V. THE MILL ON FIRE-JEM WILSON TO THE RESCUE.
"Learned he was; nor bird nor insect flew, But he its leafy home and history knew: Nor wild-flower decked the rock, nor moss the well, But he its name and qualities could tell." --ELLIOTT.
There is a class of men in Manchester, unknown even to many of theinhabitants, and whose existence will probably be doubted by many,who yet may claim kindred with all the noble names that sciencerecognises. I said in "Manchester," but they are scattered all overthe manufacturing districts of Lancashire. In the neighbourhood ofOldham there are weavers, common hand-loom weavers, who throw theshuttle with unceasing sound, though Newton's "Principia" lies openon the loom, to be snatched at in work hours, but revelled over inmeal times, or at night. Mathematical problems are received withinterest, and studied with absorbing attention by many a broad-spoken, common-looking factory-hand. It is perhaps less astonishingthat the more popularly interesting branches of natural history havetheir warm and devoted followers among this class. There arebotanists among them, equally familiar with either the Linnaean orthe Natural system, who know the name and habitat of every plantwithin a day's walk from their dwellings; who steal the holiday of aday or two when any particular plant should be in flower, and tyingup their simple food in their pocket-handkerchiefs, set off withsingle purpose to fetch home the humble-looking weed. There areentomologists, who may be seen with a rude-looking net, ready tocatch any winged insect, or a kind of dredge, with which they rakethe green and slimy pools; practical, shrewd, hard-working men, whopore over every new specimen with real scientific delight. Nor isit the common and more obvious divisions of Entomology and Botanythat alone attract these earnest seekers after knowledge. Perhapsit may be owing to the great annual town-holiday of Whitsun-week sooften falling in May or June, that the two great beautiful familiesof Ephemeridae and Phryganidae have been so much and so closelystudied by Manchester workmen, while they have in a great measureescaped general observation. If you will refer to the preface toSir J. E. Smith's Life (I have it not by me, or I would copy you theexact passage), you will find that he names a little circumstancecorroborative of what I have said. Being on a visit to Roscoe, ofLiverpool, he made some inquiries of him as to the habitat of a veryrare plant, said to be found in certain places in Lancashire. Mr.Roscoe knew nothing of the plant; but stated, that if any one couldgive him the desired information, it would be a hand-loom weaver inManchester, whom he named. Sir J. E. Smith proceeded by boat toManchester, and on arriving at that town, he inquired of the porterwho was carrying his luggage if he could direct him to So-and-So.
"Oh, yes," replied the man. "He does a bit in my way"; and, onfurther investigation, it turned out that both the porter and hisfriend the weaver were skilful botanists, and able to give Sir J. E.Smith the very information which he wanted.
Such are the tastes and pursuits of some of the thoughtful, littleunderstood, working-men of Manchester.
And Margaret's grandfather was one of these. He was a littlewiry-looking old man, who moved with a jerking motion, as if hislimbs were worked by a string like a child's toy, with dun-colouredhair lying thin and soft at the back and sides of his head; hisforehead was so large it seemed to overbalance the rest of his face,which had, indeed, lost its natural contour by the absence of allthe teeth. The eyes absolutely gleamed with intelligence; so keen,so observant, you felt as if they were almost wizard-like. Indeed,the whole room looked not unlike a wizard's dwelling. Instead ofpictures were hung rude wooden frames of impaled insects; the littletable was covered with cabalistic books; and beside them lay a caseof mysterious instruments, one of which Job Legh was using when hisgrand-daughter entered.
On her appearance he pushed his spectacles up so as to rest midwayon his forehead, and gave Mary a short, kind welcome. But Margarethe caressed as a mother caresses her first-born; stroking her withtenderness, and almost altering his voice as he spoke to her.
Mary looked round on the odd, strange things she had never seen athome, and which seemed to her to have a very uncanny look.
"Is your grandfather a fortune-teller?" whispered she to her newfriend.
"No," replied Margaret, in the same voice; "but you are not thefirst as has taken him for such. He is only fond of such things asmost folks know nothing about."
"And do you know aught about them too?"
"I know a bit about some of the things grandfather is fond on justbecause he's fond on 'em, I tried to learn about them."
"What things are these?" said Mary, struck with the weird-lookingcreatures that sprawled around the room in their roughly-made glasscases.
