Mary Barton

  VII. JEM WILSON'S REPULSE.

  "How infinite the wealth of love and hope Garnered in these same tiny treasure-houses And oh! what bankrupts in the world we feel, When Death, like some remorseless creditor, Seizes on all we fondly thought our own." --"THE TWINS."

  The ghoul-like fever was not to be braved with impunity, and balkedof its prey. The widow had reclaimed her children; her neighbours,in the good-Samaritan sense of the word, had paid her little arrearsof rent, and made her a few shillings beforehand with the world.She determined to flit from that cellar to another less full ofpainful associations, less haunted by mournful memories. The Board,not so formidable as she had imagined, had inquired into her case;and, instead of sending her to Stoke Claypole, her husband'sBuckinghamshire parish, as she had dreaded, had agreed to pay herrent. So food for four mouths was all she was now required to find;only for three she would have said; for herself and the unweanedchild were but reckoned as one in her calculation.

  She had a strong heart, now her bodily strength had been recruitedby a week or two of food, and she would not despair. So she took insome little children to nurse, who brought their daily food withthem, which she cooked for them, without wronging their helplessnessof a crumb; and when she had restored them to their mothers atnight, she set to work at plain sewing, "seam, and gusset, andband," and sat thinking how she might best cheat the factoryinspector, and persuade him that her strong, big, hungry Ben wasabove thirteen. Her plan of living was so far arranged, when sheheard, with keen sorrow, that Wilson's twin lads were ill of thefever.

  They had never been strong. They were like many a pair of twins,and seemed to have but one life divided between them. One life, onestrength, and in this instance, I might almost say, one brain, forthey were helpless, gentle, silly children, but not the less dear totheir parents and to their strong, active, manly, elder brother.They were late on their feet, late in talking, late every way; hadto be nursed and cared for when other lads of their age weretumbling about in the street, and losing themselves, and being takento the police-office miles away from home.

  Still want had never yet come in at the door to make love for theseinnocents fly out of the window. Nor was this the case even now,when Jem Wilson's earnings, and his mother's occasional charings,were barely sufficient to give all the family their fill of food.

  But when the twins, after ailing many days, and caring little fortheir meat, fell sick on the same afternoon, with the same heavystupor of suffering, the three hearts that loved them so, each felt,though none acknowledged to the other, that they had little chancefor life. It was nearly a week before the tale of their illnessspread as far as the court where the Wilsons had once dwelt, and theBartons yet lived.

  Alice had heard of the sickness of her little nephews several daysbefore, and had locked her cellar door, and gone off straight to herbrother's house, in Ancoats; but she was often absent for days, sentfor, as her neighbours knew, to help in some sudden emergency ofillness or distress, so that occasioned no surprise.

  Margaret met Jem Wilson several days after his brothers wereseriously ill, and heard from him the state of things at his home.She told Mary of it as she entered the court late that evening; andMary listened with saddened heart to the strange contrast which suchwoeful tidings presented to the gay and loving words she had beenhearing on her walk home. She blamed herself for being so muchtaken up with visions of the golden future that she had lately gonebut seldom on Sunday afternoons, or other leisure time, to see Mrs.Wilson, her mother's friend; and with hasty purpose of amendment sheonly stayed to leave a message for her father with the next-doorneighbour, and then went off at a brisk pace on her way to the houseof mourning.

  She stopped with her hand on the latch of the Wilsons' door, tostill her beating heart, and listened to the hushed quiet within.She opened the door softly; there sat Mrs. Wilson in the oldrocking-chair, with one sick death-like boy lying on her knee,crying without let or pause, but softly, gently, as fearing todisturb the troubled, gasping child; while behind her, old Alice lether fast-dropping tears fall down on the dead body of the othertwin, which she was laying out on a board placed on a sort ofsofa-settee in a corner of the room. Over the child, which yetbreathed, the father bent, watching anxiously for some ground ofhope, where hope there was none. Mary stepped slowly and lightlyacross to Alice.

