Learned he was; nor bird, nor insect flew,
But he its leafy home and history knew:
Nor wild-flower decked the rock, nor moss1 the well,
But he its name and qualities could tell.
ELLIOTT.
There is a class of men in Manchester, unknown even to many of the inhabitants, and whose existence will probably be doubted by many, who yet may claim kindred with all the noble names that science recognises. I said in "Manchester," but they are scattered2 all over the manufacturing districts of Lancashire. In the neighbourhood of Oldham there are weavers4, common hand-loom5 weavers, who throw the shuttle with unceasing sound, though Newton's "Principia" lies open on the loom, to be snatched at in work hours, but revelled6 over in meal times, or at night. Mathematical problems are received with interest, and studied with absorbing attention by many a broad-spoken, common-looking factory-hand. It is perhaps less astonishing that the more popularly interesting branches of natural history have their warm and devoted9 followers10 among this class. There are botanists11 among them, equally familiar with either the Linnaean or the Natural system, who know the name and habitat of every plant within a day's walk from their dwellings12; who steal the holiday of a day or two when any particular plant should be in flower, and tying up their simple food in their pockethandkerchiefs, set off with single purpose to fetch home the humble-looking weed. There are entomologists, who may be seen with a rude-looking net, ready to catch any winged insect, or a kind of dredge, with which they rake the green and slimy pools; practical, shrewd, hard-working men, who pore over every new specimen14 with real scientific delight. Nor is it the common and more obvious divisions of Entomology and Botany that alone attract these earnest seekers after knowledge. Perhaps it may be owing to the great annual town-holiday of Whitsun-week so often falling in May or June, that the two great beautiful families of Ephemeridae and Phryganidae have been so much and so closely studied by Manchester workmen, while they have in a great measure escaped general observation. If you will refer to the preface to Sir J. E. Smith's Life (I have it not by me, or I would copy
you the exact passage), you will find that he names a little circumstance corroborative15 of what I have said. Being on a visit to Roscoe, of Liverpool, he made some inquiries16 from him as to the habitat of a very rare plant, said to be found in certain places in Lancashire. Mr Roscoe knew nothing of the plant; but stated, that if any one could give him the desired information, it would be a hand-loom weaver3 in Manchester, whom he named. Sir J. E. Smith proceeded by boat to Manchester, and on arriving at that town, he inquired of the porter who 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, on further investigation17, it turned out, that both the porter, and his friend the weaver, were skilful18 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, little understood, working men of Manchester.
And Margaret's grandfather was one of these. He was a little wiry-looking old man, who moved with a jerking motion, as if his limbs were worked by a string like a child's toy, with dun-coloured hair lying thin and soft at the back and sides of his head; his forehead was so large it seemed to overbalance the rest of his face, which had, indeed, lost its natural contour by the absence of all the teeth. The eyes absolutely gleamed with intelligence, so keen, so observant, you felt as if the were almost wizard-like. Indeed, the whole room looked not unlike a wizard's dwelling13. Instead of pictures were hung rude wooden frames of impaled19 insects; the little table was covered with cabalistic books; and a case of mysterious instruments lay beside, one of which Job Legh was using when his grand-daughter entered.
On her appearance he pushed his spectacles up so as to rest midway on his forehead, and gave Mary a short, kind welcome. But Margaret he caressed20 as a mother caresses21 her first-born; stroking her with tenderness, and almost altering his voice as he spoke8 to her.
Mary looked round on the odd, strange things she had never seen at home, and which seemed to her to have a very uncanny look.
"Is your grandfather a fortune-teller?" whispered she to her new friend.
"No," replied Margaret, in the same voice; "but you are not the first as has taken him for such. He is only fond of such things as most 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; just because he's fond on 'em, I tried to learn about them."
"What things are these?" said Mary, struck with the weirdlooking creatures that sprawled22 around the room in their roughly-made glass cases.
But she was not prepared for the technical names which Job Legh pattered down on her ear, on which they fell like hail on a skylight; and the strange language only bewildered her more than ever. Margaret saw the of the case, and came to the rescue.
