“She declared it was impossible, she begged me to help her, but I answered, ‘all right then, Fanny, I suppose that Mrs. Pendle will freeze to death this winter because she cannot afford coal, and Mrs. Tucker will send her children to school with no shoes.’ That did the business,” said Mrs. Butters, nodding her head wisely. “She squared her little shoulders, got out of the carriage, and marched into the agent’s office and wouldn’t leave until he gave us four months’ free rent in exchange for a two years’ lease.”
“Good for her! And, good for thee, Mrs. Butters. Well, if this bazaar continues on so well as it has begun, I imagine three will want to hire some capable fellow to operate it,” Mr. Thompson said.
Mrs. Butters lifted an eyebrow. “A man? That is to say, an enterprise conceived, funded, organized and gotten up by ladies must inevitably be supervised by a man?”
“I meant only to suggest that Miss Price is, as you say, of a retiring nature. Moreover she is surely too young and inexperienced to be placed at the head of such an enterprise.”
Here Madame Orly could not refrain herself from speaking in her friend’s defence. “Ah!” she exclaimed. “Miss Price is not as young as she looks, you know.”
Fanny had by now observed the three speakers deep in conversation, and being tolerably certain that they were speaking of her, came over to greet Mr. Thompson and introduce some other topic.
“Mr. Thompson was just congratulating us, Fanny,” said Mrs. Butters, looking at her old friend with emphasis, “on how very well everything has been arranged here.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Mr. Thompson. He raised his walking stick and gestured to the middle of the spacious hall. “Dost thou not think, Miss Price, that the room is sufficiently broad enough to admit another double row of stalls, right down the middle?”
Fanny nodded. “Yes, sir, but first I think we might experiment with opening our doors four days a week, instead of only two, to test the degree of public support, before we undertake additional expenditures.”
Mrs. Butters gave Mr. Thompson a very significant look.
“A sensible notion, I will allow,” Mr. Thompson said, nodding his head.
“We shall not cease,” said Mrs. Butters, “until every last citizen of Bristol is in possession of one of our pin cushions or needle cases. So I rely on you, Fanny, to keep everything in order, for really, it is more than I wish to undertake at my time of life.”
“Thee can certainly be very pleased with thyself, young lady,” said Mr. Thompson.
“For me,” Fanny replied, “the greatest satisfaction is to be derived from the knowledge that we are putting impoverished women in the way of providing for themselves. There is a sense of degradation which accompanies charity, no matter how kindly intended, which can never be as agreeable as the conviction that one is doing everything in one’s power to help oneself. And now these women have the satisfaction of knowing they possess talents which have some pecuniary value, however slight.”
Mr. Thompson looked at Mrs. Butters.
Mrs. Butters said, “When Fanny’s feelings run high, this is the way she talks.”
“I see,” said Mr. Thompson. “And tell me Fanny, will thee take no wages for thine own efforts? Does thy toil have no pecuniary value?”
Fanny shook her head. “Taking a salary would only add to the expense, and the ladies would be compelled to pay higher rents for their stall space.”
“Sit down, at any rate, Fanny,” urged Mrs. Butters, “and we will treat you to a cup of tea.”
* * * * * * *
As the sailors rowed Sam Price through the harbour in the jolly-boat, he thought to himself, “this boat is perhaps the last vessel I shall ever sit in. These are my last moments upon the sea.”
Rain fell steadily all about Sam and his ship mates, the sky was entirely grey and clouds hung low over Bristol. His final farewell was a subdued one. They could not meet his eye, nor could he look at them, for fear of losing his composure. His few possessions were slung in a bag tied around his neck. He had sold all of his navigational apparatus, having no more need of it. His midshipman’s hat with its broad brim was pulled low over his eyes. The wind tugged and teased at his oilskin cape.
Sam clumsily climbed up the slippery ladder to the wharf, almost losing his balance for a moment, and he felt a stab of despair. Reaching the dock, he strode quickly away and plunged into the crowded streets of Bristol, viewing with dismay the clear signs of poverty and distress everywhere—the idle men loitering about, the pinched faces of the women, the hungry eyes of the children.
As he made his way to the high street, a beggar, leaning heavily on a cane, hobbled alongside him and tugged at the skirts of his cape.
“A penny for a crippled old sailor, sir, wot has been wounded in the service of King and country?”
Sam swung around, and with his left arm he flung his cape over his right shoulder so the beggar could see the empty sleeve pinned up against his jacket. “You still have both your arms, have you not? Can you not work with them?”
“Oh! I beg your pardon, sir.”
Sam had not intended to speak so harshly but the sight of the lame sailor greatly perturbed his mind. Would he be reduced to such straits? What occupation was there for a man with no right arm? He was no Admiral Nelson, entrusted with command of a British fleet, he was plain Samuel Price, three-and-twenty years of age, and still a midshipman, with no patronage and no prospects and now discharged from the Navy, which no longer required his services.
There was no novelty in his situation—many sailors and soldiers came
