Dark, black were the walls, the ground, the faces around them, as they crossed the yard. But, in the furnace-house, a deep and lurid red glared over all; the furnace roared with mighty flame. The men, like demons, in their fire-and-soot colouring, stood swart around, awaiting the moment when the tons of solid iron should have melted down into fiery liquid, fit to be poured, with still, heavy sound, into the delicate moulding of fine black sand, prepared to receive it. The heat was intense, and the red glare grew every instant more fierce; the policemen stood awed with the novel sight. Then, black figures, holding strange-shaped bucket-shovels, came athwart the deep-red furnace light, and clear and brilliant flowed forth the iron into the appropriate mould. The buzz of voices rose again; there was time to speak, and gasp, and wipe the brows; and then one by one, the men dispersed to some other branch of their employment.
No. B72 pointed out Jem as the man he had seen engaged in a scuffle with Mr. Carson, and then the other two stepped forward and arrested him, stating of what he was accused, and the grounds of the accusation. He offered no resistance, though he seemed surprised; but calling a fellow-workman to him, he briefly requested him to tell his mother he had got into trouble, and could not return home at present. He did not wish her to hear more at first.
So Mrs. Wilson’s sleep was next interrupted in almost an exactly similar way to the last, like a recurring nightmare.
“Missis! missis!” some one called out from below.
Again it was a workman, but this time a blacker-looking one than before.
“What don ye want?” said she peevishly.
“Only nothing but” — stammered the man, a kind-hearted matter-of-fact person, with no invention, but a great deal of sympathy.
“Well, speak out, can’t ye, and ha’ done with it?”
“Jem’s in trouble,” said he, repeating Jem’s very words, as he could think of no others.
“Trouble?” said the mother, in a high-pitched voice of distress. “Trouble! God help me, trouble will never end, I think. What d’ye mean by trouble? Speak out, man, can’t ye? Is he ill? My boy! tell me, is he ill?” in a hurried voice of terror.
“Na, na, that’s not it. He’s well enough. All he bade me say was,
‘Tell mother I’m in trouble, and can’t come home tonight.’“
“Not come home to-night! And what am I to do with Alice? I can’t go on, wearing my life out wi’ watching. He might come and help me.”
“I tell you he can’t,” said the man.
“Can’t, and he is well, you say? Stuff! It’s just that he’s getten like other young men, and wants to go a-larking. But I’ll give it him when he comes back.”
The man turned to go; he durst not trust himself to speak in Jem’s justification. But she would not let him off.
She stood between him and the door, as she said —
“Yo shall not go till yo’ve told me what he’s after. I can see plain enough you know, and I’ll know too, before I’ve done.”
“You’ll know soon enough, missis!”
“I’ll know now, I tell ye. What’s up that he can’t come home and help me nurse? Me, as never got a wink o’ sleep last night wi’ watching.”
“Well, if you will have it out,” said the poor badgered man, “the police have got hold on him.”
“On my Jem!” said the enraged mother. “You’re a downright liar, and that’s what you are. My Jem, as never did harm to any one in his life. You’re a liar, that’s what you are.”
“He’s done harm enough now,” said the man, angry in his turn, “for there’s good evidence he murdered young Carson, as was shot last night.”
She staggered forward to strike the man for telling the terrible truth; but the weakness of old age, of motherly agony, overcame her, and she sank down on a chair, and covered her face. He could not leave her.
When next she spoke, it was in an imploring, feeble, child-like voice.
“O master, say you’re only joking. I ax your pardon if I have vexed ye, but please say you’re only joking. You don’t know what Jem is to me.”
She looked humbly, anxiously up to him.
“I wish I were only joking, missis; but it’s true as I say. They’ve taken him up on charge of murder. It were his gun as were found near th’ place; and one o’ the police heard him quarrelling with Mr. Carson a few days back, about a girl.”
“About a girl!” broke in the mother, once more indignant, though too feeble to show it as before. “My Jem was as steady as” — she hesitated for a comparison wherewith to finish, and then repeated, “as steady as Lucifer, and he were an angel, you know. My Jem was not one to quarrel about a girl.”