"Look, Mary, at this horrid23 scorpion24. He gave me such a fright: I am all of a twitter yet when I think of it. Grandfather went to Liverpool one Whitsunweek to go strolling about the docks and pick up what he could from the sailors, who often bring some queer thing or another from the hot countries they go to; and so he sees a chap with a bottle in his hand, like a druggist's physic-bottle; and says grandfather, 'What have ye gotten there?' So the sailor holds it up, and grandfather knew it was a rare kind o' scorpion, not common even in the East Indies where the man came from; and says he, 'How did you catch this fine fellow, for he wouldn't be taken for nothing, I'm thinking?' And the man said as how when they were unloading the ship he'd found him lying behind a bag of rice, and he thought the cold had killed him, for he was not squashed nor injured a bit. He did not like to part with any of the spirit out of his grog 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 the bottle 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 he shakes 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 down over him, to look at him better, and grandfather got a book, and began to read how this very kind were the most poisonous and vicious species, how their bite were often fatal, and then went on to read how people who were bitten got swelled25, and screamed with pain. I was listening hard, but as it fell out, I never took my eye off the creature, though I could not ha' told I was watching it. Suddenly it seemed to give a jerk, and before I could speak it gave another, and in a minute it was as wild as could be, running at me just like a mad dog."
"What did you do?" asked Mary.
"Me! why, I jumped first on a chair, and then on all the things I'd been ironing on the dresser, and I screamed for grandfather to come up by me, but he did not hearken to me."
"Why, if I'd come up by thee, who'd ha' caught the creature, I should like to know."
"Well, I begged grandfather to crush it, and I had the iron right over it once, ready to drop, but grand-father begged me not to hurt it in that way. So I couldn't think what he'd have, for he hopped26 round the room as if he were sore afraid, for all he begged me not to 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'll never drink his tea with a scorpion running free and easy about the room. Then he takes the tongs27, and he settles his spectacles on his nose, and in a minute he had lifted the creature up by th' leg, and dropped 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 the public-house for some gin, and grandfather filled the bottle, and then we poured off the water, and picked him out of the kettle, and dropped him into the bottle, and he were there above a twelvemonth."
"What brought him to life at first?" asked Mary.
"Why, you see, he were never really dead, only torpid--that is, dead asleep 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 of his books, and his creatures, and his plants. It does my heart good to see him so happy, sorting them all at home, and so ready to go in search of more, whenever he's a spare day. Look at him now! he's gone back to his books, and he'll be as happy as a king, working away 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 does that matter? Then, when he has his talking bouts28, you can't think how much he has to say. Dear grand-father! you don't know how happy we are!"
Mary wondered if the dear grandfather heard all this, for Margaret did not speak in an under tone; but no! he was far too deep and eager in solving a problem. He did not even notice Mary's leave-taking, and she went home with the feeling that she had that night made the acquaintance of two of the strangest people she ever saw in her life. Margaret, so quiet, so commonplace, until her singing powers were called forth29; so silent from home, so cheerful and agreeable at home; and her grandfather so very different to every one Mary had ever seen. Margaret had said he was not a fortune-teller, but she did not know whether to believe her.
To resolve her doubts, she told the history of the evening to her father, who was interested by her account, and curious to see and judge for himself. Opportunities are not often wanting where inclination30 goes before, and ere the end of that winter Mary looked upon Margaret almost as an old friend. The latter would bring her work when Mary was likely to be at home in the evenings and sit with her; and Job Legh would put a book and a pipe in his pocket and just step round the corner to fetch his grandchild, ready for a talk if he found Barton in; ready to pull out pipe and book if the girls wanted him to wait, and John was still at his club. In short, ready to do whatever would give pleasure to his darling Margaret.
I do not know what points of resemblance (or dissimilitude, for the one joins people as often as the other) attracted the two girls to each other. Margaret had the great charm of possessing good strong common sense, and do you not perceive how involuntarily this is valued? It is so pleasant to have a friend who possesses the power of setting a difficult question in a clear light; whose judgment31 can tell what is best to be done; and who is so convinced of what is "wisest, best," that in consideration of the end, all difficulties in the way diminish. People admire talent, and talk about their admiration32. 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 Mary told many of her feelings in a way she had never done before to any one. Most of her foibles also were made known to Margaret,. but not all. There was one cherished weakness still concealed33 from every one. It concerned a lover, not beloved, but favoured by fancy. A gallant34, handsome young man; but--not beloved. Yet Mary hoped to meet 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. Alas35! poor Mary! Bitter woe36 did thy weakness work thee.
