she surprised herself gazing into the glass with a rapt expression that was almost a smile. what was it about her that had attracted ditmar? no other man had ever noticed it. she had never thought herself good looking, and now--it was astonishing!--she seemed to have changed, and she saw with pride that her arms and neck were shapely, that her dark hair fell down in a cascade over her white shoulders to her waist. she caressed it; it was fine. when she looked again, a radiancy seemed to envelop her. she braided her hair slowly, in two long plaits, looking shyly in the mirror and always seeing that radiancy.... suddenly it occurred to her with a shock that she was doing exactly what she had despised lise for doing, and leaving the mirror she hurried her toilet, put out the light, and got into bed. for a long time, however, she remained wakeful, turning first on one side and then on the other, trying to banish from her mind the episode that had excited her. but always it came back again. she saw ditmar before her, virile, vital, electric with desire. at last she fell asleep. gradually she was awakened by something penetrating her consciousness, something insistent, pervasive, unescapable, which in drowsiness she could not define. the gas was burning, lise had come in, and was moving peculiarly about the room. janet watched her. she stood in front of the bureau, just as janet herself had done, her hands at her throat. at last she let them fall, her head turning slowly, as though drawn, by some irresistible, hypnotic power, and their eyes met. lise's were filmed, like those of a dog whose head is being stroked, expressing a luxuriant dreaminess uncomprehending, passionate. "say, did i wake you?" she asked. "i did my best not to make any noise--honest to god." "it wasn't the noise that woke me up," said janet. "it couldn't have been." "you've been drinking!" said janet, slowly. lise giggled. "what's it to you, angel face!" she inquired. "quiet down, now, and go bye-bye." janet sprang from the bed, seized her by the shoulders, and shook her. she was limp. she began to whimper. "cut it out--leave me go. it ain't nothing to you what i do--i just had a highball." janet released her and drew back. "i just had a highball--honest to god!" "don't say that again!" whispered janet, fiercely. "oh, very well. for god's sake, go to bed and leave me alone--i can take care of myself, i guess--i ain't nutty enough to hit the booze. but i ain't like you--i've got to have a little fun to keep alive." "a little fun!" janet exclaimed. the phrase struck her sharply. a little fun to keep alive! with that same peculiar, cautious movement she had observed, lise approached a chair, and sank into it,--jerking her head in the direction of the room where hannah and edward slept. "d'you want to wake 'em up? is that your game?" she asked, and began to fumble at her belt. overcoming with an effort a disgust amounting to nausea, janet approached her sister again, little by little undressing her, and finally getting her into bed, when she immediately fell into a profound slumber. janet, too, got into bed, but sleep was impossible: the odour lurked like a foul spirit in the darkness, mingling with the stagnant, damp air that came in at the open window, fairly saturating her with horror: it seemed the very essence of degradation. but as she lay on the edge of the bed, shrinking from contamination, in the throes of excitement inspired by an unnamed fear, she grew hot, she could feel and almost hear the pounding of her heart. she rose, felt around in the clammy darkness for her wrapper and slippers, gained the door, crept through the dark hall to the dining-room, where she stealthily lit the lamp; darkness had become a terror. a cockroach scurried across the linoleum. the room was warm and close, it reeked with the smell of stale food, but at least she found relief from that other odour. she sank down on the sofa. her sister was drunk. that in itself was terrible enough, yet it was not the drunkenness alone that had sickened janet, but the suggestion of something else. where had lise been? in whose company had she become drunk? of late, in contrast to a former communicativeness, lise had been singularly secretive as to her companions, and the manner in which her evenings were spent; and she, janet, had grown too self-absorbed to be curious. lise, with her shopgirl's cynical knowledge of life and its pitfalls and the high valuation at which she held her charms, had seemed secure from danger; but janet recalled her discouragement, her threat to leave the bagatelle. since then there had been something furtive about her. now, because that odour of alcohol lise exhaled had destroyed in janet the sense of exhilaration, of life on a higher plane she had begun to feel, and filled her with degradation, she hated lise, felt for her sister no strain of pity. a proof, had she recognized it, that immorality is not a matter of laws and decrees, but of individual emotions. a few hours before she had seen nothing wrong in her relationship with ditmar: now she beheld him selfish, ruthless, pursuing her for one end, his own gratification. as a man, he had become an enemy. ditmar was like all other men who exploited her sex without compunction, but the thought that she was like lise, asleep in a drunken stupor, that their cases differed only in degree, was insupportable. at last she fell asleep from sheer weariness, to dream she was with ditmar at some place in the country under spreading trees, silliston, perhaps--silliston common, cleverly disguised: nor was she quite sure, always, that the man was ditmar; he had a way of changing, of resembling the man she had met in silliston whom she had mistaken for a carpenter. he was pleading with her, in his voice was the peculiar vibrancy that thrilled her, that summoned some answering thing out of the depths of her, and she felt herself yielding with a strange ecstasy in which were mingled joy and terror. the terror was conquering the joy, and suddenly he stood transformed before her eyes, caricatured, become a shrieking monster from whom she sought in agony to escape.... in this paralysis of fear she awoke, staring with wide eyes at the flickering flame of the lamp, to a world filled with excruciating sound--the siren of the chippering mill! she lay trembling with the horror of the dream-spell upon her, still more than half convinced that the siren was ditmar's voice, his true expression. he was waiting to devour her. would the sound never end?... then, remembering where she was, alarmed lest her mother might come in and find her there, she left the sofa, turned out the sputtering lamp, and ran into the bedroom. rain was splashing on the bricks of the passage-way outside, the shadows of the night still lurked in the corners; by the grey light she gazed at lise, who breathed loudly and stirred uneasily, her mouth open, her lips parched. janet touched her. "lise--get up!" she said. "it's time to get up." she shook her. "leave me alone--can't you?" "it's time to get up. the whistle has sounded." lise heavily opened her eyes. they were bloodshot. "i don't want to get up. i won't get up." "but you must," insisted janet, tightening her hold. "you've got to--you've got to eat breakfast and go to work." "i don't want any breakfast, i ain't going to work any more." a gust of wind blew inward the cheap lace curtains, and the physical effect of it emphasized the chill that struck janet's heart. she got up and closed the window, lit the gas, and returning to the bed, shook lise again. "listen," she said, "if you don't get up i'll tell mother what happened last night." "say, you wouldn't--!" exclaimed lise, angrily. "get up!" janet commanded, and watched her rather anxiously, uncertain as to the after effects of drunkenness. but lise got up. she sat on the edge of the bed and yawned, putting her hand to her forehead. "i've sure got a head on me," she remarked. janet was silent, angrier than ever, shocked that tragedy, degradation, could be accepted thus circumstantially. lise proceeded to put up her hair. she seemed to be mistress of herself; only tired, gaping frequently. once she remarked:--"i don't see the good of getting nutty over a highball." seeing that janet was not to be led into controversy, she grew morose. breakfast in fillmore street, never a lively meal, was more dismal than usual that morning, eaten to the accompaniment of slopping water from the roofs on the pavement of the passage. the indisposition of lise passed unobserved by both hannah and edward; and at twenty minutes to eight the two girls, with rubbers and umbrellas, left the house together, though it was janet's custom to depart earlier, since she had farther to go. lise, suspicious, maintained an obstinate silence, keeping close to the curb. they reached the corner by the provision shop with the pink and orange chromos of jellies in the window. "lise, has anything happened to you?" demanded janet suddenly. "i want you to tell me." "anything happened--what do you mean? anything happened?" "you know very well what i mean." "well, suppose something has happened?" lise's reply was pert, defiant. "what's it to you? if anything's happened, it's happened to me--hasn't it?" janet approached her. "what are you trying to do?" said lise. "push me into the gutter?" "i guess you're there already," said janet. lise was roused to a sudden pitch of fury. she turned on janet and thrust her back. "well, if i am who's going to blame me?" she