But she was not prepared for the technical names, which Job Leghpattered down on her ear, on which they fell like hail on askylight; and the strange language only bewildered her more thanever. Margaret saw the state of the case, and came to the rescue.
"Look, Mary, at this horrid scorpion. He gave me such a fright: Iam all of a twitter yet when I think of it. Grandfather went toLiverpool one Whitsun-week to go strolling about the docks and pickup what he could from the sailors, who often bring some queer thingor another from the hot countries they go to; and so he sees a chapwith a bottle in his hand, like a druggist's physic-bottle; and saysgrandfather, 'What have ye gotten there?' So the sailor holds itup, and grandfather knew it was a rare kind o' scorpion, not commoneven in the East Indies where the man came from; and says he, 'Howdid you catch this fine fellow, for he wouldn't be taken fornothing, I'm thinking?' And the man said as how when they wereunloading the ship he'd found him lying behind a bag of rice, and hethought the cold had killed him, for he was not squashed nor injureda bit. He did not like to part with any of the spirit out of hisgrog to put the scorpion in, but slipped him into the bottle,knowing there were folks enow who would give him something for him.So grandfather gives him a shilling."
"Two shillings," interrupted Job Legh; "and a good bargain it was."
"Well! grandfather came home as proud as Punch, and pulled thebottle out of his pocket. But you see th' scorpion were doubled up,and grandfather thought I couldn't fairly see how big he was. So heshakes him out right before the fire; and a good warm one it was,for I was ironing, I remember. I left off ironing and stooped downover him, to look at him better, and grandfather got a book, andbegan to read how this very kind were the most poisonous and viciousspecies, how their bite were often fatal, and then went on to readhow people who were bitten got swelled, and screamed with pain. Iwas listening hard, but as it fell out, I never took my eyes off thecreature, though I could not ha' told I was watching it. Suddenlyit seemed to give a jerk, and before I could speak it gave another,and in a minute it was as wild as it could be, running at me justlike a mad dog."
"What did you do?" asked Mary.
"Me! why, I jumped first on a chair, and then on all the things I'dbeen ironing on the dresser, and I screamed for grandfather to comeup by me, but he did not hearken to me."
"Why, if I'd come up by thee, who'd ha' caught the creature, Ishould like to know?"
"Well, I begged grandfather to crush it, and I had the iron rightover it once, ready to drop, but grandfather begged me not to hurtit in that way. So I couldn't think what he'd have, for he hoppedround the room as if he were sore afraid, for all he begged me notto injure it. At last he goes to th' kettle, and lifts up the lid,and peeps in. What on earth is he doing that for, thinks I; he'llnever drink his tea with a scorpion running free and easy about theroom. Then he takes the tongs, and he settles his spectacles on hisnose, and in a minute he had lifted the creature up by th' leg, anddropped him into the boiling water."
"And did that kill him?" said Mary.
"Ay, sure enough; he boiled for longer time than grandfather liked,though. But I was so afeard of his coming round again, I ran to thepublic-house for some gin, and grandfather filled the bottle, andthen we poured off the water, and picked him out of the kettle, anddropped him into the bottle, and he were
there about a twelvemonth."
"What brought him to life at first?" asked Mary.
"Why, you see, he were never really dead, only torpid--that is, deadasleep with the cold, and our good fire brought him round."
"I'm glad father does not care for such things," said Mary.
"Are you? Well, I'm often downright glad grandfather is so fond ofhis books, and his creatures, and his plants. It does my heart goodto see him so happy, sorting them all at home, and so ready to go insearch of more, whenever he's a spare day. Look at him now! he'sgone back to his books, and he'll be as happy as a king, workingaway till I make him go to bed. It keeps him silent, to be sure;but so long as I see him earnest, and pleased, and eager, what doesthat matter? Then, when he has his talking bouts, you can't thinkhow much he has to say. Dear grandfather! you don't know how happywe are!"
Mary wondered if the dear grandfather heard all this, for Margaretdid not speak in an undertone; but no! he was far too deep, andeager in solving a problem. He did not even notice Mary'sleave-taking, and she went home with the feeling that she had thatnight made the acquaintance of two of the strangest people she eversaw in her life. Margaret, so quiet, so commonplace, until hersinging powers were called forth; so silent from home, so cheerfuland agreeable at home; and her grandfather so very different to anyone Mary had ever seen. Margaret had said he was not afortune-teller, but she did not know whether to believe her.