She had other lovers. One or two would gladly have kept her company, but she held herself too high, they said. Jem Wilson said nothing, but loved on and on, ever more fondly; he hoped against hope; he would not give up, for it seemed like giving up life to give up thought of Mary. He did not dare to look to any end of all this; the present, so that he saw her, touched the hem7 of her garment, was enough. Surely, in time, such deep love would beget37 love.
He would not relinquish38 hope, and yet her coldness of manner was enough to daunt39 any man; and it made Jem more despairing than he would acknowledge for a long time even to himself.
But one evening he came round by Barton's house, a willing messenger for his father, and opening the door saw Margaret sitting asleep before the fire. She had come in to speak to Mary; and worn out by a long, working, watching night, she fell asleep in the genial40 warmth.
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 perfectly41 understanding the thing, she said, "For shame 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 rankled43 in Jem's mind. Would Mary care? Would she care in the very least? They seemed to call for an answer by night and by day; and Jem felt that his heart told him Mary was quite indifferent to any action of his. Still he loved, on and on, ever more fondly.
Mary's father was quite well aware of the nature of Jem Wilson's feelings for his daughter, but he took no notice of them to any one, thinking Mary full young yet for the cares of married life, and unwilling44, too, to entertain the idea of parting with her at any time, however distant. But he welcomed Jem at his house, as he would have done his father's son, whatever were his motives45 for coming; and now and then admitted the thought, that Mary might do worse when her time came, than marry Jem Wilson, a steady workman at a good trade, a good son to his parents, and a fine manly46 spirited chap--at least when Mary was not for when she was present he watched her too closely, and too anxiously, to have much of what John Barton called "spunk47" in him.
It was towards the end of February, in that year, and a bitter black frost had lasted for many weeks. The keen east wind had long since swept the streets clean, though in a gusty48 day the dust would rise like pounded ice, and make people's faces quite smart with the cold force with which it blew against them. Houses, sky, people, and everything looked as if a gigantic brush had washed them all over with a dark shade of Indian ink. There was some reason for this grimy appearance on human beings, whatever there might be for the dun looks of the landscape; for soft water had become an article not even to be purchased; and the poor washerwomen might be seen vainly trying to procure49 a little by breaking the thick grey ice that coated the ditches and ponds in the neighbourhood. People prophesied50 a long continuance to this already lengthened51 frost; said the spring would be very late; no spring fashions required; no summer clothing purchased for a short uncertain summer. Indeed, there was no end to the evil prophesied during the continuance of that bleak52 east wild.
Mary hurried home one evening, just as daylight was fading, from Miss Simmonds', with her shawl held up to her mouth, and her head bent53 as if in deprecation of the meeting wind. So she did not perceive Margaret till she was close upon her at the very turning into 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 time for 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 three girls beside the mother; and what with trying on and matching the stuff (for there was not enough in the piece they chose first), I'm above a bit behindhand. I've the skirts all to make. I kept that work till candlelight; and the sleeves, to say nothing of little bits to the bodies; for the missis is very particular, and I could scarce keep from smiling while they were crying so, really taking on sadly I'm sure, to hear first one and then t'other clear up to notice the sit of her gown. They weren't to be misfits, I promise you, though they were in such trouble."
"Well, Margaret, you're right welcome, as you know, and I'll sit down and help you with pleasure, though I was tired enough of sewing to-night at Miss Simmonds'."
By this time Mary had broken up the raking coal, and lighted her candle; and Margaret settled herself to her work on one side of the table, while her friend hurried over her tea at the other. The things were then lifted en masse to the dresser; and dusting her side of the table with the apron54 she always wore at home, Mary took up 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 Oxford55 Road. Her husband drank himself to death, and though she cried over him and his ways all the time he was alive, she's fretted56 sadly for him now he's dead."