cried. "if you had to work all day in that hole, standing on your feet, picked on by yaps for six a week, i guess you wouldn't talk virtuous, either. it's easy for you to shoot off your mouth, you've got a soft snap with ditmar." janet was outraged. she could not restrain her anger. "how dare you say that?" she demanded. lise was cowed. "well, you drove me to it--you make me mad enough to say anything. just because i went to gruber's with neva lorrie and a couple of gentlemen--they were gentlemen all right, as much gentlemen as ditmar--you come at me and tell me i'm all to the bad." she began to sob. "i'm as straight as you are. how was i to know the highball was stiff? maybe i was tired--anyhow, it put me on the queer, and everything in the joint began to tango 'round me--and neva came home with me." janet felt a surge of relief, in which were mingled anxiety and resentment: relief because she was convinced that lise was telling the truth, anxiety because she feared for lise's future, resentment because ditmar had been mentioned. still, what she had feared most had not come to pass. lise left her abruptly, darting down a street that led to a back entrance of the bagatelle, and janet pursued her way. where, she wondered, would it all end? lise had escaped so far, but drunkenness was an ominous sign. and "gentlemen"? what kind of gentlemen had taken her sister to gruber's? would ditmar do that sort of thing if he had a chance? the pavement in front of the company boarding-houses by the canal was plastered with sodden leaves whipped from the maples by the driving rain in the night. the sky above the mills was sepia. white lights were burning in the loom rooms. when she reached the vestibule simmons, the watchman, informed her that mr. ditmar had already been there, and left for boston. janet did not like to acknowledge to herself her disappointment on learning that ditmar had gone to boston. she knew he had had no such intention the night before; an accumulated mail and many matters demanding decisions were awaiting him; and his sudden departure seemed an act directed personally against her, in the nature of a retaliation, since she had offended and repulsed him. through lise's degrading act she had arrived at the conclusion that all adventure and consequent suffering had to do with man--a conviction peculiarly maddening to such temperaments as janet's. therefore she interpreted her suffering in terms of ditmar, she had looked forward to tormenting him again, and by departing he had deliberately balked and cheated her. the rain fell ceaselessly out of black skies, night seemed ever ready to descend on the river, a darkness--according to young mr. caldwell--due not to the clouds alone, but to forest fires many hundreds of miles away, in canada. as the day wore on, however, her anger gradually gave place to an extreme weariness and depression, and yet she dreaded going home, inventing things for herself to do; arranging and rearranging ditmar's papers that he might have less trouble in sorting them, putting those uppermost which she thought he would deem the most important. perhaps he would come in, late! in a world of impending chaos the brilliantly lighted office was a tiny refuge to which she clung. at last she put on her coat and rubbers, faring forth reluctantly into the wet. at first when she entered the bedroom she thought it empty, though the gas was burning, and them she saw lise lying face downward on the bed. for a moment she stood still, then closed the door softly. "lise," she said. "what?" janet sat down on the bed, putting out her hand. unconsciously she began to stroke lise's hand, and presently it turned and tightened on her own. "lise," she said, "i understand why you--" she could not bring herself to pronounce the words "got drunk,"--"i understand why you did it. i oughtn't to have talked to you that way. but it was terrible to wake up and see you." for awhile lise did not reply. then she raised herself, feeling her hair with an involuntary gesture, regarding her sister with a bewildered look, her face puckered. her eyes burned, and under them were black shadows. "how do you mean--you understand?" she asked slowly. "you never hit the booze." even lise's language, which ordinarily offended her, failed to change her sudden impassioned and repentant mood. she was astonished at herself for this sudden softening, since she did not really love lise, and all day she had hated her, wished never to see her again. "no, but i can understand how it would be to want to," janet said. "lise, i guess we're searching--both of us for something we'll never find." lise stared at her with a contracted, puzzled expression, as of a person awaking from sleep, all of whose faculties are being strained toward comprehension. "what do you mean?" she demanded. "you and me? you're all right--you've got no kick coming." "life is hard, it's hard on girls like us--we want things we can't have." janet was at a loss to express herself. "well, it ain't any pipe dream," lise agreed. her glance turned involuntarily toward the picture of the olympian dinner party pinned on the wall. "swells have a good time," she added. "maybe they pay for it, too," said janet. "i wouldn't holler about paying--it's paying and not getting the goods," declared lise. "you'll pay, and you won't get it. that kind of life is--hell," janet cried. self-centered as lise was, absorbed in her own trouble and present physical discomfort, this unaccustomed word from her sister and the vehemence with which it was spoken surprised and frightened her, brought home to her some hint of the terror in janet's soul. "me for the water wagon," she said. janet was not convinced. she had hoped to discover the identity of the man who had taken lise to gruber's, but she did not attempt to continue the conversation. she rose and took off her hat. "why don't you go to bed?" she asked. "i'll tell mother you have a headache and bring in your supper." "well, i don't care if i do," replied lise, gratefully. perhaps the most disconcerting characteristic of that complex affair, the human organism, is the lack of continuity of its moods. the soul, so called, is as sensitive to physical conditions as a barometer: affected by lack of sleep, by smells and sounds, by food, by the weather--whether a day be sapphire or obsidian. and the resolutions arising from one mood are thwarted by the actions of the next. janet had observed this phenomenon, and sometimes, when it troubled her, she thought herself the most inconsistent and vacillating of creatures. she had resolved, far instance, before she fell asleep, to leave the chippering mill, to banish ditmar from her life, to get a position in boston, whence she could send some of her wages home: and in the morning, as she made her way to the office, the determination gave her a sense of peace and unity. but the northwest wind was blowing. it had chased away the mist and the clouds, the smoke from canada. the sun shone with a high brilliancy, the elms of the common cast sharp, black shadow-patterns on the pavements, and when she reached the office and looked out of his window she saw the blue river covered with quicksilver waves chasing one another across the current. ditmar had not yet returned to hampton. about ten o'clock, as she was copying out some figures for mr. price, young mr. caldwell approached her. he had a boston newspaper in his hand. "have you seen this article about mr. ditmar?" he asked. "about mr. ditmar? no." "it's quite a send-off for the colonel," said caldwell, who was wont at times to use the title facetiously. "listen; `one of the most notable figures in the textile industry of the united states, claude ditmar, agent of the chippering mill.'" caldwell spread out the page and pointed to a picture. "there he is, as large as life." a little larger than life, janet thought. ditmar was one of those men who, as the expression goes, "take" well, a valuable asset in semi-public careers; and as he stood in the sunlight on the steps of the building where they had "snap-shotted" him he appeared even more massive, forceful, and preponderant than she had known him. beholding him thus set forth and praised in a public print, he seemed suddenly to have been distantly removed from her, to have reacquired at a bound the dizzy importance he had possessed for her before she became his stenographer. she found it impossible to realize that this was the ditmar who had pursued and desired her; at times supplicating, apologetic, abject; and again revealed by the light in his eyes and the trembling of his hand as the sinister and ruthless predatory male from whom--since the revelation in her sister lise she had determined to flee, and whom she had persuaded herself she despised. he was a bigger man than she had thought, and as she read rapidly down the column the fascination that crept over her was mingled with disquieting doubt of her own powers: it was now difficult to believe she had dominated or could ever dominate this self-sufficient, successful person, the list of whose achievements and qualities was so alluringly set forth by an interviewer who himself had fallen a victim. the article carried the implication that the modern, practical, american business man was the highest type as yet evolved by civilization: and ditmar, referred to as "a wizard of the textile industry," was emphatically one who had earned the gratitude of the grand old commonwealth. by the efforts of such sons she continued to maintain her