To resolve her doubts, she told the history of the evening to herfather, who was interested by her account, and curious to see andjudge for himself. Opportunities are not often wanting whereinclination goes before, and ere the end of that winter Mary lookedupon Margaret almost as an old friend. The latter would bring herwork when Mary was likely to be at home in the evenings and sit withher; and Job Legh would put a book and his pipe in his pocket andjust step round the corner to fetch his grandchild, ready for a talkif he found Barton in; ready to pull out pipe and book if the girlswanted him to wait, and John was still at his club. In short, readyto do whatever would give pleasure to his darling Margaret.
I do not know what points of resemblance, or dissimilitude (for thisjoins people as often as that) attracted the two girls to eachother. Margaret had the great charm of possessing good strongcommon sense, and do you not perceive how involuntarily this isvalued? It is so pleasant to have a friend who possesses the powerof setting a difficult question in a clear light; whose judgment cantell what is best to be done; and who is so convinced of what is"wisest, best," that in consideration of the end, all difficultiesin the way diminish. People admire talent, and talk about theiradmiration. But they value common sense without talking about it,and often without knowing it.
So Mary and Margaret grew in love one toward the other; and Marytold many of her feelings in a way she had never done before to anyone. Most of her foibles also were made known to Margaret, but notall. There was one cherished weakness still concealed from everyone. It concerned a lover, not beloved, but favoured by fancy. Agallant, handsome young man; but--not beloved. Yet Mary hoped tomeet him every day in her walks, blushed when she heard his name,and tried to think of him as her future husband, and above all,tried to think of herself as his future wife. Alas! poor Mary!Bitter woe did thy weakness work thee.
She had other lovers. One or two would gladly have kept hercompany, but she held herself too high, they said. Jem Wilson saidnothing, but loved on and on, ever more fondly; he hoped againsthope; he would not give up, for it seemed like giving up life togive up thought of Mary. He did not dare to look to any end of allthis; the present, so that he saw her, touched the hem of hergarment, was enough. Surely, in time, such deep hope would begetlove.
He would not relinquish hope, and yet her coldness of manner wasenough to daunt any man; and it made Jem more despairing than hewould acknowledge for a long time even to himself.
But one evening he came round by Barton's house, a willing messengerfor his father, and opening the door saw Margaret sitting asleepbefore the fire. She had come in to speak to Mary; and worn-out bya long, working, watching night, she fell asleep in the genialwarmth.
An old-fashioned saying about a pair of gloves came into Jem's mind,and stepping gently up, he kissed Margaret with a friendly kiss.
She awoke, and perfectly understanding the thing, she said, "Forshame of yourself, Jem! What would Mary say?"
Lightly said, lightly answered.
"She'd nobbut say, practice makes perfect." And they both laughed.But the words Margaret had said rankled in Jem's mind. Would Marycare? Would she care in the very least? They seemed to call for ananswer by night and by day; and Jem felt that his heart told himMary was quite indifferent to any action of his. Still he loved on,and on, ever more fondly.
Mary's father was well aware of the nature of Jem Wilson's feelingsfor his daughter, but he took no notice of them to any one, thinkingMary full young yet for the cares of married life, and unwilling,too, to entertain the idea of parting with her at any time, howeverdistant. But he welcomed Jem at his house, as he would have donehis father's son, whatever were his motives for coming; and now andthen admitted the thought, that Mary might do worse, when her timecame, than marry Jem Wilson, a steady workman at a good trade, agood son to his parents, and a fine manly spirited chap--at leastwhen Mary was not by; for when she was present he watched her tooclosely, and too anxiously, to have much of what John Barton called"spunk" in him.
It was towards the end of February, in that year, and a bitter blackfrost had lasted for many weeks. The keen east wind had long sinceswept the streets clean, though in a gusty day the dust would riselike pounded ice, and make people's faces quite smart with the coldforce with which it blew against them. Houses, sky, people, andeverything looked as if a gigantic brush had washed them all overwith a dark shade of Indian ink. There was some reason for thisgrimy appearance on human beings, whatever there might be for thedun looks of the landscape; for soft water had become an article noteven to be purchased; and the poor washerwomen might be seen vainlytrying to procure a little by breaking the thick grey ice thatcoated the ditches and ponds in the neighbourhood. Peopleprophesied a long continuance to this already lengthened frost; saidthe spring would be very late; no spring fashions required; nosummer clothing chased for a short uncertain summer. Indeed, therewas no end to the evil prophesied during the continuance of thatbleak east wind.