“Ay, but it was that, though. They’d got her name quite pat. The man had heard all they said. Mary Barton was her name, whoever she may be.”
“Mary Barton! the dirty hussy! to bring my Jem into trouble of this kind. I’ll give it her well when I see her: that I will. Oh! my poor Jem!” rocking herself to and fro. “And what about the gun? What did ye say about that?”
“His gun were found on th’ spot where the murder were done.”
“That’s a lie for one, then. A man has got the gun now, safe and sound. I saw it not an hour ago.”
The man shook his head.
“Yes, he has indeed. A friend o’ Jem’s, as he’d lent it to.”
“Did you know the chap?” asked the man, who was really anxious for
Jem’s exculpation, and caught a gleam of hope from her last speech.
“No! I can’t say as I did. But he were put on as a workman.”
“It’s maybe only one of them policemen, disguised.”
“Nay; they’d never go for to do that, and trick me into telling on my own son. It would be like seething a kid in its mother’s milk; and that th’ Bible forbids.”
“I don’t know,” replied the man.
Soon afterwards he went away, feeling unable to comfort, yet distressed at the sight of sorrow; she would fain have detained him, but go he would. And she was alone.
She never for an instant believed Jem guilty: she would have doubted if the sun were fire, first: but sorrow, desolation, and at times anger, took possession of her mind. She told the unconscious Alice, hoping to rouse her to sympathy; and then was disappointed, because, still smiling and calm, she murmured of her mother, and the happy days of infancy.
XX. MARY’S DREAM — AND THE AWAKENING.
”I saw where stark and cold he lay,
Beneath the gallows-tree,
And every one did point and say,
‘‘Twas there he died for thee!’
* * *
”Oh! weeping heart! Oh! bleeding heart!
What boots thy pity now?
Bid from his eyes that shade depart,
That death-damp from his brow!”
— ”THE BIRTLE TRAGEDY.”
So there was no more peace in the house of sickness except to Alice, the dying Alice.
But Mary knew nothing of the afternoon’s occurrences; and gladly did she breathe in the fresh air, as she left Miss Simmonds’ house, to hasten to the Wilsons’. The very change, from the indoor to the outdoor atmosphere, seemed to alter the current of her thoughts. She thought less of the dreadful subject which had so haunted her all day; she cared less for the upbraiding speeches of her fellow-workwomen; the old association of comfort and sympathy received from Alice gave her the idea that, even now, her bodily presence would soothe and compose those who were in trouble, changed, unconscious, and absent though her spirit might be.
Then, again, she reproached herself a little for the feeling of pleasure she experienced, in thinking that he whom she dreaded could never more beset her path; in the security with which she could pass each street corner — each shop, where he used to lie in ambush. Oh! beating heart! was there no other little thought of joy lurking within, to gladden the very air without! Was she not going to meet, to see, to hear Jem; and could they fail at last to understand each other’s loving
hearts!
She softly lifted the latch, with the privilege of friendship. HE was not there, but his mother was standing by the fire, stirring some little mess or other. Never mind! he would come soon: and with an unmixed desire to do her graceful duty to all belonging to him, she stepped lightly forwards, unheard by the old lady, who was partly occupied by the simmering, bubbling sound of her bit of cookery; but more with her own sad thoughts, and wailing, half- uttered murmurings.
Mary took off bonnet and shawl with speed, and advancing, made Mrs.
Wilson conscious of her presence, by saying —
“Let me do that for you. I’m sure you mun be tired.”
Mrs. Wilson slowly turned round, and her eyes gleamed like those of a pent-up wild beast, as she recognised her visitor.
“And is it thee that dares set foot in this house, after what has come to pass? Is it not enough to have robbed me of my boy with thy arts and thy profligacy, but thou must come here to crow over me — me — his mother? Dost thou know where he is, thou bad hussy, with thy great blue eyes and yellow hair, to lead men on to ruin? Out upon thee with thy angel’s face, thou whited sepulchre! Dost thou know where Jem is, all through thee?”
“No!” quivered out poor Mary, scarcely conscious that she spoke, so daunted, so terrified was she by the indignant mother’s greeting.