commanding position among her sister states. prominent among the qualities contributing to his success was open-mindedness, "a willingness to be shown," to scrap machinery when his competitors still clung to older methods. the chippering mill had never had a serious strike, --indication of an ability to deal with labour; and mr. ditmar's views on labour followed: if his people had a grievance, let them come to him, and settle it between them. no unions. he had consistently refused to recognize them. there was mention of the bradlaugh order as being the largest commission ever given to a single mill, a reference to the excitement and speculation it had aroused in trade circles. claude ditmar's ability to put it through was unquestioned; one had only to look at him,--tenacity, forcefulness, executiveness were written all over him.... in addition, the article contained much material of an autobiographical nature that must--janet thought--have been supplied by ditmar himself, whose modesty had evidently shrunk from the cruder self-eulogy of an interview. but she recognized several characteristic phrases. caldwell, watching her as she read, was suddenly fascinated. during a trip abroad, while still an undergraduate, he had once seen the face of an actress, a really good parisian actress, light up in that way; and it had revealed to him, in a flash, the meaning of enthusiasm. now janet became vivid for him. there must be something unusual in a person whose feelings could be so intense, whose emotions rang so true. he was not unsophisticated. he had sometimes wondered why ditmar had promoted her, though acknowledging her ability. he admired ditmar, but had no illusions about him. harvard, and birth in a social stratum where emphasis is superfluous, enabled him to smile at the reporter's exuberance; and he was the more drawn toward her to see on janet's flushed face the hint of a smile as she looked up at him when she had finished. "the colonel hypnotized that reporter," he said, as he took the paper; and her laugh, despite its little tremor, betrayed in her an unsuspected, humorous sense of proportion. "well, i'll take off my hat to him," caldwell went on. "he is a wonder, he's got the mill right up to capacity in a week. he's agreed to deliver those goods to the bradlaughs by the first of april, you know, and holster, of the clarendon, swears it can't be done, he says ditmar's crazy. well, i stand to lose twenty-five dollars on him." this loyalty pleased janet, it had the strange effect of reviving loyalty in her. she liked this evidence of dick caldwell's confidence. he was a self-contained and industrious young man, with crisp curly hair, cordial and friendly yet never intimate with the other employer; liked by them--but it was tacitly understood his footing differed from theirs. he was a cousin of the chipperings, and destined for rapid promotion. he went away every saturday, it was known that he spent sundays and holidays in delightful places, to return reddened and tanned; and though he never spoke about these excursions, and put on no airs of superiority, there was that in his manner and even in the cut of his well-worn suits proclaiming him as belonging to a sphere not theirs, to a category of fortunate beings whose stumbles are not fatal, who are sustained from above. even ditmar was not of these. "i've just been showing a lot of highbrows through the mill," he told janet. "they asked questions enough to swamp a professor of economics." and janet was suddenly impelled to ask:--"will you take me through sometime, mr. caldwell?" "you've never been through?" he exclaimed. "why, we'll go now, if you can spare the time." her face had become scarlet. "don't tell mr. ditmar," she begged. "you see--he wanted to take me himself." "not a word," caldwell promised as they left the office together and went downstairs to the strong iron doors that led to the cotton department. the showing through of occasional visitors had grown rather tiresome; but now his curiosity and interest were aroused, he was conscious of a keen stimulation when he glanced at janet's face. its illumination perplexed him. the effect was that of a picture obscurely hung and hitherto scarcely noticed on which the light had suddenly been turned. it glowed with a strange and disturbing radiance.... as for janet, she was as one brought suddenly to the realization of a miracle in whose presence she had lived for many years and never before suspected; the miracle of machinery, of the triumph of man over nature. in the brief space of an hour she beheld the dirty bales flung off the freight cars on the sidings transformed into delicate fabrics wound from the looms; cotton that only last summer, perhaps, while she sat typewriting at her window, had been growing in the fields of the south. she had seen it torn by the bale-breakers, blown into the openers, loosened, cleansed, and dried; taken up by the lappers, pressed into batting, and passed on to the carding machines, to emerge like a wisp of white smoke in a sliver and coil automatically in a can. once more it was flattened into a lap, given to a comber that felt out its fibres, removing with superhuman precision those for the finer fabric too short, thrusting it forth again in another filmy sliver ready for the drawing frames. six of these gossamer ropes were taken up, and again six. then came the blubbers and the roving frames, twisting and winding, the while maintaining the most delicate of tensions lest the rope break, running the strands together into a thread constantly growing stronger and finer, until it was ready for spinning. caldwell stood close to her, shouting his explanations in her ear, while she strained to follow them. but she was bewildered and entranced by the marvellous swiftness, accuracy and ease with which each of the complex machines, fed by human hands, performed its function. these human hands were swift, too, as when they thrust the bobbins of roving on the ring-spinning frames to be twisted into yarn. she saw a woman, in the space of an instant, mend a broken thread. women and boys were here, doffer boys to lift off the full bobbins of yarn with one hand and set on the empty bobbins with the other: while skilled workmen, alert for the first sign of trouble, followed up and down in its travels the long frame of the mule-spinner. after the spinning, the heavy spools of yarn were carried to a beam-warper, standing alone like a huge spider's web, where hundreds of threads were stretched symmetrically and wound evenly, side by side, on a large cylinder, forming the warp of the fabric to be woven on the loom. first, however, this warp must be stiffened or "slashed" in starch and tallow, dried over heated drums, and finally wound around one great beam from which the multitude of threads are taken up, one by one, and slipped through the eyes of the loom harnesses by women who sit all day under the north windows overlooking the canal--the "drawers-in" of whom ditmar had spoken. then the harnesses are put on the loom, the threads attached to the cylinder on which the cloth is to be wound. the looms absorbed and fascinated janet above all else. it seemed as if she would never tire of watching the rhythmic rise and fall of the harnesses,--each rapid movement making a v in the warp, within the angle of which the tiny shuttles darted to and fro, to and fro, carrying the thread that filled the cloth with a swiftness so great the eye could scarcely follow it; to be caught on the other side when the angle closed, and flung back, and back again! and in the elaborate patterns not one, but several harnesses were used, each awaiting its turn for the impulse bidding it rise and fall!... abruptly, as she gazed, one of the machines halted, a weaver hurried up, searched the warp for the broken thread, tied it, and started the loom again. "that's intelligent of it," said caldwell, in her ear. but she could only nod in reply. the noise in the weaving rooms was deafening, the heat oppressive. she began to wonder how these men and women, boys and girls bore the strain all day long. she had never thought much about them before save to compare vaguely their drudgery with that from which now she had been emancipated; but she began to feel a new respect, a new concern, a new curiosity and interest as she watched them passing from place to place with indifference between the whirling belts, up and down the narrow aisles, flanked on either side by that bewildering, clattering machinery whose polished surfaces continually caught and flung back the light of the electric bulbs on the ceiling. how was it possible to live for hours at a time in this bedlam without losing presence of mind and thrusting hand or body in the wrong place, or becoming deaf? she had never before realized what mill work meant, though she had read of the accidents. but these people--even the children--seemed oblivious to the din and the danger, intent on their tasks, unconscious of the presence of a visitor, save occasionally when she caught a swift glance from a woman or girl a glance, perhaps, of envy or even of hostility. the dark, foreign faces glowed, and instantly grew dull again, and then she was aware of lurking terrors, despite her exaltation, her sense now of belonging to another world, a world somehow associated with ditmar. was it not he who had lifted her farther above all this? was it not by grace of her association with him she was there, a spectator of the toil beneath? yet the terror