Mary hurried home one evening, just as daylight was fading, fromMiss Simmonds', with her shawl held up to her mouth, and her headbent as if in deprecation of the meeting wind. So she did notperceive Margaret till she was close upon her at the very turninginto the court.
"Bless me, Margaret! is that you? Where are you bound to?"
"To nowhere but your own house (that is, if you'll take me in).I've a job of work to finish to-night; mourning, as must be in timefor the funeral to-morrow; and grandfather has been out moss-hunting, and will not be home till late."
"Oh, how charming it will be! I'll help you if you're backward.Have you much to do?"
"Yes, I only got the order yesterday at noon and there's threegirls beside the mother; and what with trying on and matching thestuff (for there was not enough in the piece they chose first), I'mabove a bit behindhand. I've the skirts all to make. I kept thatwork till candlelight; and the sleeves, to say nothing of littlebits to the bodies; for the missis is very particular, and I couldscarce keep from smiling while they were crying so, really taking onsadly I'm sure, to hear first one and then t'other clear up tonotice the set of her gown. They weren't to be misfits, I promiseyou, though they were in such trouble."
"Well, Margaret, you're right welcome, as you know, and I'll sitdown and help you with pleasure, though I was tired enough of sewingto-night at Miss Simmonds'!"
By this time Mary had broken up the raking coal, and lighted hercandle; and Margaret settled herself to her work on one side of thetable, while her friend hurried over her tea at the other. Thethings were then lifted en masse to the dresse
r; and dusting herside of the table with the apron she always wore at home, Mary tookup some breadths and began to run them together.
"Who's it all for, for if you told me I've forgotten?"
"Why, for Mrs. Ogden as keeps the greengrocer's shop in Oxford Road.Her husband drank himself to death, and though she cried over himand his ways all the time he was alive, she's fretted sadly for himnow he's dead."
"Has he left her much to go upon?" asked Mary, examining the textureof the dress. "This is beautifully fine soft bombazine."
"No, I'm much afeard there's but little, and there's several youngchildren, besides the three Miss Ogdens."
"I should have thought girls like them would ha' made their owngowns," observed Mary.
"So I dare say they do, many a one, but now they seem all so busygetting ready for the funeral; for it's to be quite a grand affair,well-nigh twenty people to breakfast, as one of the little ones toldme. The little thing seemed to like the fuss, and I do believe itcomforted poor Mrs. Ogden to make all the piece o' work. Such asmell of ham boiling and fowls roasting while I waited in thekitchen; it seemed more like a wedding nor* a funeral. They saidshe'd spend a matter o' sixty pound on th' burial."
*Nor; generally used in Lancashire for "than." "They had lever sleep NOR be in laundery."--DUNBAR
"I thought you said she was but badly off," said Mary.
"Ay, I know she's asked for credit at several places, saying herhusband laid hands on every farthing he could get for drink. Butth' undertakers urge her on, you see, and tell her this thing'susual, and that thing's only a common mark of respect, and thateverybody has t'other thing, till the poor woman has no will o' herown. I dare say, too, her heart strikes her (it always does when aperson's gone) for many a word and many a slighting deed to himwho's stiff and cold; and she thinks to make up matters, as it were,by a grand funeral, though she and all her children, too, may haveto pinch many a year to pay the expenses, if ever they pay them atall."
"This mourning, too, will cost a pretty penny," said Mary. "I oftenwonder why folks wear mourning; it's not pretty or becoming; and itcosts a deal of money just when people can spare it least; and ifwhat the Bible tells us be true, we ought not to be sorry when afriend, who's been good, goes to his rest; and as for a bad man,one's glad enough to get shut* on him. I cannot see what good comesout o' wearing mourning."
*Shut; quit.
"I'll tell you what I think the fancy was sent for (old Alice callseverything 'sent for,' and I believe she's right). It does do good,though not as much as it costs, that I do believe, in setting people(as is cast down by sorrow and feels themselves unable to settle toanything but crying) something to do. Why now I told you how theywere grieving; for, perhaps, he was a kind husband and father, inhis thoughtless way, when he wasn't in liquor. But they cheered upwonderful while I was there, and I asked 'em for more directionsthan usual, that they might have something to talk over and fixabout; and I left 'em my fashion-book (though it were two monthsold) just a purpose."