  "Ay, poor lad! God has taken him early, Mary."

  Mary could not speak, she did not know what to say; it was so muchworse than she had expected. At last she ventured to whisper--

  "Is there any chance for the other one, think you?"

  Alice shook her head, and told with a look that she believed therewas none. She next endeavoured to lift the little body, and carryit to its old accustomed bed in its parents' room. But earnest asthe father was in watching the yet-living, he had eyes and ears forall that concerned the dead, and sprang gently up, and took his deadson on his hard couch in his arms with tender strength, and carriedhim upstairs as if afraid of wakening him.

  The other child gasped louder, longer, with more of effort.

  "We mun get him away from his mother. He cannot die while she'swishing him."

  "Wishing him?" said Mary, in a tone of inquiry.

  "Ay; donno' ye know what 'wishing' means? There's none can die inthe arms of those who are wishing them sore to stay on earth. Thesoul o' them as holds them won't let the dying soul go free; so ithas a hard struggle for the quiet of death. We mun get him awayfra' his mother, or he'll have a hard death, poor lile* fellow."

  *"Lile," a north-country word for "little." "Wit leil labour to live."--Piers Plowman.

  So without circumlocution she went and offered to take the sinkingchild. But the mother would not let him go, and looking in Alice'sface with brimming and imploring eyes, declared, in earnestwhispers, that she was not wishing him, that she would fain have himreleased from his suffering. Alice and Mary stood by with eyesfixed on the poor child, whose struggles seemed to increase, till atlast his mother said, with a choking voice--

  "May happen* yo'd better take him, Alice; I believe my heart'swishing him a' this while, for I cannot, no, I cannot bring mysel tolet my two childer go in one day; I cannot help longing to keep him,and yet he shan't suffer longer for me."

  *"May happen," perhaps.

  She bent down, and fondly, oh! with what passionate fondness, kissedher child, and then gave him up to Alice, who took him with tendercare. Nature's struggles were soon exhausted, and he breathed hislittle life away in peace.

  Then the mother lifted up her voice and wept. Her cries brought herhusband down to try with his aching heart to comfort hers. AgainAlice laid out the dead, Mary helping with reverent fear. Thefather and mother carried him upstairs to the bed, where his littlebrother lay in calm repose.

  Mary and Alice drew near the fire, and stood in quiet sorrow forsome time. Then Alice broke the silence by saying--

  "It will be bad news for Jem, poor fellow, when he comes home."

  "Where is he?" asked Mary.

  "Working over-hours at th' shop. They'n getten a large order fra'forrin parts; and yo know, Jem mun work, though his heart'swell-nigh breaking for these poor laddies."

  Again they were silent in thought, and again Alice spoke first.

  "I sometimes think the Lord is against planning. Whene'er I planovermuch, He is sure to send and mar all my plans, as if He wouldha' me put the future into His hands. Afore Christmas time I was asfull as full could be, of going home for good and all; yo han heardhow I've wished it this terrible long time. And a young lass frombehind Burton came into place in Manchester last Martinmas; so afterawhile she had a Sunday out, and she comes to me, and tells me somecousins o' mine bid her find me out, and say how glad they should beto ha' me to bide wi' 'em, and look after th' childer, for they'ngetten a big farm, and she's a deal to do among th' cows. So many'sa winter's night did I lie awake and think, that ple
ase God, comesummer, I'd bid George and his wife goodbye, and go home at last.Little did I think how God Almighty would balk me, for not leavingmy days in His hands, who had led me through the wildernesshitherto. Here's George out of work, and more cast down than ever Iseed him; wanting every chip o' comfort he can get, e'en afore thislast heavy stroke; and now I'm thinking the Lord's finger pointsvery clear to my fit abiding-place; and I'm sure if George and Janecan say 'His will be done,' it's no more than what I'm beholden todo."