“He’s lying in th’ New Bailey,” slowly and distinctly spoke the mother, watching the effect of her words, as if believing in their infinite power to pain. “There he lies, waiting to take his trial for murdering young Mr. Carson.”
There was no answer; but such a blanched face, such wild, distended eyes, such trembling limbs, instinctively seeking support!
“Did you know Mr. Carson as now lies dead?” continued the merciless woman. “Folk say you did, and knew him but too well. And that for the sake of such as you, my precious child shot yon chap. But he did not. I know he did not. They may hang him, but his mother will speak to his innocence with her last dying breath.”
She stopped more from exhaustion than want of words. Mary spoke, but in so changed and choked a voice that the old woman almost started. It seemed as if some third person must be in the room, the voice was so hoarse and strange.
“Please say it again. I don’t quite understand you. What has Jem done? Please to tell me.”
“I never said he had done it. I said, and I’ll swear, that he never did do it. I don’t care who heard ‘em quarrel, or if it is his gun as were found near the body. It’s not my own Jem as would go for to kill any man, choose how a girl had jilted him. My own good Jem, as was a blessing sent upon the house where he was born.” Tears came into the mother’s burning eyes as her heart recurred to the days when she had rocked the cradle of her “first-born”; and then, rapidly passing over events, till the full consciousness of his present situation came upon her, and perhaps annoyed at having shown any softness of character in the presence of the Delilah who had lured him to his danger, she spoke again, and in a sharp tone.
“I told him, and told him to leave off thinking on thee; but he wouldn’t be led by me. Thee! wench! thou wert not good enough to wipe the dust off his feet. A vile, flirting quean as thou art. It’s well thy mother does not know (poor body) what a good- for-nothing thou art.”
“Mother! O mother!” said Mary, as if appealing to the merciful dead. “But I was not good enough for him! I know I was not,” added she, in a voice of touching humility.
For through her heart went tolling the ominous, prophetic words he had used when he had last spoken to her —
“Mary! you’ll maybe hear of me as a drunkard, and maybe as a thief, and maybe as a murderer. Remember! when all are speaking ill of me, yo will have no right to blame me, for it’s your cruelty that will have made me what I feel I shall become.”
And she did not blame him, though she doubted not his guilt; she felt how madly she might act if once jealous of him, and how much cause had she not given him for jealousy, miserable guilty wretch that she was! Speak on, desolate mother. Abuse her as you will. Her broken spirit feels to have merited all.
But her last humble, self-abased words had touched Mrs. Wilson’s heart, sore as it was; and she looked at the snow-pale girl with those piteous eyes, so hopeless of comfort, and she relented in spite of herself.
“Thou seest what comes of light conduct, Mary! It’s thy doing that suspicion has lighted on him, who is as innocent as the babe unborn. Thou’lt have much to answer for if he’s hung. Thou’lt have my death too at thy door!”
Harsh as these words seem, she spoke them in a milder tone of voice than she had yet used. But the idea of Jem on the gallows, Jem dead, took possession of Mary, and she covered her eyes with her wan hands, as if indeed to shut out the fearful sight.
She murmured some words, which, though spoken low, as if choked up from the depths of agony, Jane Wilson caught. “My heart is breaking,” said she feebly. “My heart is breaking.”
“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Wilson. “Don’t talk in that silly way. My heart has a better right to break than yours, and yet I hold up, you see. But, oh dear! oh dear!” with a sudden revulsion of feeling, as the reality of the danger in which her son was placed pressed upon her. “What am I saying? How could I hold up if thou wert gone, Jem? Though I’m as sure as I stand here of thy innocence, if they hang thee, my lad, I will lie down and die!”
She wept aloud with bitter consciousness of the fearful chance awaiting her child. She cried more passionately still.
Mary roused herself up.
“Oh, let me stay with you, at any rate, till we know the end.
Dearest Mrs. Wilson, mayn’t I stay?”
The more obstinately and upbraidingly Mrs. Wilson refused, the more Mary pleaded, with ever the same soft entreating cry, “Let me stay with you.” Her stunned soul seem to bound its wishes, for the hour at least, to remaining with one who loved and sorrowed for the same human being that she did.
But no. Mrs. Wilson was inflexible.