"I don't think every one would grieve a that way. Old Alicewouldn't."
"Old Alice is one in a thousand. I doubt, too, if she would fretmuch, however sorry she might be. She would say it were sent, andfall to trying to find out what good it were to do. Every sorrow inher mind is sent for good. Did I ever tell you, Mary, what she saidone 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, andsometimes I don't like to think on anything else. Well, I wasfretting about this fear, and Alice comes in for something, andfinds 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'regoing to fret and be low about anything--An anxious mind is never aholy mind.' O Mary, I have so often checked my grumbling sin'* shesaid 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 littlewhile, 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 ortwice, and I mean to bring myself to think I shan't, and to like todo it as my bit towards comforting them. I don't think they canpay, and yet they're just the sort of folk to have their mindseasier for wearing mourning. There's only one thing I dislikemaking black for, it does so hurt the eyes."
Margaret put down her work with a sigh, and shaded her eyes. Thenshe assumed a cheerful tone, and said--
"You'll not have to wait long, Mary, for my secret's on the tip ofmy tongue. Mary, do you know I sometimes think I'm growing a littleblind, and then what would become of grandfather and me? Oh, Godhelp me, Lord help me!"
She fell into an agony of tears, while Mary knelt by her, strivingto soothe and to comfort her: but, like an inexperienced person,striving rather to deny the correctness of Margaret's fear, thanhelping her to meet and overcome the evil.
"No," said Margaret, quietly fixing her tearful eyes on Mary; "Iknow I'm not mistaken. I have felt one going some time, long beforeI ever thought what it would lead to; and last autumn I went to adoctor; and he did not mince the matter, but said unless I sat in adarkened room, with my hands before me, my sight would not last memany 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 thebetter; 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'llthink little enough of four or five shillings for a specimen; deargrandfather! and I'm so loath to think he should be stinted of whatgives him such pleasure. So I went to another doctor to try and gethim to say something different, and he said, 'Oh, it was onlyweakness,' and gived me a bottle of lotion but I've used threebottles (and each of 'em cost two shillings), and my eye is so muchworse, not hurting so much, but I can't see a bit with it. Therenow, Mary," continued she, shutting one eye, "now you only look likea 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 ifI sew a long time together, a bright spot like th' sun comes rightwhere I'm looking; all the rest is quite clear but just where I wantto see. I've been to both doctors again and now they're both o' thesame story; and I suppose I'm going dark as fast as may be. Plainwork pays so bad, and mourning has been so plentiful thiswinter, that I were tempted to take in any black work I could; andnow I'm suffering from it."
"And yet, Margaret, you're going on taking it in; that's what you'dcall foolish in another."
"It is, Mary! and yet what can I do? Folk mun live; and I think Ishould go blind any way, and I daren't tell grandfather, else Iwould 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 stareat him so when he's not looking, and then shut my eyes to see if Ican remember his dear face. There's one thing, Mary, that serves abit to comfort me. You'll have heard of old Jacob Butterworth, thesinging weaver? Well, I know'd him a bit, so I went to him, andsaid how I wished he'd teach me the right way o' singing; and hesays I've a rare fine voice, and I go once a week, and take a lessonfra' him. He's been a grand singer in his day. He led the chorusesat the Festivals, and got thanked many a time by London folk; andone foreign singer, Madame Catalani, turned round and shook him byth' hand before the Oud Church* full o' people. He says I may gainever so much money by singing; but I don't know. Any rate, it's sadwor
k, being blind."
*Old Church; now the Cathedral of Manchester,
She took up her sewing, saying her eyes were rested now, and forsome time they sewed on in silence.
Suddenly there were steps heard in the little paved court, personafter person ran past the curtained window.
"Something's up" said Mary. She went to the door, and stopping thefirst person she saw, inquired the cause of the Commotion.
"Eh, wench! donna ye see the fire-light? Carsons' mill is blazingaway 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 todo."
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 onher mind, and she felt her inability to comfort; besides, she wantedto change the current of Margaret's thoughts; and in addition tothese unselfish feelings, came the desire she had honestlyexpressed, of seeing a factory on fire.
So in two minutes they were ready. At the threshold of the housethey met John Barton, to whom they told their errand.
"Carsons' mill! Ay, there is a mill on fire somewhere, sure enoughby 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 wellinsured, and the machines are a' th' oud-fashioned kind. See ifthey don't think it a fine thing for themselves. They'll not thankthem as tries to put it out."