persisted. she, presently, would step out of the noise, the oppressive moist heat of the drawing and spinning rooms, the constant, remorseless menace of whirling wheels and cogs and belts. but they?... she drew closer to caldwell's side. "i never knew--" she said. "it must be hard to work here." he smiled at her, reassuringly. "oh, they don't mind it," he replied. "it's like a health resort compared to the conditions most of them live in at home. why, there's plenty of ventilation here, and you've got to have a certain amount of heat and moisture, because when cotton is cold and dry it can't be drawn or spin, and when it's hot and dry the electricity is troublesome. if you think this moisture is bad you ought to see a mill with the old vapour-pot system with the steam shooting out into the room. look here!" he led janet to the apparatus in which the pure air is forced through wet cloths, removing the dust, explaining how the ventilation and humidity were regulated automatically, how the temperature of the room was controlled by a thermostat. "there isn't an agent in the country who's more concerned about the welfare of his operatives than mr. ditmar. he's made a study of it, he's spent thousands of dollars, and as soon as these machines became practical he put 'em in. the other day when i was going through the room one of these shuttles flew off, as they sometimes do when the looms are running at high speed. a woman was pretty badly hurt. ditmar came right down." "he really cares about them," said janet. she liked caldwell's praise of ditmar, yet she spoke a little doubtfully. "of course he cares. but it's common sense to make 'em as comfortable and happy as possible--isn't it? he won't stand for being held up, and he'd be stiff enough if it came to a strike. i don't blame him for that. do you?" janet was wondering how ruthless ditmar could be if his will were crossed.... they had left the room with its noise and heat behind them and were descending the worn, oaken treads of the spiral stairway of a neighbouring tower. janet shivered a little, and her face seemed almost feverish as she turned to caldwell and thanked him. "oh, it was a pleasure, miss bumpus," he declared. "and sometime, when you want to see the print works or the worsted department, let me know--i'm your man. and--i won't mention it." she did not answer. as they made their way back to the office he glanced at her covertly, astonished at the emotional effect in her their tour had produced. though not of an inflammable temperament, he himself was stirred, and it was she who, unaccountably, had stirred him: suggested, in these processes he saw every day, and in which he was indeed interested, something deeper, more significant and human than he had guessed, and which he was unable to define.... janet herself did not know why this intimate view of the mills, of the people who worked in them had so greatly moved her. all day she thought of them. and the distant throb of the machinery she felt when her typewriter was silent meant something to her now--she could not say what. when she found herself listening for it, her heart beat faster. she had lived and worked beside it, and it had not existed for her, it had had no meaning, the mills might have been empty. she had, indeed, many, many times seen these men and women, boys and girls trooping away from work, she had strolled through the quarters in which they lived, speculated on the lands from which they had come; but she had never really thought of them as human beings, individuals, with problems and joys and sorrows and hopes and fears like her own. some such discovery was borne in upon her. and always an essential function of this revelation, looming larger than ever in her consciousness, was ditmar. it was for ditmar they toiled, in ditmar's hands were their very existences, his was the stupendous responsibility and power. as the afternoon wore, desire to see these toilers once more took possession of her. from the white cupola perched above the huge mass of the clarendon mill across the water sounded the single stroke of a bell, and suddenly the air was pulsing with sounds flung back and forth by the walls lining the river. seizing her hat and coat, she ran down the stairs and through the vestibule and along the track by the canal to the great gates, which her father was in the act of unbarring. she took a stand beside him, by the gatehouse. edward showed a mild surprise. "there ain't anything troubling you--is there, janet?" he asked. she shook her head. "i wanted to see the hands come out," she said. sometimes, as at present, he found janet's whims unaccountable. "well, i should have presumed you'd know what they look like by this time. you'd better stay right close to me, they're a rough lot, with no respect or consideration for decent folks--these foreigners. i never could see why the government lets 'em all come over here." he put on the word "foreigners" an emphasis of contempt and indignation, pathetic because of its peculiar note of futility. janet paid no attention to him. her ears were strained to catch the rumble of feet descending the tower stairs, her eyes to see the vanguard as it came from the doorway--the first tricklings of a flood that instantly filled the yard and swept onward and outward, irresistibly, through the narrow gorge of the gates. impossible to realize this as the force which, when distributed over the great spaces of the mills, performed an orderly and useful task! for it was now a turbid and lawless torrent unconscious of its swollen powers, menacing, breathlessly exciting to behold. it seemed to janet indeed a torrent as she clung to the side of the gatehouse as one might cling to the steep bank of a mountain brook after a cloud-burst. and suddenly she had plunged into it. the desire was absurd, perhaps, but not to be denied,--the desire to mix with it, feel it, be submerged and swept away by it, losing all sense of identity. she heard her father call after her, faintly--the thought crossed her mind that his appeals were always faint,--and then she was being carried along the canal, eastward, the pressure relaxing somewhat when the draining of the side streets began. she remembered, oddly, the stanley street bridge where the many streams met and mingled, streams from the arundel, the patuxent, the arlington and the clarendon; and, eager to prolong and intensify her sensations, hurried thither, reaching it at last and thrusting her way outward until she had gained the middle, where she stood grasping the rail. the great structure was a-tremble from the assault, its footpaths and its roadway overrun with workers, dodging between trolleys and trucks,--some darting nimbly, dinner pails in hand, along the steel girders. doffer boys romped and whistled, young girls in jaunty, faber street clothes and flowered hats, linked to one another for protection, chewed gum and joked, but for the most part these workers were silent, the apathy of their faces making a strange contrast with the hurry, hurry of their feet and set intentness of their bodies as they sped homeward to the tenements. and the clothes of these were drab, save when the occasional colour of a hooded peasant's shawl, like the slightly faded tints of an old master, lit up a group of women. here, going home to their children, were italian mothers bred through centuries to endurance and patience; sallow jewesses, gaunt, bearded jews with shadowy, half-closed eyes and wrinkled brows, broad-faced lithuanians, flat-headed russians; swarthy italian men and pale, blond germans mingled with muddy syrians and nondescript canadians. and suddenly the bridge was empty, the army vanished as swiftly as it came! janet turned. through the haze of smoke she saw the sun drop like a ball of fire cooled to redness, whose course is spent. the delicate lines of the upper bridge were drawn in sepia against crimson-gilt; for an instant the cupola of the clarendon became jasper, and far, far above floated in the azure a cloud of pink jeweller's cotton. even as she strove to fix these colours in her mind they vanished, the western sky faded to magenta, to purple-mauve; the corridor of the river darkened, on either side pale lights sparkled from the windows of the mills, while down the deepened blue of the waters came floating iridescent suds from the washing of the wools. it was given to her to know that which an artist of living memory has called the incommunicable thrill of things.... chapter viii the after-effects of this experience of janet's were not what ordinarily are called "spiritual," though we may some day arrive at a saner meaning of the term, include within it the impulses and needs of the entire organism. it left her with a renewed sense of energy and restlessness, brought her nearer to high discoveries of mysterious joys which a voice out of the past called upon her to forego, a voice somehow identified with her father! it was faint, ineffectual. in obeying it, would she not lose all life had to give? when she came in to supper her father was concerned about her because, instead of walking home with him she had left him without explanation to plunge into the crowd of workers. her evident state of excitement had worried him, her caprice was beyond his comprehension. and how could she explain the motives that led to it? she was sure he had never felt like that; and as she evaded his questions the something within her demanding life and expression grew stronger and more rebellious, more contemptuous