“I’ve, maybe, been a bit hard on you, Mary, I’ll own that. But I cannot abide you yet with me. I cannot but remember it’s your giddiness as has wrought this woe. I’ll stay with Alice, and perhaps Mrs. Davenport may come help a bit. I cannot put up with you about me. Good-night. To-morrow I may look on you different, maybe. Good-night.”
And Mary turned out of the house, which had been HIS home, where HE was loved, and mourned for, into the busy, desolate, crowded street, where they were crying halfpenny broadsides, giving an account of the bloody murder, the coroner’s inquest, and a raw-head-and-bloody- bones picture of the suspected murderer, James Wilson.
But Mary heard not; she heeded not. She staggered on like one in a dream. With hung head and tottering steps, she instinctively chose the shortest cut to that home which was to her, in her present state of mind, only the hiding-place of four walls, where she might vent her agony, unseen and unnoticed by the keen unkind world without, but where no welcome, no love, no sympathising tears awaited her.
As she neared that home, within two minutes’ walk of it, her impetuous course was arrested by a light touch on her arm, and turning hastily she saw a little Italian boy with his humble show-box, a white mouse, or some such thing. The setting sun cast its red glow on his face, otherwise the olive complexion would have been very pale; and the glittering tear-drops hung on the long-curled eye-lashes. With his soft voice and pleading looks, he uttered, in his pretty broken English, the words —
“Hungry! so hungry.”
And as if to aid by gesture the effect of the solitary word, he pointed to his mouth, with its white quivering lips.
Mary answered him impatiently, “O lad, hunger is nothing — nothing!”
And she rapidly passed on. But her heart upbraided her the next minute with her unrelenting speech, and she hastily entered her door and seized the scanty remnant of food which the cupboard contained, and she retraced her steps to the place where the little hopeless stranger had sunk down by his mute companion in
loneliness and starvation, and was raining down tears as he spoke in some foreign tongue, with low cries for the far distant “Mamma mia!”
With the elasticity of heart belonging to childhood he sprang up as he saw the food the girl brought; she whose face, lovely in its woe, had tempted him first to address her; and, with the graceful courtesy of his country, he looked up and smiled while he kissed her hand, and then poured forth his thanks, and shared her bounty with his little pet companion. She stood an instant, diverted from the thought of her own grief by the sight of his infantine gladness; and then bending down and kissing his smooth forehead, she left him, and sought to be alone with her agony once more.
She re-entered the house, locked the door, and tore off her bonnet, as if greedy of every moment which took her from the full indulgence of painful, despairing thought.
Then she threw herself on the ground, yes, on the hard flags she threw her soft limbs down; and the comb fell out of her hair, and those bright tresses swept the dusty floor, while she pillowed and hid her face on her arms, and burst forth into loud, suffocating sobs.
O earth! thou didst seem but a dreary dwelling-place for thy poor child that night. None to comfort, none to pity! And self-reproach gnawing at her heart.
Oh, why did she ever listen to the tempter? Why did she ever give ear to her own suggestions, and cravings after wealth and grandeur? Why had she thought it a fine thing to have a rich lover?
She — she had deserved it all: but he was the victim, — he, the beloved. She could not conjecture, she could not even pause to think who had revealed, or how he had discovered her acquaintance with Harry Carson. It was but too clear, some way or another, he had learnt all; and what would he think of her? No hope of his love, — oh, that she would give up, and be content: it was his life, his precious life, that was threatened! Then she tried to recall the particulars, which, when Mrs. Wilson had given them, had fallen but upon a deafened ear, — something about a gun, a quarrel, which she could not remember clearly. Oh, how terrible to think of his crime, his blood-guiltiness; he who had hitherto been so good, so noble, and now an assassin! And then she shrank from him in thought; and then, with bitter remorse, clung more closely to his image with passionate self-upbraiding. Was it not she who had led him to the pit into which he had fallen? Was she to blame him? She to judge him? Who could tell how maddened he might have been by jealousy; how one moment’s uncontrollable passion might have led him to become a murderer! And she had blamed him in her heart after his last deprecating, imploring, prophetic speech!
Delphi Complete Works of Elizabeth Gaskell Page 28