He gave way for the impatient girls to pass. Guided by the ruddylight more than by any exact knowledge of the streets that led tothe mill, they scampered along with bent heads, facing the terribleeast wind as best they might.
Carsons' mill ran lengthways from east to west. Along it went oneof the oldest thoroughfares in Manchester. Indeed, all that part ofthe town was comparatively old; it was there that the first cottonmills were built, and the crowded alleys and back streets of theneighbourhood made a fire there particularly to be dreaded. Thestaircase of the mill ascended from the entrance at the western end,which faced into a wide, dingy-looking street, consistingprincipally of public-houses, pawnbrokers' shops, rag and bonewarehouses, and dirty provision shops. The other, the east end ofthe factory, fronted into a very narrow back street, not twenty feetwide, and miserably lighted and paved. Right against this end ofthe factory were the gable ends of the last house in the principalstreet--a house which from its size, its handsome stone facings, andthe attempt at ornament in the front, had probably been once agentleman's house; but now the light which streamed from itsenlarged front windows made clear the interior of the splendidlyfitted-up room, with its painted walls, its pillared recesses, itsgilded and gorgeous fittings-up, its miserable squalid inmates. Itwas a gin palace.
Mary almost wished herself away, so fearful (as Margaret had said)was the sight when they joined the crowd assembled to witness thefire. There was a murmur of many voices whenever the roaring of theflames ceased for an instant. It was easy to perceive the mass weredeeply interested.
"What do they say?" asked Margaret of a neighbour in the crowd, asshe caught a few words clear and distinct from the general murmur.
"There never is any one in the mill, surely!" exclaimed Mary, as thesea of upward-turned faces moved with one accord to the eastern end,looking into Dunham Street, the narrow back lane already mentioned.
The western end of the mill, whither the raging flames were drivenby the wind, was crowned and turreted with triumphant fire. It sentforth its infernal tongues from every window hole, licking the blackwalls with amorous fierceness; it was swayed or fell before themighty gale, only to rise higher and yet higher, to ravage and roaryet more wildly. This part of the roof fell in with an astoundingcrash, while the crowd struggled more and more to press into DunhamStreet, for what were magnificent terrible flames--what were fallingtimbers or tottering walls, in comparison with human life?
There, where the devouring flames had been repelled by the yet morepowerful wind, but where yet black smoke gushed out from everyaperture--there, at one of the windows on the fourth story, orrather a doorway where a crane was fixed to hoist up goods, mightoccasionally be seen, when the thick gusts of smoke clearedpartially away for an instant, the imploring figures of two men.They had remained after the rest of the workmen for some reason orother, and, owing to the wind having driven the fire in the oppositedirection, had perceived no sight or sound of alarm, till long after(if anything could be called long in that throng of terrors whichpassed by in less than half-an-hour) the fire had consumed the oldwooden staircase at the other end of the building. I am not surewhether it was not the first sound of the rushing crowd below thatmade them fully aware of their awful position.
"Where are the engines?" asked Margaret of her neighbour.
"They're coming, no doubt; but bless you, I think it's bare tenminutes since we first found out th' fire; it rages so wi' thiswind, and all so dry-like."
"Is no one gone for a ladder?" gasped Mary, as the men wereperceptibly, though not audibly, praying the great multitude belowfor help.
"Ay, Wilson's son and another man were off like a shot, well-nighfive minutes ago. But th' masons, and slaters, and such like, haveleft their work, and locked up the yards."
Wilson, then, was that man whose figure loomed out against theever-increasing dull hot light behind, whenever the smoke was clear--was that George Wilson? Mary sickened with terror. She knew heworked for Carsons; but at first she had had no idea that any liveswere in danger; and since she had become aware of this, the heatedair, the roaring flames, the dizzy light, and the agitated andmurmuring crowd, had bewildered her thoughts.
"Oh! let us go home, Margaret; I cannot stay."
"We cannot go! See how we are wedged in by folks. Poor Mary! yewon't hanker after a fire again. Hark! listen!" For through thehushed crowd pressing round the angle of the mill, and filling upDunham Street, might be heard the rattle of the engine, the heavy,quick tread of loaded horses.
"Thank God!" said Margaret's neighbour, "the engine's come."
Another pause; the plugs were stiff, and water could not be got.