"Has he left her much to go upon?" asked Mary, examining the texture58 of the dress. "This is beautifully fine soft bombazine."
"No, I'm much afeard there's but little, and there's several young children, besides the three Miss Ogdens."
"I should have thought girls like them would ha' made their own gowns," observed Mary.
"So I dare say they do, many a one, but now they seem all so busy getting 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 told me; the little thing seemed to like the fuss, and I do believe it comforted poor Mrs Ogden to make all the piece o' work.Such a smell of ham boiling and fowls60 roasting while I waited in the kitchen; it seemed more like a wedding nor a funeral. They said she'd spend a matter o' sixty pound on th' burial."
"I thought you said she was but badly off," said Mary.
"Aye, I know she's asked for credit at several places, saying her husband laid hands on every farthing he could get for drink. But th' undertakers urge her on, you see, and tell her this thing's usual, and that thing's only a common mark of respect, and that everybody has t'other thing, till the poor woman has no will o' her own. I dare say, too, her heart strikes her (it always does when a person's gone) for many a word and many a slighting deed to him who'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 have to pinch many a year to pay the expenses, if ever they pay them at all."
"This mourning, too, will cost a pretty penny," said Mary. "I often wonder why folks wear mourning; it's not pretty or becoming; and it costs a deal of money just when people can spare it least; and if what the Bible tells us be true, we ought not to be sorry when a friend, 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 comes out o' wearing mourning."
"I'll tell you what I think the fancy was sent for. (Old Alice calls everything '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 to anything but crying) something to do. Why now I told you how they were grieving; for, perhaps, he was a kind husband and father, in his thoughtless way, when he wasn't in liquor. But they cheered up wonderful while I was there, and I asked 'em for more directions than usual, that they might have something to talk over and fix about; and I left 'em my fashion-book (though it were two months old) just a purpose."
"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 fret57 much, however sorry she might be. She would say it were sent, and fall to trying to findout 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 fretting61 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 abide62 to think about, and sometimes I don't like to think on any thing 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 any thing--An anxious mind is never a holy mind.' Oh, Mary, I have so often checked my grumbling63 sin' she said that"
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 soothe64 and to comfort her; but, like an inexperienced person, striving rather to deny the correctness of Margaret's fear, than helping65 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 mince66 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's 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 botanizing or going after insects, and he'll think little enough of four or five shillings for a specimen; dear grandfather! and I'm so loath67 to think he should be stinted68 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 lotion69; 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 plentiful70 this winter, that I were tempted71 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 darn't tell grandfather, else I would leave it off; but he will so fret."
Margaret rocked herself backward and forward to still her emotion.
"Oh, 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 Butter-worth, 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's led th' 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."
She took up her sewing, Raying 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 commotion72.
"Eh, wench! donna ye see the fire-light? Carsons' mill is blazing away like fun;" and away her informant ran.
"Come, Margaret, on wi' your bonnet73, 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 coaxed74 in her sweet manner, and with her gentle caresses, promising75 to help with the gowns all night long if necessary, nay76, 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! Aye, 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' oudfashioned 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 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 scampered77 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 alleys78 and back streets of the neighbourhood made a fire there particularly to be dreaded79. The staircase of the mill ascended80 from the entrance at the western end, which faced into a wide, dingy-looking street, consisting principally of public-houses, pawnbrokers81' shops, rag and bone warehouses82, and dirty provision shops The other, the east end of the factory, fronted into a very narrow back street, not twenty feet wide, and miserably83 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 ornament84 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 recesses85, its gilded86 and gorgeous fittings-up, its miserable87 squalid inmates88. It was 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 the fire. There was a murmur89 of many voices whenever the roaring of the flames ceased for an instant. It was easy to perceive the mass were deeply interested.
"What do they say?" asked Margaret of a neigh hour in the crowd, as she caught a few words, clear and distinct from the general murmur.