of the fear-precepts congenial to a nature timorous and less vitalized. after supper, unable to sit still, she went out, and, filled with the spirit of adventure, hurried toward faber street, which was already thronging with people. it was bright here and gay, the shops glittered, and she wandered from window to window until she found herself staring at a suit of blue cloth hung on a form, beneath which was a card that read, "marked down to $ ." and suddenly the suggestion flashed into her mind, why shouldn't she buy it? she had the money, she needed a new suit for the winter, the one she possessed was getting shabby...but behind the excuse of necessity was the real reason triumphantly proclaiming itself--she would look pretty in it, she would be transformed, she would be buying a new character to which she would have to live up. the old janet would be cast off with the old raiment; the new suit would announce to herself and to the world a janet in whom were released all those longings hitherto disguised and suppressed, and now become insupportable! this was what the purchase meant, a change of existence as complete as that between the moth and the butterfly; and the realization of this fact, of the audacity she was resolved to commit made her hot as she gazed at the suit. it was modest enough, yet it had a certain distinction of cut, it looked expensive: twenty dollars was not cheap, to be sure, but as the placard announced, it had the air of being much more costly--even more costly than thirty dollars, which seemed fabulous. though she strove to remain outwardly calm, her heart beat rapidly as she entered the store and asked for the costume, and was somewhat reassured by the comportment of the saleswoman, who did not appear to think the request preposterous, to regard her as a spendthrift and a profligate. she took down the suit from the form and led janet to a cabinet in the back of the shop, where it was tried on. "it's worth every bit of thirty dollars," she heard the woman say, "but we've had it here for some time, and it's no use for our trade. you can't sell anything like that in hampton, there's no taste here, it's too good, it ain't showy enough. my, it fits you like it was made for you, and it's just your style--and you can see it wants a lady to wear it. your old suit is too tight--i guess you've filled out some since you bought it." she turned janet around and around, patting the skirt here and there, and then stood off a little way, with clasped hands, her expression almost rapturous. janet's breath came fast as she gazed into the mirror and buttoned up the coat. was the woman's admiration cleverly feigned? this image she beheld an illusion? or did she really look different, distinguished? and if not beautiful--alluring? she had had a momentary apprehension, almost sickening, that she would be too conspicuous, but the saleswoman had anticipated that objection with the magical word "lady." "i'll take it," she announced. "well, you couldn't have done better if you'd gone to boston," declared the woman. "it's one chance in a thousand. will you wear it?" "yes," said janet faintly.... "just put my old suit in a box, and i'll call for it in an hour." the woman's sympathetic smile followed her as she left the shop. she had an instant of hesitation, of an almost panicky desire to go back and repair her folly, ere it was too late. why had she taken her money with her that evening, if not with some deliberate though undefined purpose? but she was ashamed to face the saleswoman again, and her elation was not to be repressed--an elation optically presented by a huge electric sign on the farther side of the street that flashed through all the colours of the spectrum, surrounded by running fire like the running fire in her soul. deliciously self-conscious, her gaze fixed ahead, she pressed through the wednesday night crowds, young mill men and women in their best clothes, housewives and fathers of families with children and bundles. in front of the banner office a group blocked the pavement staring up at the news bulletin, which she paused to read. "five millionaire directors indicted in new york," "state treasurer accused of graft," "murdock fortune contested by heirs." the phrases seemed meaningless, and she hurried on again.... she was being noticed! a man looked at her, twice, the first glance accidental, the second arresting, appealing, subtly flattering, agitating--she was sure he had turned and was following her. she hastened her steps. it was wicked, what she was doing, but she gloried in it; and even the sight, in burning red letters, of gruber's cafe failed to bring on a revulsion by its association with her sister lise. the fact that lise had got drunk there meant nothing to her now. she gazed curiously at the illuminated, orange-coloured panes separated by curving leads, at the design of a harp in green, at the sign "ladies' entrance"; listened eagerly to the sounds of voices and laughter that came from within. she looked cautiously over her shoulder, a shadow appeared, she heard a voice, low, insinuating.... four blocks farther down she stopped. the man was no longer following her. she had been almost self-convinced of an intention to go to eda's--not quite. of late her conscience had reproached her about eda, janet had neglected her. she told herself she was afraid of eda's uncanny and somewhat nauseating flair for romance; and to show eda the new suit, though she would relish her friend's praise, would be the equivalent of announcing an affair of the heart which she, janet, would have indignantly to deny. she was not going to eda's. she knew now where she was going. a prepared but hitherto undisclosed decree of fate had bade her put money in her bag that evening, directed her to the shop to buy the dress, and would presently impel her to go to west street--nay, was even now so impelling her. ahead of her were the lights of the chippering mill, in her ears was the rhythmic sound of the looms working of nights on the bradlaugh order. she reached the canal. the white arc above the end of the bridge cast sharp, black shadows of the branches of the trees on the granite, the thousand windows of the mill shone yellow, reflected in the black water. twice she started to go, twice she paused, held by the presage of a coming event, a presage that robbed her of complete surprise when she heard footsteps on the bridge, saw the figure of a man halting at the crown of the arch to look back at the building he had left, his shoulders squared, his hand firmly clasping the rail. her heart was throbbing with the looms, and yet she stood motionless, until he turned and came rapidly down the slope of the arch and stopped in front of her. under the arc lamp it was almost as bright as day. "miss bumpus!" he exclaimed. "mr. ditmar" she said. "were you--were you coming to the office?" "i was just out walking," she told him. "i thought you were in boston." "i came home," he informed her, somewhat superfluously, his eyes never leaving her, wandering hungrily from her face to her new suit, and back again to her face. "i got here on the seven o'clock train, i wanted to see about those new blubbers." "they finished setting them up this afternoon," she said. "how did you know?" "i asked mr. orcutt about it--i thought you might telephone." "you're a wonder," was his comment. "well, we've got a running start on that order," and he threw a glance over his shoulder at the mill. "everything going full speed ahead. when we put it through i guess i'll have to give you some of the credit." "oh, i haven't done anything," she protested. "more than you think. you've taken so much off my shoulders i couldn't get along without you." his voice vibrated, reminding her of the voices of those who made sentimental recitations for the graphophone. it sounded absurd, yet it did not repel her: something within her responded to it. "which way were you going?" he inquired. "home," she said. "where do you live?" "in fillmore street." and she added with a touch of defiance: "it's a little street, three blocks above hawthorne, off east street." "oh yes," he said vaguely, as though he had not understood. "i'll come with you as far as the bridge--along the canal. i've got so much to say to you." "can't you say it to-morrow?" "no, i can't; there are so many people in the office--so many interruptions, i mean. and then, you never give me a chance." she stood hesitating, a struggle going on within her. he had proposed the route along the canal because nobody would be likely to recognize them, and her pride resented this. on the other hand, there was the sweet allurement of the adventure she craved, which indeed she had come out to seek and by a strange fatality found--since he had appeared on the bridge almost as soon as she reached it. the sense of fate was strong upon her. curiosity urged her, and, thanks to the eulogy she had read of him that day, to the added impression of his power conveyed by the trip through the mills, ditmar loomed larger than ever in her consciousness. "what do you want to say?" she asked. "oh, lots of things." she felt his hand slipping under her arm, his fingers pressing gently but firmly into her flesh, and the experience of being impelled by a power stronger than herself, a masculine power, was delicious. her arm seemed to burn where he touched her. "have i done something to offend you?" she heard him say. "or is it because you don't like me?" "i'm not sure whether i like you or not," she told