Then there was a pressure through the crowd, the front rows bearingback on those behind, till the girls were sick with the closeramming confinement. Then a relaxation, and a breathing freely oncemore.
"'Twas young Wilson and a fireman wi' a ladder," said Margaret'sneighbour, a tall man who could overlook the crowd.
"Oh, tell us what you see?" begged Mary.
"They've getten it fixed against the gin-shop wall. One o' the meni' the factory has fell back; dazed wi' the smoke, I'll warrant.The floor's not given way there. God!" said he, bringing his eyelower down, "the ladder's too short! It's a' over wi' them, poorchaps. Th' fire's coming slow and sure to that end, and aforethey've either getten water, or another ladder, they'll be dead outand out. Lord have mercy on them!"
A sob, as if of excited women, was heard in the hush of the crowd.Another pressure like the former! Mary clung to Margaret's arm witha pinching grasp, and longed to faint, and be insensible, to escapefrom the oppressing misery of her sensations. A minute or two.
"They've taken th' ladder into th' Temple of Apollor. Can't pressback with it to the yard it came from."
A mighty shout arose; a sound to wake the dead. Up on high,quivering in the air, was seen the end of the ladder, protruding outof a garret window, in the gable end of the gin palace, nearlyopposite to the doorway where the men had been seen. Those in thecrowd nearest the factory, and consequently best able to see up tothe garret window, said that several men were holding one end, andguiding by their weight its passage to the doorway. The garretwindow-frame had been taken out before the crowd below were aware ofthe attempt.
At length--for it seemed long, me
asured by beating hearts, thoughscarce two minutes had elapsed--the ladder was fixed, an aerialbridge at a dizzy height, across the narrow street.
Every eye was fixed in unwinking anxiety, and people's verybreathing seemed stilled in suspense. The men were nowhere to beseen, but the wind appeared, for the moment, higher than ever, anddrove back the invading flames to the other end.
Mary and Margaret could see now; right above them danced the ladderin the wind. The crowd pressed back from under; firemen's helmetsappeared at the window, holding the ladder firm, when a man, withquick, steady tread, and unmoving head, passed from one side to theother. The multitude did not even whisper while he crossed theperilous bridge, which quivered under him; but when he was across,safe comparatively in the factory, a cheer arose for an instant,checked, however, almost immediately, by the uncertainty of theresult, and the desire not in any way to shake the nerves of thebrave fellow who had cast his life on such a die.
"There he is again!" sprung to the lips of many, as they saw him atthe doorway, standing as if for an instant to breathe a mouthful ofthe fresher air, before he trusted himself to cross. On hisshoulders he bore an insensible body.
"It's Jem Wilson and his father," whispered Margaret; but Mary knewit before. The people were sick with anxious terror. He could nolonger balance himself with his arms; everything must depend on nerveand eye. They saw the latter was fixed, by the position of the head,which never wavered; the ladder shook under the double weight; butstill he never moved his head--he dared not look below. It seemedan age before the crossing was accomplished. At last the window wasgained; the bearer relieved from his burden; both had disappeared.
Then the multitude might shout; and above the roaring flames, louderthan the blowing of the mighty wind, arose that tremendous burst ofapplause at the success of the daring enterprise. Then a shrill crywas heard, asking--
"Is the oud man alive, and likely to do?"
"Ay," answered one of the firemen to the hushed crowd below. "He'scoming round finely, now he's had a dash of cowd water."
He drew back his head; and the eager inquiries, the shouts, thesea-like murmurs of the moving rolling mass began again to beheard--but only for an instant. In far less time than even that inwhich I have endeavoured briefly to describe the pause of events,the same bold hero stepped again upon the ladder, with evidentpurpose to rescue the man yet remaining in the burning mill.
He went across in the same quick steady manner as before, and thepeople below, made less acutely anxious by his previous success,were talking to each other, shouting out intelligence of theprogress of the fire at the other end of the factory, telling of theendeavours of the firemen at that part to obtain water, while theclosely-packed body of men heaved and rolled from side to side. Itwas different from the former silent breathless hush. I do not knowif it were from this cause, or from the recollection of peril past,or that he looked below, in the breathing moment before returningwith the remaining person (a slight little man) slung across hisshoulders, but Jem Wilson's step was less steady, his tread moreuncertain; he seemed to feel with his foot for the next round of theladder, to waver, and finally to stop half-way. By this time thecrowd was still enough; in the awful instant that intervened no onedurst speak, even to encourage. Many turned sick with terror, andshut their eyes to avoid seeing the catastrophe they dreaded. Itcame. The brave man swayed from side to side, at first as slightlyas if only balancing himself; but he was evidently losing nerve, andeven sense; it was only wonderful how the animal instinct ofself-preservation did not overcome every generous feeling, and impelhim at once to drop the helpless, inanimate body he carried; perhapsthe same instinct told him, that the sudden loss of so heavy aweight would of itself be a great and imminent danger.