"There never is anyone in the mill, surely!" exclaimed Mary, as the sea 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 driven by the wind, was crowned and turreted90 with triumphant91 fire. It sent forth its infernal tongues from every window hole, licking the black walls with amorous92 fierceness it was swayed or fell before the mighty93 gale94, only to rise higher and yet higher, to ravage95 and roar yet more wildly. This part of the roof fell in with an astounding96 crash, while the crowd struggled more and more to press into Dunham Street, for what were magnificent terrible flames-what were falling timbers or tottering97 walls, in comparison with human life?
There, where the devouring98 flames had been repelled99 by the yet more powerful wind, but where yet black smoke gushed100 out from every aperture--there at one of the windows on the fourth story, or rather a door-way where a crane was fixed101 to hoist102 up goods, might occasionally be seen, when the thick gusts103 of smoke cleared partially104 away for an instant, the imploring105 figures of two men. They had remained after the rest of the workmen, for some reason or other, and, owing to the wind having driven the fire in the opposite direction, had perceived no sight or sound of alarm, till long after (if anything could be called long in that throng106 of terrors which passed by in less than half an hour) the fire had consumed the old wooden staircase at the other end of the building. I am not sure whether it was not the first sound of the rushing crowd below that made them fully59 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 ten minutes since we first found out th' fire; it rages so wi' this wind, and all so dry-like."
"Is no one gone for a ladder?" gasped107 Mary, as the men were perceptibly, though not audibly, praying the great multitude below for help.
"Ay, Wilson's son and another man were off like a shot, well-nigh five minutes agone. But th' masons, and slaters, and such like, have left their work, and locked up the yards."
Wilson! then, was that man whose figure loomed108 out against the ever-increasing dull hot light behind, whenever the smoke was clear,--was that George Wilson? Mary sickened with terror. She knew he worked for Carsons; but at first she had no idea that any lives were in danger; and since she was aware of this, the heated air, the roaring flames, the dizzy light, and the agitated109 and murmuring 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! ye won't hanker after a fire again. Hark! listen!"
For through the hushed crowd, pressing round the angle of the mill, and filling up Dunham Street, might be heard the rattle111 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 bearing back on those behind, till the girls were sick with the close ramming112 confinement113. Then a relaxation114, and a breathing freely once more.
"'Twas young Wilson and a fireman wi' a ladder," said Margaret's neighbour, 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 men i' the factory has fell back; dazed wi' the smoke, I'll warrant. The floor's not given way there. God!" said he, bringing his eye lower down, "the ladder's too short! It's a' over wi' them, poor chaps. Th' fire's coming slow and sure to that end, and afore they've either getten water, or another ladder, they'll be dead out and out. Lord have mercy on them!"
A sob115, as if of excited women, was heard in the hush110 of the crowd. Another pressure like the former! Mary clung to Margaret's arm with a pinching grasp, and longed to faint, and be insensible, to escape from the oppressing misery116 of her sensations. A minute or two.
"They've taken the ladder into th' Temple of Apollor. Can't press back 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, protruding117 out of a garret window, in the gable end of the gin palace, nearly opposite to the doorway118 where the men had been seen. Those in the crowd nearest the factory, and consequently best able to see up to the garret window, said that several men were holding one end, and guiding by their weight its passage to the doorway. The garret windowframe had been taken out before the crowd below were aware of the attempt.
At length--for it seemed long, measured by beating hearts, though scarce two minutes had elapsed--the ladder was fixed, an aerial bridge at a dizzy height, across the narrow street.
Every eye was fixed in unwinking anxiety, and people's very breathing seemed stilled in suspense119. The men were nowhere to he seen, but the wind appeared, for the moment, higher than ever, and drove back the invading flames to the other end.
Mary and Margaret could see now right above them danced the ladder in the wind. The crowd pressed back from under; firemen's helmets appeared at the window, holding the ladder firm, when a man, with quick, steady tread, and unmoving head, passed from one side to the other. The multitude did not even whisper while he crossed the perilous120 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 uncertainty123 of the result, and the desire not in any way to shake the nerves of the brave fellow who had cast his life on such a die.
"There he is again!" sprung to the lips of many, as they saw him at the doorway, standing42 as if for an instant to breathe a mouthful of the fresher air, before he trusted himself to cross. On his shoulders he bore an insensible body.
"It's Jem Wilson and his father," whispered Margaret; but Mary knew it before.