  So saying, she fell to tidying the room, removing as much as shecould every vestige of sickness; making up the fire, and setting onthe kettle for a cup of tea for her sister-in-law, whose low moansand sobs were occasionally heard in the room below.

  Mary helped her in all these little offices. They were busy in thisway when the door was softly opened, and Jem came in, all grimed anddirty from his night-work, his soiled apron wrapped round hismiddle, in guise and apparel in which he would have been sorry atanother time to have been seen by Mary. But just now he hardly sawher; he went straight up to Alice, and asked how the little chapswere. They had been a shade better at dinner-time; and he had beenworking away through the long afternoon, and far into the night, inthe belief that they had taken the turn. He had stolen out duringthe half-hour allowed at the works for tea, to buy them an orange ortwo, which now puffed out his jacket-pocket.

  He would make his aunt speak: he would not understand her shake ofthe head and fast coursing tears.

  "They're both gone," said she.

  "Dead!"

  "Ay! poor fellows. They took worse about two o'clock. Joe wentfirst, as easy as a lamb, and Will died harder like."

  "Both!"

  "Ay, lad! both. The Lord has ta'en them from some evil to come, orHe would na' ha' made choice o' them. Ye may rest sure o' that."

  Jem went to the cupboard, and quietly extricated from his pocket theoranges he had bought. But he stayed long there, and at last hissturdy frame shook with his strong agony. The two women werefrightened, as women always are, on witnessing a man's overpoweringgrief. They cried afresh in company. Mary's heart melted withinher as she witnessed Jem's sorrow, and she stepped gently up to thecorner where he stood, with his back turned to them, and putting herhand softly on his arm, said--

  "O Jem, don't give way so; I cannot bear to see you."

  Jem felt a strange leap of joy in his heart, and knew the power shehad of comforting him. He did not speak, as though fearing todestroy by sound or motion the happiness of that moment, when hersoft hand's touch thrilled through his frame, and her silvery voicewas whispering tenderness in his ear. Yes! it might be very wrong;he could almost hate himself for it; with death and woe sosurrounding him, it yet was happiness, was bliss, to be so spoken toby Mary.

  "Don't, Jem, please don't," whispered she again, believing that hissilence was only another form of grief.

  He could not contain himself. He took her hand in his firm yettrembling grasp, and said, in tones that instantly produced arevulsion in her mood--

  "Mary, I almost loathe myself when I feel I would not give up thisminute, when my brothers lie dead, and father and mother are in suchtrouble, for all my life that's past and gone. And, Mary," (as shetried to release her hand), "you know what makes me feel soblessed."

  She did know--he was right there. But as he turned to catch a lookat her sweet face, he saw that it expressed unfeigned distress,almost amounting to vexation a dread of him, that he thought wasalmost repugnance.

  He let her hand go, and she quickly went away to Alice's side.

  "Fool that I was--nay, wretch that I was--to let myself take thistime of trouble to tell her how I loved her; no wonder that sheturns away from such a selfish beast."

  Partly to relieve her from his presence, and partly from naturaldesire, and partly, perhaps, from a penitent wish to share to theutmost his parents' sorrow, he soon went upstairs to the chamber ofdeath.

  Mary mechanically helped Alice in all the duties she performedthrough the remainder of that long night, but she did not see Jemagain. He remained upstairs until after the early dawn showed Marythat she need have no fear of going home through the deserted andquiet streets, to try and get a little sleep before work-hour. Soleaving kind messages to George and Jane Wilson, and hesitatingwhether she might dare to send a few kind words to Jem, and decidingthat she had better not, she stepped out into the bright morninglight, so fresh a contrast to the darkened room where death hadbeen.

  "They had Another morn than ours."

  Mary lay down on her bed in her clothes; and whether it was this, orthe broad day-light that poured in through the sky window, orwhether it was over-excitement, it was long before she could catch awink of sleep. Her thoughts ran on Jem's manner and words; not butwhat she had known the tale they told for many a day; but still shewished he had not put it so plainly.