"Help me; she's fainted," cried Margaret. But no one heeded. Alleyes were directed upwards. At this point of time a rope, with arunning noose, was dexterously thrown by one of the firemen, afterthe manner of a lasso, over the head and round the bodies of the twomen. True, it was with rude and slight adjustment: but slight asit was, it served as a steadying guide; it encouraged the sinkingheart, the dizzy head. Once more Jem stepped onwards. He was nothurried by any jerk or pull. Slowly and gradually the rope washauled in, slowly and gradually did he make the four or five pacesbetween him and safety. The window was gained, and all were saved.The multitude in the street absolutely danced with triumph, andhuzzaed, and yelled till you would have fancied their very throatswould crack; and then, with all the fickleness of interestcharacteristic of a large body of people, pressed and stumbled, andcursed and swore, in the hurry to get out of Dunham Street, and backto the immediate scene of the fire, the mighty diapason of whoseroaring flames formed an awful accompaniment to the screams, andyells, and imprecations, of the struggling crowd.
As they pressed away, Margaret was left, pale and almost sinkingunder the weight of Mary's body, which she had preserved in anupright position by keeping her arms tight round Mary's waist,dreading, with reason, the trampling of unheeding feet.
Now, however, she gently let her down on the cold clean pavement;and the change of posture, and the difference in temperature, nowthat the people had withdrawn from their close neighbourhood,speedily restored her to consciousness.
Her first glance was bewildered and uncertain. She had forgottenwhere she was. Her cold, hard bed felt strange; the murky glare inthe sky affrighted her. She shut her eyes to think, to recollect.
Her next look was upwards. The fearful bridge had been withdrawn;the window was unoccupied.
"They are safe," said Margaret.
"All? Are all safe, Margaret?" asked Mary.
"Ask yon fireman, and he'll tell you more about it than I can. ButI know they're all safe."
The fireman hastily corroborated Margaret's words.
"Why did you let Jem Wilson go twice?" asked Margaret.
"Let--why, we could not hinder him. As soon as ever he'd heard hisfather speak (which he was na long a doing), Jem were off like ashot; only saying he knowed better nor us where to find t'other man.We'd all ha' gone, if he had na been in such a hurry, for no one cansay as Manchester firemen is ever backward when there's danger."
So saying, he ran off; and the two girls, without remark ordiscussion, turned homewards. They were overtaken by the elderWilson, pale, grimy, and blear-eyed, but apparently, as strong andwell as ever. He loitered a minute or two alongside of them givingan account of his detention in the mill; he then hastily wishedgood-night, saying he must go home and tell his missis he was allsafe and well: but after he had gone a few steps, he turned back,came on Mary's side of the pavement, and in an earnest whisper,which Margaret could not avoid hearing, he said--
"Mary, if my boy comes across you to-night, give him a kind word ortwo for my sake. Do! bless you, there's a good wench."
Mary hung her head and answered not a word, and in an instant he wasgone.
When they arrived at home, they found John Barton smoking his pipe,unwilling to question yet very willing to hear all the details theycould give him. Margaret went over the whole story, and it wasamusing to watch his gradually increasing interest and excitement.First, the regular puffing abated, then ceased. Then the pipe wasfairly taken out of his mouth, and held suspended. Then he rose,and at every further point he came a step nearer to the narrator.
When it was ended he swore (an unusual thing for him) that if JemWilson wanted Mary he should have her tomorrow, if he had not apenny to keep her.
Margaret laughed, but Mary, who was now recovered from heragitation, pouted and looked angry.
The work which they had left was resumed: but with full heartsfingers never go very quickly; and I am sorry to say, that owing tothe fire, the two younger Miss Ogdens were in such grief for theloss of their excellent father, that they were unable to appearbefore the little circle of sympathising friends gathered togetherto comfort the widow, and see the funeral set off.
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