money, and bid the poor knob-stick send it to his friends beyond Burnley; and I were to take him Jonas’s kind regards, and he humbly axed him to forgive him. So I did what Jonas wished. But, bless your life, none on us would ever throw vitriol again (at least at a knob-stick) if they could see the sight I saw to-day. The man lay, his face all wrapped in cloths, so I didn’t see that: but not a limb, nor a bit of a limb, could keep from quivering with pain. He would ha’ bitten his hand to keep down his moans, but couldn’t, his face hurt him so if he moved it e’er so little. He could scarce mind me when I telled him about Jonas; he did squeeze my hand when I jingled the money, but when I axed his wife’s name, he shrieked out, ‘Mary, Mary, shall I never see you again? Mary, my darling, they’ve made me blind because I wanted to work for you and our own baby; O Mary, Mary!’ Then the nurse came, and said he were raving, and that I had made him worse. And I’m afeard it was true; yet I were loth to go without knowing where to send the money… . . So that kept me beyond my time, chaps.”
“Did you hear where the wife lived at last?” asked many anxious voices.
“No! he went on talking to her, till his words cut my heart like a knife. I axed th’ nurse to find out who she was, and where she lived. But what I’m more especial naming it now for is this,—for one thing I wanted you all to know why I weren’t at my post this morning; for another, I wish to say, that I, for one, ha’ seen enough of what comes of attacking knob-sticks, and I’ll ha’ nought to do with it no more.”
There were some expressions of disapprobation, but John did not mind them.
“Nay! I’m no coward,” he replied, “and I’m true to th’ backbone. What I would like, and what I would do, would be to fight the masters. There’s one among yo called me a coward. Well! every man has a right to his opinion; but since I’ve thought on th’ matter to-day I’ve thought we han all on us been more like cowards in attacking the poor like ourselves; them as has none to help, but mun choose between vitriol and starvation. I say we’re more cowardly in doing that than in leaving them alone. No! what I would do is this. Have at the masters!” Again he shouted, “Have at the masters!” He spoke lower; all listened with hushed breath—
“It’s the masters as has wrought this woe; it’s the masters as should pay for it. Him as called me coward just now, may try if I am one or not. Set me to serve out the masters, and see if there’s aught I’ll stick at.”
“It would give the masters a bit on a fright if one of them were beaten within an inch of his life,” said one.
“Ay! or beaten till no life were left in him,” growled another.
And so with words, or looks that told more than words, they built up a deadly plan. Deeper and darker grew the import of their speeches, as they stood hoarsely muttering their meaning out, and glaring with eyes that told the terror their own thoughts were to them, upon their neighbours. Their clenched fists, their set teeth, their livid looks, all told the suffering which their minds were voluntarily undergoing in the contemplation of crime, and in familiarising themselves with its details.
Then came one of those fierce terrible oaths which bind members of Trades’ Unions to any given purpose. Then under the flaring gaslight, they met together to consult further. With the distrust of guilt, each was suspicious of his neighbour; each dreaded the treachery of another. A number of pieces of paper (the identical letter on which the caricature had been drawn that very morning) were torn up, and one was marked. Then all were folded up again, looking exactly alike. They were shuffled together in a hat. The gas was extinguished; each drew out a paper. The gas was relighted. Then each went as far as he could from his fellows, and examined the paper he had drawn without saying a word, and with a countenance as stony and immovable as he could make it.
Then, still rigidly silent, they each took up their hats and went every one his own way.
He who had drawn the marked paper had drawn the lot of the assassin! and he had sworn to act according to his drawing! But no one, save God and his own conscience, knew who was the appointed murderer.
XVII. BARTON’S NIGHT-ERRAND,
“Mournful is’t to say Farewell, Though for few brief hours we part; In that absence, who can tell What may come to wring the heart!” —ANONYMOUS.
The events recorded in the last chapter took place on a Tuesday. On Thursday afternoon Mary was surprised, in the midst of some little bustle in which she was engaged, by the entrance of Will Wilson. He looked strange, at least it was strange to see any different expression on his face to his usual joyous beaming appearance. He had a paper parcel in his hand. He came in, and sat down, more quietly than usual.
“Why, Will! what’s the matter with you? You seem quite cut up about something!”
“And I am, Mary! I’m come to say goodbye; and few folk like to say goodbye to them they love.”
“Goodbye! Bless me, Will, that’s sudden, isn’t it?”
Mary left off ironing, and came and stood near the fireplace. She had always liked Will; but now it seemed as if a sudden spring of sisterly love had gushed up in her heart, so sorry did she feel to hear of his approaching departure.
“It’s very sudden, isn’t it?” said she, repeating the question.
“Yes, it’s very sudden,” said he dreamily. “No, it isn’t”; rousing himself to think of what he was saying. “The captain told me in a fortnight he would be ready to sail again; but it comes very sudden on me, I had got so fond of you all.”
Mary understood the particular fondness that was thus generalised. She spoke again.
“But it’s not a fortnight since you came. Not a fortnight since you knocked at Jane Wilson’s door, and I was there, you remember. Nothing like a fortnight!”
“No; I know it’s not. But, you see, I got a letter this afternoon from Jack Harris, to tell me our ship sails on Tuesday next; and it’s long since I promised my uncle (my mother’s brother, him that lives at Kirk-Christ, beyond Ramsay, in the Isle of Man) that I’d go and see him and his, this time of coming ashore. I must go. I’m sorry enough; but I mustn’t slight poor mother’s friends. I must go. Don’t try to keep me,” said he, evidently fearing the strength of his own resolution, if hard pressed by entreaty.
“I’m not a-going, Will. I dare say you’re right; only I can’t help feeling sorry you’re going away. It seems so flat to be left behind. When do you go?”
“Tonight. I shan’t see you again.”
“Tonight! and you go to Liverpool! Maybe you and father will go together. He’s going to Glasgow, by way of Liverpool.”
“No! I’m walking; and I don’t think your father will be up to walking.”