The people were sick with anxious terror. He could no longer balance himself with his arms; everything must depend on nerve and eye. They saw the latter was fixed, by the position of the head, which never wavered; the ladder shook under the double weight; but still he never moved his head--he dared not look below. It seemed an age before the crossing was accomplished124. At last the window was gained; the bearer relieved from his burden; both had disappeared.
Then the multitude might shout; and above the roaring flames, louder than the blowing of the mighty wind, arose that tremendous burst of applause at the success of the daring enterprise. Then a shrill125 cry was heard, asking,
"Is the oud man alive, and likely to do?"
"Aye," answered one of the firemen to the hushed crowd below. "He's coming round finely, now he's had a dash of cowd water."
He drew back his head; and the eager inquiries, the shouts, the sea-like murmurs126 of the moving rolling mass began again to be heard but only for an instant. In far less time than even that in which I have endeavoured briefly127 to describe the pause of events, the same bold hero stepped again upon the ladder, with evident purpose to rescue the man yet remaining in the burning mill.
He went across in the same quick steady manner as before, and the people below, made less acutely anxious by his previous success, were talking to each other, shouting out intelligence of the progress of the fire at the other end of the factory, telling of the endeavours of the firemen at that part to obtain water, while the closely packed body of men heaved and rolled from side to side. It was different from the former silent breathless hush. I do not know if it were from this cause, or from the recollection of peril121 past, or that he looked below, in the breathing moment before returning with the remaining person (a slight little man) slung129 across his shoulders, but Jem Wilson's step was less steady, his tread more uncertain; he seemed to feel with his foot for the next round of the ladder, to waver, and finally to stop halfway130. By this time the crowd was still enough; in the awful instant that intervened no one durst speak, even to encourage. Many turned sick with terror, and shut their eyes to avoid seeing the catastrophe131 they dreaded. It came. The brave man swayed from side to side, at first as slightly as if only balancing himself; but he was evidently losing nerve, and even sense; it was only wonderful how the animal instinct of self-preservation did not overcome every generous feeling, and impel132 him at once to drop the helpless, inanimate body he carried; perhaps the same instinct told him, that the sudden loss of so heavy a weight would of itself be a great and imminent133 danger.
"Help me; she's fainted," cried Margaret But no one heeded134. All eyes were directed upwards135. At this point of time a rope, with a running noose136, was dexterously137 thrown by one of the firemen, after the manner of a lasso, over the head and round the bodies of the two men. True, it was with rude and slight adjustment; but slight as it was, it served as a steadying guide; it encouraged the sinking heart, the dizzy head. Once more Jem stepped onwards. He was not hurried by any jerk or pull. Slowly and gradually the rope was hauled in, slowly and gradually did he make the four or five paces between him and safety. The window was gained, and all were saved. The multitude in the street absolutely danced with triumph, and huzzaed and yelled till you would have fancied their Very throats would crack; and then, with all thefickleness of interest characteristic of a large body of people, pressed and stumbled, and cursed and swore, in the hurry to get out of Dunham Street, and back to the immediate122 scene of the fire, the mighty diapason of whose roaring flames formed an awful accompaniment to the screams, and yells, and imprecations, of the struggling crowd.
As they pressed away, Margaret was left, pale and almost sinking under the weight of Mary's body, which she had preserved in an upright position by keeping her arms tight round Mary's waist, dreading138, with reason, the trampling139 of unheeding feet.
Now, however, she gently let her down on the cold clean pavement; and the change of posture140, and the difference in temperature, now that the people had withdrawn141 from their close neighbourhood, speedily restored her to consciousness.
Her first glance was bewildered and uncertain. She had forgotten where she was. Her cold, hard bed felt strange; the murky142 glare in the sky affrighted her. She shut her eyes to think, to recollect128.
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. But I know they're all safe."
The fireman hastily corroborated143 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 his father speak (which he was na long a doing), Jem were off like a shot; 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 can say as Manchester firemen is ever backward when there's danger."