him. "i don't like seeing you--this way. and why should you want to know me and see me outside of the office? i'm only your stenographer." "because you're you--because you're different from any woman i ever met. you don't understand what you are--you don't see yourself." "i made up my mind last night i wouldn't stay in your office any longer," she informed him. "for god's sake, why?" he exclaimed. "i've been afraid of that. don't go--i don't know what i'd do. i'll be careful--i won't get you talked about." "talked about!" she tore herself away from him. "why should you get me talked about?" she cried. he was frightened. "no, no," he stammered, "i didn't mean--" "what did you mean?" "well--as you say, you're my stenographer, but that's no reason why we shouldn't be friends. i only meant--i wouldn't do anything to make our friendship the subject of gossip." suddenly she began to find a certain amusement in his confusion and penitence, she achieved a pleasurable sense of advantage, of power over him. "why should you want me? i don't know anything, i've never had any advantages--and you have so much. i read an article in the newspaper about you today--mr. caldwell gave it to me--" "did you like it?" he interrupted, naively. "well, in some places it was rather funny." "funny? how?" "oh, i don't know." she had been quick to grasp in it the journalistic lack of restraint hinted at by caldwell. "i liked it, but i thought it praised you too much, it didn't criticize you enough." he laughed. in spite of his discomfort, he found her candour refreshing. from the women to whom he had hitherto made love he had never got anything but flattery. "i want you to criticize me," he said. but she went on relentlessly:--"when i read in that article how successful you were, and how you'd got everything you'd started out to get, and how some day you might be treasurer and president of the chippering mill, well--" despairing of giving adequate expression to her meaning, she added, "i didn't see how we could be friends." "you wanted me for a friend?" he interrupted eagerly. "i couldn't help knowing you wanted me--you've shown it so plainly. but i didn't see how it could be. you asked me where i lived--in a little flat that's no better than a tenement. i suppose you would call it a tenement. it's dark and ugly, it only has four rooms, and it smells of cooking. you couldn't come there--don't you see how impossible it is? and you wouldn't care to be talked about yourself, either," she added vehemently. this defiant sincerity took him aback. he groped for words. "listen!" he urged. "i don't want to do anything you wouldn't like, and honestly i don't know what i'd do if you left me. i've come to depend on you. and you may not believe it, but when i got that bradlaugh order i thought of you, i said to myself 'she'll be pleased, she'll help me to put it over.'" she thrilled at this, she even suffered him, for some reason unknown to herself, to take her arm again. "how could i help you?" "oh, in a thousand ways--you ought to know, you do a good deal of thinking for me, and you can help me by just being there. i can't explain it, but i feel somehow that things will go right. i've come to depend on you." he was a little surprised to find himself saying these things he had not intended to say, and the lighter touch he had always possessed in dealing with the other sex, making him the envied of his friends, had apparently abandoned him. he was appalled at the possibility of losing her. "i've never met a woman like you," he went on, as she remained silent. "you're different--i don't know what it is about you, but you are." his voice was low, caressing, his head was bent down to her, his shoulder pressed against her shoulder. "i've never had a woman friend before, i've never wanted one until now." she wondered about his wife. "you've got brains--i've never met a woman with brains." "oh, is that why?" she exclaimed. "you're beautiful," he whispered. "it's queer, but i didn't know it at first. you're more beautiful to-night than i've ever seen you." they had come almost to warren street. suddenly realizing that they were standing in the light, that people were passing to and fro over the end of the bridge, she drew away from him once more, this time more gently. "let's walk back a little way," he proposed. "i must go home--it's late." "it's only nine o'clock." "i have an errand to do, and they'll expect me. good night." "just one more turn!" he pleaded. but she shook her head, backing away from him. "you'll see me to-morrow," she told him. she didn't know why she said that. she hurried along warren street without once looking over her shoulder; her feet seemed scarcely to touch the ground, the sound of music was in her ears, the lights sparkled. she had had an adventure, at last, an adventure that magically had transformed her life! she was beautiful! no one had ever told her that before. and he had said that he needed her. she smiled as, with an access of tenderness, in spite of his experience and power she suddenly felt years older than ditmar. she could help him!... she was breathless when she reached the shop in faber street. "i hope i haven't kept you waiting," she said. "oh no, we don't close until ten," answered the saleswoman. she was seated quietly sewing under the lamp. "i wonder whether you'd mind if i put on my old suit again, and carried this?" janet asked. the expression of sympathy and understanding in the woman's eyes, as she rose, brought the blood swiftly to janet's face. she felt that her secret had been guessed. the change effected, janet went homeward swiftly, to encounter, on the corner of faber street, her sister lise, whose attention was immediately attracted by the bundle. "what have you got there, angel face?" she demanded. "a new suit," said janet. "you don't tell me--where'd you get it? at the paris?" "no, at dowling's." "say, i'll bet it was that plain blue thing marked down to twenty!" "well, what if it was?" lise, when surprised or scornful, had a peculiarly irritating way of whistling through her teeth. "twenty bucks! gee, you'll be getting your clothes in boston next. well, as sure as i live when i went by that window the other day when they first knocked it down i said to sadie, `those are the rags janet would buy if she had the ready.' have you got another raise out of ditmar?" "if i have, it isn't any business of yours," janet retorted. "i've got a right to do as i please with my own money." "oh sure," said lise, and added darkly: "i guess ditmar likes to see you look well." after this janet refused obstinately to speak to lise, to answer, when they reached home, her pleadings and complaints to their mother that janet had bought a new suit and refused to exhibit it. and finally, when they had got to bed, janet lay long awake in passionate revolt against this new expression of the sordidness and lack of privacy in which she was forced to live, made the more intolerable by the close, sultry darkness of the room and the snoring of lise. in the morning, however, after a groping period of semiconsciousness during the ringing of the bells, the siren startled her into awareness and alertness. it had not wholly lost its note of terror, but the note had somehow become exhilarating, an invitation to adventure and to life; and lise's sarcastic comments as to the probable reasons why she did not put on the new suit had host their power of exasperation. janet compromised, wearing a blouse of china silk hitherto reserved for "best." the day was bright, and she went rapidly toward the mill, glorying in the sunshine and the autumn sharpness of the air; and her thoughts were not so much of ditmar as of something beyond him, of which he was the medium. she was going, not to meet him, but to meet that. when she reached the office she felt weak, her fingers trembled as she took off her hat and jacket and began to sort out the mail. and she had to calm herself with the assurance that her relationship with ditmar had undergone no change. she had merely met him by the canal, and he had talked to her. that was all. he had, of course, taken her arm: it tingled when she remembered it. but when he suddenly entered the room her heart gave a bound. he closed the door, he took off his hat, and stood gazing at her--while she continued arranging letters. presently she was forced to glance at him. his bearing, his look, his confident smile all proclaimed that he, at least, believed things to be changed. he glowed with health and vigour, with an aggressiveness from which she shrank, yet found delicious. "how are you this morning?" he said at last--this morning as distinguished from all other mornings. "i'm well, as usual," she answered. she herself was sometimes surprised by her ability to remain outwardly calm. "why did you run away from me last night?" "i didn't run away, i had to go home," she said, still arranging the letters. "we could have had a little walk. i don't believe you had to go home at all. you just wanted an excuse to get away from me." "i didn't need an excuse," she told him. he moved toward her, but she took a paper from the desk and carried it to a file across the room. "i thought we were going to be friends," he said. "being friends doesn't mean being foolish," she retorted. "and mr. orcutt's waiting to see you." "let him wait." he sat down at his desk, but his blood was warm, and he read the typewritten words of the topmost letter of the pile without so much as grasping the meaning of them. from