“I don’t think every one would grieve a that way. Old Alice wouldn’t.”
“Old Alice is one in a thousand. I doubt, too, if she would fret much, however sorry she might be. She would say it were sent, and fall to trying to find out what good it were to do. Every sorrow in her mind is sent for good. Did I ever tell you, Mary, what she said one day when she found me taking on about something?”
“No; do tell me. What were you fretting about, first place?”
“I can’t tell you, just now; perhaps I may some time.”
“When?”
“Perhaps this very evening, if it rises in my heart; perhaps never. It’s a fear that sometimes I can’t abide to think about, and sometimes I don’t like to think on anything else. Well, I was fretting about this fear, and Alice comes in for something, and finds me crying. I would not tell her no more than I would you, Mary; so she says, ‘Well, dear, you must mind this, when you’re going to fret and be low about anything—An anxious mind is never a holy mind.’ O Mary, I have so often checked my grumbling sin’ she said that.”
Sin’; since. “SIN that his lord was twenty yere of age.” —Prologue to Canterbury Tales.
The weary sound of stitching was the only sound heard for a little while, till Mary inquired—
“Do you expect to get paid for this mourning?”
“Why, I do not much think I shall. I’ve thought it over once or twice, and I mean to bring myself to think I shan’t, and to like to do it as my bit towards comforting them. I don’t think they can pay, and yet they’re just the sort of folk to have their minds easier for wearing mourning. There’s only one thing I dislike making black for, it does so hurt the eyes.”
Margaret put down her work with a sigh, and shaded her eyes. Then she assumed a cheerful tone, and said—
“You’ll not have to wait long, Mary, for my secret’s on the tip of my tongue. Mary, do you know I sometimes think I’m growing a little blind, and then what would become of grandfather and me? Oh, God help me, Lord help me!”
She fell into an agony of tears, while Mary knelt by her, striving to soothe and to comfort her: but, like an inexperienced person, striving rather to deny the correctness of Margaret’s fear, than helping her to meet and overcome the evil.
“No,” said Margaret, quietly fixing her tearful eyes on Mary; “I know I’m not mistaken. I have felt one going some time, long before I ever thought what it would lead to; and last autumn I went to a doctor; and he did not mince the matter, but said unless I sat in a darkened room, with my hands before me, my sight would not last me many years longer. But how could I do that, Mary? For one thing, grandfather would have known there was somewhat the matter; and, oh! it will grieve him sore whenever he is told, so the later the better; and besides, Mary, we’ve sometimes little enough to go upon, and what I earn is a great help. For grandfather takes a day here, and a day there, for botanising or going after insects, and he’ll think little enough of four or five shillings for a specimen; dear grandfather! and I’m so loath to think he should be stinted of what gives him such pleasure. So I went to another doctor to try and get him to say something different, and he said, ‘Oh, it was only weakness,’ and gived me a bottle of lotion; but I’ve used three bottles (and each of ‘em cost two shillings), and my eye is so much worse, not hurting so much, but I can’t see a bit with it. There now, Mary,” continued she, shutting one eye, “now you only look like a great black shadow, with the edges dancing and sparkling.”
“And can you see pretty well with th’ other?”
“Yes, pretty near as well as ever. Th’ only difference is, that if I sew a long time together, a bright spot like th’ sun comes right where I’m looking; all the rest is quite clear but just where I want to see. I’ve been to both doctors again and now they’re both o’ the same story; and I suppose I’m going dark as fast as may be. Plain work pays so bad, and mourning has been so plentiful this winter, that I were tempted to take in any black work I could; and now I’m suffering from it.”
“And yet, Margaret, you’re going on taking it in; that’s what you’d call foolish in another.”
“It is, Mary! and yet what can I do? Folk mun live; and I think I should go blind any way, and I daren’t tell grandfather, else I would leave it off; but he will so fret.”
Margaret rocked herself backward and forward to still her emotion.
“O Mary!” she said, “I try to get his face off by heart, and I stare at him so when he’s not looking, and then shut my eyes to see if I can remember his dear face. There’s one thing, Mary, that serves a bit to comfort me. You’ll have heard of old Jacob Butterworth, the singing weaver? Well, I know’d him a bit, so I went to him, and said how I wished he’d teach me the right way o’ singing; and he says I’ve a rare fine voice, and I go once a week, and take a lesson fra’ him. He’s been a grand singer in his day. He led the choruses at the Festivals, and got thanked many a time by London folk; and one foreign singer, Madame Catalani, turned round and shook him by th’ hand before the Oud Church full o’ people. He says I may gain ever so much money by singing; but I don’t know. Any rate, it’s sad work, being blind.”
Old Church; now the Cathedral of Manchester,
She took up her sewing, saying her eyes were rested now, and for some time they sewed on in silence.
Suddenly there were steps heard in the little paved court, person after person ran past the curtained window.
“Something’s up” said Mary. She went to the door, and stopping the first person she saw, inquired the cause of the Commotion.
“Eh, wench! donna ye see the firelight? Carsons’ mill is blazing away like fun” and away her informant ran.
“Come, Margaret, on wi’ your bonnet, and let’s go to see Carsons’ mill; it’s afire, and they say a burning mill is such a grand sight. I never saw one.”
“Well, I think it’s a fearful sight. Besides, I’ve all this work to do.”
But Mary coaxed in her sweet manner, and with her gentle caresses, promising to help with the gowns all night long, if necessary, nay, saying she should quite enjoy it.
The truth was, Margaret’s secret weighed heavily and painfully on her mind, and she felt her inability to comfort; besides, she wanted to change the current of Margaret’s thoughts; and in addition to these unselfish feelings, came the desire she had honestly expressed, of seeing a factory on fire.
So in two minutes they were ready. At the threshold of the house they met John Barton, to whom they told their errand.
“Carsons’ mill! Ay, there is a mill on fire somewhere, sure enough by the light, and it will be a rare blaze, for there’s not a drop o’ water to be got. And much Carsons will care, for they’re well insured, and the machines are a’ th’ oud-fashioned kind. See if they don’t think it a fine thing for themselves. They’ll not thank them as tries to put it out.”
He gave way for the impatient girls to pass. Guided by the ruddy light more than by any exact knowledge of the streets that led to the mill, they scampered along with bent heads, facing the terrible east wind as best they might.
Carsons’ mill ran lengthways from east to west. Along it went one of the oldest thoroughfares in Manchester. Indeed, all that part of the town was comparatively old; it was there that the first cotton mills were built, and the crowded alleys and back streets of the neighbourhood made a fire there particularly to be dreaded. The staircase of the mill ascended from the entrance at the western end, which faced into a wide, dingy-looking street, consisting principally of public-houses, pawnbrokers’ shops, rag and bone warehouses, and dirty provision shops. The other, the east end of the factory, fronted into a very narrow back street, not twenty feet wide, and miserably lighted and paved. Right against this end of the factory were the gable ends of the last house in the principal street—a house which from its size, its handsome stone facings, and the attempt at ornament in the front, had probably been once a gentleman’s house; but now the light which streamed from its enlarged front windows made clear the interior of the splendidly fitted-up room, with its painted walls, its pillared recesses, its gilded and gorgeous fittings-up, its miserable squalid inmates. It was a gin palace.