So saying, he ran off; and the two girls, without remark or discussion, turned homewards. They were overtaken by the elder Wilson, pale, grimy, and blear-eyed, but apparently144 as strong and well as ever. He loitered a minute or two alongside of them, giving an account of his detention145 in the mill; he then hastily wished good-night, saying he must go home and tell his missis he was all safe 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 or two 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 was gone.
When they arrived at home, they found John Barton smoking his pipe, unwilling to question, yet very willing to hear all the details they could give him. Margaret went over the whole story, and it was amusing to watch his gradually increasing interest and excitement. First, the regular puffing146 abated147, then ceased. Then the pipe was fairly 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 Jem Wilson wanted Mary he should have her to-morrow, if he had not a penny to keep her.
Margaret laughed, but Mary, who was now recovered from her agitation148, pouted149 and looked angry.
The work which they had left was resumed but with full hearts fingers never go very quickly; and I am sorry to say, that owing to the fire, the two younger Miss Ogdens were in such grief for the loss of their excellent father, that they were unable to appear before the little circle of sympathising friends gathered together to comfort the widow, and see the funeral set off.
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moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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weaver
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| n.织布工；编织者 | |
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weavers
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| 织工，编织者( weaver的名词复数 ) | |
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loom
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| n.织布机，织机；v.隐现，(危险、忧虑等)迫近 | |
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revelled
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| v.作乐( revel的过去式和过去分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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botanists
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| n.植物学家，研究植物的人( botanist的名词复数 ) | |
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dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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corroborative
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| adj.确证（性）的，确凿的 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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impaled
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| 钉在尖桩上( impale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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sprawled
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| v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的过去式和过去分词)；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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scorpion
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| n.蝎子，心黑的人，蝎子鞭 | |
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swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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hopped
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| 跳上[下]( hop的过去式和过去分词 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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tongs
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| n.钳；夹子 | |
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bouts
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| n.拳击（或摔跤）比赛( bout的名词复数 )；一段（工作）；（尤指坏事的）一通；（疾病的）发作 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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beget
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| v.引起；产生 | |
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relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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daunt
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| vt.使胆怯，使气馁 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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rankled
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| v.（使）痛苦不已，（使）怨恨不已( rankle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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spunk
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| n.勇气，胆量 | |
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gusty
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| adj.起大风的 | |
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procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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fowls
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| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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fretting
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| n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
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abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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mince
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| n.切碎物；v.切碎，矫揉做作地说 | |
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loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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stinted
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| v.限制，节省（stint的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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lotion
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| n.洗剂 | |
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plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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coaxed
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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scampered
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pawnbrokers
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| n.当铺老板( pawnbroker的名词复数 ) | |
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warehouses
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| 仓库，货栈( warehouse的名词复数 ) | |
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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90
turreted
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| a.(像炮塔般)旋转式的 | |
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91
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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ravage
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| vt.使...荒废，破坏...；n.破坏，掠夺，荒废 | |
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astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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97
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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98
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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99
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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100
gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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101
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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102
hoist
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| n.升高，起重机，推动；v.升起，升高，举起 | |
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103
gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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104
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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105
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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106
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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107
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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108
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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109
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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110
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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111
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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112
ramming
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| n.打结炉底v.夯实（土等）( ram的现在分词 )；猛撞；猛压；反复灌输 | |
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113
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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114
relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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115
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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116
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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117
protruding
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的现在分词 )；凸 | |
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118
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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119
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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120
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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121
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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122
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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123
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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124
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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125
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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126
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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127
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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128
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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129
slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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130
halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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131
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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132
impel
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| v.推动；激励，迫使 | |
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133
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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134
heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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135
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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136
noose
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| n.绳套，绞索（刑）；v.用套索捉；使落入圈套；处以绞刑 | |
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137
dexterously
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| adv.巧妙地，敏捷地 | |
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138
dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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139
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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140
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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141
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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142
murky
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| adj.黑暗的，朦胧的；adv.阴暗地，混浊地；n.阴暗；昏暗 | |
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143
corroborated
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| v.证实，支持（某种说法、信仰、理论等）( corroborate的过去式 ) | |
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144
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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145
detention
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| n.滞留，停留；拘留，扣留；(教育)留下 | |
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146
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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147
abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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148
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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149
pouted
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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