time to time he glanced up at janet as she flitted about the room. by george, she was more desirable than he had ever dared to imagine! he felt temporarily balked, but hopeful. on his way to the mill he had dwelt with epicurean indulgence on this sight of her, and he had not been disappointed. he had also thought that he might venture upon more than the mere feasting of his eyes, yet found an inspiring alleviation in the fact that she by no means absolutely repulsed him. her attitude toward him had undergone a subtle transformation. there could be no doubt of that. she was almost coquettish. his eyes lingered. the china silk blouse was slightly open at the neck, suggesting the fullness of her throat; it clung to the outline of her shoulders. overcome by an impulse he could not control, he got up and went toward her, but she avoided him. "i'll tell mr. orcutt you've come," she said, rather breathlessly, as she reached the door and opened it. ditmar halted in his steps at the sight of the tall, spectacled figure of the superintendent on the threshold. orcutt hesitated, looking from one to the other. "i've been waiting for you," he said, after a moment, "the rest of that lot didn't come in this morning. i've telephoned to the freight agent." ditmar stared at him uncomprehendingly. orcutt repeated the information. "oh well, keep after him, get him to trace them." "i'm doing that," replied the conscientious orcutt. "how's everything else going?" ditmar demanded, with unlooked-for geniality. "you mustn't take things too hard, orcutt, don't wear yourself out." mr. orcutt was relieved. he had expected an outburst of the exasperation that lately had characterized his superior. they began to chat. janet had escaped. "miss bumpus told me you wanted to see me. i was just going to ring you up," ditmar informed him. "she's a clever young woman, seems to take such an interest in things," orcutt observed. "and she's always on the job. only yesterday i saw her going through the mill with young caldwell." ditmar dropped the paper-weight he held. "oh, she went through, did she?" after orcutt departed he sat for awhile whistling a tune, from a popular musical play, keeping time by drumming with his fingers on the desk. that mr. semple, the mill treasurer, came down from boston that morning to confer with ditmar was for janet in the nature of a reprieve. she sat by her window, and as her fingers flew over the typewriter keys she was swept by surges of heat in which ecstasy and shame and terror were strangely commingled. a voice within her said, "this can't go on, this can't go on! it's too terrible! everyone in the office will notice it--there will be a scandal. i ought to go away while there is yet time--to-day." though the instinct of flight was strong within her, she was filled with rebellion at the thought of leaving when adventure was flooding her drab world with light, even as the mill across the waters was transfigured by the heavy golden wash of the autumn sun. she had made at length the discovery that adventure had to do with man, was inconceivable without him. racked by these conflicting impulses of self-preservation on the one hand and what seemed self-realization on the other, she started when, toward the middle of the afternoon, she heard ditmar's voice summoning her to take his letters; and went palpitating, leaving the door open behind her, seating herself on the far side of the desk, her head bent over her book. her neck, where her hair grew in wisps behind her ear, seemed to burn: ditmar's glance was focussed there. her hands were cold as she wrote.... then, like a deliverer, she saw young caldwell coming in from the outer office, holding a card in his hand which he gave to ditmar, who sat staring at it. "siddons?" he said. "who's siddons?" janet, who had risen, spoke up. "why, he's been making the hampton `survey.' you wrote him you'd see him--don't you remember, mr. ditmar?" "don't go!" exclaimed ditmar. "you can't tell what those confounded reformers will accuse you of if you don't have a witness." janet sat down again. the sharpness of ditmar's tone was an exhilarating reminder of the fact that, in dealing with strangers, he had come more or less to rely on her instinctive judgment; while the implied appeal of his manner on such occasions emphasized the pleasurable sense of his dependence, of her own usefulness. besides, she had been curious about the `survey' at the time it was first mentioned, she wished to hear ditmar's views concerning it. mr. siddons proved to be a small and sallow young man with a pointed nose and bright, bulbous brown eyes like a chipmunk's. indeed, he reminded one of a chipmunk. as he whisked himself in and seized ditmar's hand he gave a confused impression of polite self-effacement as well as of dignity and self-assertion; he had the air of one who expects opposition, and though by no means desiring it, is prepared to deal with it. janet smiled. she had a sudden impulse to drop the heavy book that lay on the corner of the desk to see if he would jump. "how do you do, mr. ditmar?" he said. "i've been hoping to have this pleasure." "my secretary, miss bumpus," said ditmar. mr. siddons quivered and bowed. ditmar, sinking ponderously into his chair, seemed suddenly, ironically amused, grinning at janet as he opened a drawer of his desk and offered the visitor a cigar. "thanks, i don't smoke," said mr. siddons. ditmar lit one for himself. "now, what can i do for you?" he asked. "well, as i wrote you in my letter, i was engaged to make as thorough an examination as possible of the living conditions and housing of the operatives in the city of hampton. i'm sure you'd be interested in hearing something of the situation we found." "i suppose you've been through our mills," said ditmar. "no, the fact is--" "you ought to go through. i think it might interest you," ditmar put a slight emphasis on the pronoun. "we rather pride ourselves on making things comfortable and healthy for our people." "i've no doubt of it--in fact, i've been so informed. it's because of your concern for the welfare of your workers in the mills that i ventured to come and talk to you of how most of them live when they're at home," replied siddons, as janet thought, rather neatly. "perhaps, though living in hampton, you don't quite realize what the conditions are. i know a man who has lived in boston ten years and who hasn't ever seen the bunker hill monument." "the bunker hill monument's a public affair," retorted ditmar, "anybody can go there who has enough curiosity and interest. but i don't see how you can expect me to follow these people home and make them clean up their garbage and wash their babies. i shouldn't want anybody to interfere with my private affairs." "but when you get to a point where private affairs become a public menace?" siddons objected. "mr. ditmar, i've seen block after block of tenements ready to crumble. there are no provisions for foundations, thickness of walls, size of timbers and columns, and if these houses had been deliberately erected to make a bonfire they couldn't have answered the purpose better. if it were not for the danger to life and the pity of making thousands of families homeless, a conflagration would be a blessing, although i believe the entire north or south side of the city would go under certain conditions. the best thing you could do would be to burn whole rows of these tenements, they are ideal breeding grounds for disease. in the older sections of the city you've got hundreds of rear houses here, houses moved back on the lots, in some extreme cases with only four-foot courts littered with refuse,--houses without light, without ventilation, and many of the rooms where these people are cooking and eating and sleeping are so damp and foul they're not fit to put dogs in. you've got some blocks with a density of over five hundred to the acre, and your average density is considerably over a hundred." "are things any worse than in any other manufacturing city?" asked ditmar. "that isn't the point," said siddons. "the point is that they're bad, they're dangerous, they're inhuman. if you could go into these tenements as i have done and see the way some of these people live, it would make you sick the poles and lithuanians and italians especially. you wouldn't treat cattle that way. in some households of five rooms, including the kitchen, i found as many as fourteen, fifteen, and once seventeen people living. you've got an alarming infant death-rate." "isn't it because these people want to live that way?" ditmar inquired. "they actually like it, they wouldn't be happy in anything but a pig-sty--they had 'em in europe. and what do you expect us to do? buy land and build flats for them? inside of a month they'd have all the woodwork stripped off for kindling, the drainage stopped up, the bathtubs filled with ashes. i know, because it's been tried." tilted back in his chair, he blew a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling, and his eyes sought janet's. she avoided them, resenting a little the assumption of approval she read in them. her mind, sensitive to new ideas, had been keenly stimulated as she listened to siddons, who began patiently to dwell once more on the ill effect of the conditions he had discovered on the welfare of the entire community. she had never thought of this. she was surprised that ditmar should seem to belittle it. siddons was a new type in her experience. she could understand and to a certain extent