  "O dear," said she to herself, "I wish he would not mistake me so; Inever dare to speak a common word o' kindness, but his eye brightensand his cheek flushes. It's very hard on me; for father and GeorgeWilson are old friends; and Jem and I ha' known each other since wewere quite children. I cannot think what possesses me, that I mustalways be wanting to comfort him when he's downcast, and that I mustgo meddling wi' him to-night, when sure enough it was his aunt'splace to speak to him. I don't care for him, and yet, unless I'malways watching myself, I'm speaking to him in a loving voice. Ithink I cannot go right, for I either check myself till I'mdownright cross to him, or else I speak just natural, and that's tookind and tender by half. And I'm as good as engaged to be marriedto another; and another far handsomer than Jem; only I think I likeJem's face best for all that; liking's liking, and there's no helpfor it. Well, when I'm Mrs. Harry Carson, may happen I can put somegood fortune in Jem's way. But will he thank me for it? He'srather savage at times, that I can see, and perhaps kindness fromme, when I'm another's, will only go against the grain. I'll notplague myself wi' thinking any more about him, that I won't."

  So she turned on her pillow, and fell asleep, and dreamt of what wasoften in her waking thoughts; of the day when she should ride fromchurch in her carriage, with wedding-bells ringing, and take up herastonished father, and drive away from the old dim work-a-day courtfor ever, to live in a grand house, where her father should havenewspapers, and pamphlets, and pipes, and meat dinners everyday--and all day long if he liked.

  Such thoughts mingled in her predilection for the handsome young Mr.Carson, who, unfettered by work-hours, let scarcely a day passwithout contriving a meeting with the beautiful little milliner hehad first seen while lounging in a shop where his sisters weremaking some purchases, and afterwards never rested till he hadfreely, though respectfully, made her acquaintance in her dailywalks. He was, to use his own expression to himself, quiteinfatuated by her, and was restless each day till the time came whenhe had a chance, and, of late, more than a chance of meeting her.There was something of keen practical shrewdness about her, whichcontrasted very bewitchingly with the simple, foolish, unworldlyideas she had picked up from the romances which Miss Simmonds' youngladies were in the habit of recommending to each other.

  Yes! Mary was ambitious, and did not favour Mr. Carson the lessbecause he was rich and a gentleman. The old leaven, infused yearsago by her Aunt Esther, fermented in her little bosom, and perhapsall the more, for her father's aversion to the rich and the gentle.Such is the contrariness of the human heart, from Eve downwards,that we all, in our old Adam state, fancy things forbidden sweetest.So Mary dwelt upon and enjoyed the idea of some day becoming a lady,and doing all the elegant nothings appertaining to ladyhood. It wasa comfort to her, when scolded by Miss Simmonds, to think of the daywhen she would drive up to the door in her own carriage, to orderher gowns from the hasty-tempered yet kind dressmaker. It was apleasure to her to hear the general admiration of the two elder MissCarsons, acknowledged beauties in ball-room and street, on horsebackand on foot, and to think of the t
ime when she should ride and walkwith them in loving sisterhood. But the best of her plans, theholiest, that which in some measure redeemed the vanity of the rest,were those relating to her father; her dear father, now oppressedwith care, and always a disheartened, gloomy person. How she wouldsurround him with every comfort she could devise (of course, he wasto live with them), till he should acknowledge riches to be verypleasant things, and bless his lady-daughter! Every one who hadshown her kindness in her low estate should then be repaid ahundredfold.

  Such were the castles in air, the Alnaschar-visions in which Maryindulged, and which she was doomed in after days to expiate withmany tears.

  Meanwhile, her words--or, even more, her tones--would maintain theirhold on Jem Wilson's memory. A thrill would yet come over him whenhe remembered how her hand had rested on his arm. The thought ofher mingled with all his grief, and it was profound, for the loss ofhis brothers.