maliciously enjoy ditmar's growing exasperation with him; he had a formal, precise manner of talking, as though he spent most of his time presenting cases in committees: and in warding off ditmar's objections he was forever indulging in such maddening phrases as, "before we come to that, let me say a word just here." ditmar hated words. his outbursts, his efforts to stop the flow of them were not unlike the futile charges of a large and powerful animal harassed by a smaller and more agile one. with nimble politeness, with an exasperating air of deference to ditmar's opinions, mr. siddons gave ground, only to return to the charge; yet, despite a manner and method which, when contrasted to ditmar's, verged on the ludicrous, mr. siddons had a force and fire of his own, nervous, almost fanatical: when he dwelt on the misery he had seen, and his voice trembled from the intensity of his feeling, janet began to be moved. it was odd, considering the struggle for existence of her own family, that these foreigners had remained outside the range of her sympathy. "i guess you'll find," ditmar had interrupted peremptorily, "i guess you'll find, if you look up the savings banks statistics, these people have got millions tucked away. and they send a lot of it to the other side, they go back themselves, and though they live like cattle, they manage to buy land. ask the real estate men. why, i could show you a dozen who worked in the mills a few years ago and are capitalists to-day." "i don't doubt it, mr. ditmar," siddons gracefully conceded. "but what does it prove? merely the cruelty of an economic system based on ruthless competition. the great majority who are unable to survive the test pay the price. and the community also pays the price, the state and nation pay it. and we have this misery on our consciences. i've no doubt you could show me some who have grown rich, but if you would let me i could take you to families in desperate want, living in rooms too dark to read in at midday in clear weather, where the husband doesn't get more than seven dollars a week when the mills are running full time, where the woman has to look out for the children and work for the lodgers, and even with lodgers they get into debt, and the woman has to go into the mills to earn money for winter clothing. i've seen enough instances of this kind to offset the savings bank argument. and even then, when you have a family where the wife and older children work, where the babies are put out to board, where there are three and four lodgers in a room, why do you suppose they live that way? isn't it in the hope of freeing themselves ultimately from these very conditions? and aren't these conditions a disgrace to hampton and america?" "well, what am i to do about it?" ditmar demanded. "i see that these operatives have comfortable and healthful surroundings in the mill, i've spent money to put in the latest appliances. that's more than a good many mills i could mention attempt." "you are a person of influence, mr. ditmar, you have more influence than any man in hampton. you can bring pressure to bear on the city council to enforce and improve the building ordinances, you can organize a campaign of public opinion against certain property owners." "yes," retorted ditmar, "and what then? you raise the rents, and you won't get anybody to live in the houses. they'll move out to settlements like glendale full of dirt and vermin and disease and live as they're accustomed to. what you reformers are actually driving at is that we should raise wages--isn't it? if we raised wages they'd live like rats anyway. i give you credit for sincerity, mr. siddons, but i don't want you to think i'm not as much interested in the welfare of these people as you and the men behind you. the trouble is, you only see one side of this question. when you're in my position, you're up against hard facts. we can't pay a dubber or a drawing tender any more than he's worth, whether he has a wife or children in the mills or whether he hasn't. we're in competition with other mills, we're in competition with the south. we can't regulate the cost of living. we do our best to make things right in the mills, and that's all we can do. we can't afford to be sentimental about life. competition's got to be the rule, the world's made that way. some are efficient and some aren't. good god, any man who's had anything to do with hiring labour and running a plant has that drummed into him hard. you talk about ordinances, laws--there are enough laws and ordinances in this city and in this state right now. if we have any more the mills will have to shut down, and these people will starve--all of 'em." ditmar's chair came down on its four legs, and he flung his cigar away. "send me a copy of your survey when it's published. i'll look it over." "well, what do you think of the nerve of a man like that?" ditmar exploded, when mr. siddons had bowed himself out. "comes in here to advise me that it's my business to look out for the whole city of hampton. i'd like to see him up against this low-class european labour trying to run a mill with them. they're here one day and there the next, they don't know what loyalty is. you've got to drive 'em--if you give 'em an inch they'll jump at your throat, dynamite your property. why, there's nothing i wouldn't do for them if i could depend on them, i'd build 'em houses, i'd have automobiles to take 'em home. as it is, i do my best, though they don't deserve it,--in slack seasons i run half time when i oughtn't to be running at all." his tone betrayed an effort of self-justification, and his irritation had been increased by the suspicion in janet of a certain lack of the sympathy on which he had counted. she sat silent, gazing searchingly at his face. "what's the matter?" he demanded. "you don't mean to say you agree with that kind of talk?" "i was wondering--" she began. "what?" "if you were--if you could really understand those who are driven to work in order to keep alive?" "understand them! why not?" he asked. "because--because you're on top, you've always been successful, you're pretty much your own master--and that makes it different. i'm not blaming you--in your place i'd be the same, i'm sure. but this man, siddons, made me think. i've lived like that, you see, i know what it is, in a way." "not like these foreigners!" he protested. "oh, almost as bad," she cried with vehemence, and ditmar, stopped suddenly in his pacing as by a physical force, looked at her with the startled air of the male who has inadvertently touched off one of the many hidden springs in the feminine emotional mechanism. "how do you know what it is to live in a squalid, ugly street, in dark little rooms that smell of cooking, and not be able to have any of the finer, beautiful things in life? unless you'd wanted these things as i've wanted them, you couldn't know. oh, i can understand what it would feel like to strike, to wish to dynamite men like you!" "you can!" he exclaimed in amazement. "you!" "yes, me. you don't understand these people, you couldn't feel sorry for them any more than you could feel sorry for me. you want them to run your mills for you, you don't want to know how they feel or how they live, and you just want me--for your pleasure." he was indeed momentarily taken aback by this taunt, which no woman in his experience had had the wit and spirit to fling at him, but he was not the type of man to be shocked by it. on the contrary, it swept away his irritation, and as a revelation of her inner moltenness stirred him to a fever heat as he approached and stood over her. "you little--panther!" he whispered. "you want beautiful things, do you? well, i'll give 'em to you. i'll take care of you." "do you think i want them from you?" she retorted, almost in tears. "do you think i want anybody to take care of me? that shows how little you know me. i want to be independent, to do my work and pay for what i get." janet herself was far from comprehending the complexity of her feelings. ditmar had not apologized or feigned an altruism for which she would indeed have despised him. the ruthlessness of his laugh--the laugh of the red-blooded man who makes laws that he himself may be lawless shook her with a wild appeal. "what do i care about any others--i want you!" such was its message. and against this paradoxical wish to be conquered, intensified by the magnetic field of his passion, battled her self-assertion, her pride, her innate desire to be free, to escape now from a domination the thought of which filled her with terror. she felt his cheek brushing against her hair, his fingers straying along her arm; for the moment she was hideously yet deliciously powerless. then the emotion of terror conquered--terror of the unknown--and she sprang away, dropping her note-book and running to the window, where she stood swaying. "janet, you're killing me," she heard him say. "for god's sake, why can't you trust me?" she did not answer, but gazed out at the primrose lights beginning to twinkle fantastically in the distant mills. presently she turned. ditmar was in his chair. she crossed the room to the electric switch, turning on the flood of light, picked up her tote-book and sat down again. "don't you intend to answer your letters?" she asked. he reached out gropingly toward the pile of his correspondence, seized the topmost letter, and began to dictate, savagely. she experienced a certain exultation, a renewed and pleasurable sense of power as she took down his words.