Woman's Wrongs: a series of tales

Front matter

| WOMAN'S WRONGS, A SERIES OF TALES. No. I.] BY EENEST JONES. [Price Id. INTE0DUUT1OJN. To paint life as it i»-no poet's fancy, no romancer's dream, can paint more strange or sad a blg° And ve?-who speaks of them ? Who knows of them ? Who recks of them ? • , n^w^ down beneath the cold surface of society there are rankling wrongs-that fret, that feste^ruS-^fyefthel never gHde over L tongue of the Reformer, the tarn of tho for her— where society leaves her. w umvsrd downward through all the social To show it, not merely in one class or o dei-but UPJ *™'h™Xh your heart revolts-I lcTSu^il^^Zu>St:rnaUe-So'. try to u. and bhos Ax home. TALE I THE WORKING MAN'S WIFE CHAPTER i. CHILD-BIRTH OF THE POOH, If, at any time, you should pass of an evening the Royal Palace of Pimlico, down the long line of pillared palaces, and thence diverge by the stately piles of governmental craft, the temples of brute force by land and sea, the pinnacles beneath which class legislates against class — the hall where justice darkles in its sideling nooks, or the proud pile where Mammon stands based upon the graves of buried fame — if you should pass down between the long lines of this stately but unequal epic of stone, and brick, and marble, interspersed with its episodes of gleaming water, and green trees, exotic birds and flowers, statues, arches and columns, fountains of crystal and jets of thrice filtered flame dotted on the margins, prosaic and yet brilliant notes ! with its innu merable shops, and flooded with the long current of carriage, horse and foot ; take but one step, and side by side with all this gaud and glory, you pass into the regions of darkness and dismay.

Behind you lies the greatness of the present in light, aud voice, and life ; the glory of the past in pillar, arch, and statue ; and before you, be tween two tall houses, opens a narrow, deep ravine, winding on in gloomy sightless lengths, a thin strip of murky sky stretched overhead be tween the reeking house-tops, like dirty calico across a broken roof. The windows of Downing street overlook the contrast 1 in perspective, with the certainty of never entering. This scene is a type of the whole neighbourhood. Some slight changes were made not long ago — when the rich opened a new street through part of the district. But it needed the cholera to come first, and radiate from this focus of in fection. The rich had pity then, because they felt fear — and the ordure was removed at the same time as the corpses.

On the evening on which our narrative begins, sad, moaning cries were heard from one of the smallest houses in the court described above — cries anxious and broken, similar to those ut tered by a woman about to become a mother. It was Margaret Haspen in the pangs of child-birth. The young woman lay in one of those close wooden boxes, recessed in the wall — opening with a sliding door, or curtain, in the room — called by courtesy a bed. What little of the fetid air of the street entered the place could scarcely reach the dark, unhealthy nook, in which the miserable woman writhed with agony. The door of the one apartment that constituted the entire home of Margaret and her husband, stood open, but it was crowded with neighbours. There was a continual running to and fro be tween the street-door and the bed-side — all the old gossips in the neighbourhood being desirous of seeing how the patient was proceeding; for the very poor have that, at least, in common with Queens, their births take place with open doors.

Chapter II. An Employer

" Just honour enough to escape being hung." Meanwhile, the child grew and prospered. The labourer's home was like that of most Mr. Barrowson, Haspen's employer, was a large, open-faced, florid man — with a wide mouth, white teeth, and curly hair. He had a frank jovial manner, with a loud voice, and a large fat hand, equally ready to grasp in recognition or to strike in enmity. He passed for an excellent fellow. Though forty years old, he was still a batchelor, and seemed likely to remain so. It was certainly whispered in some quarters that he was a libertine, avaricious, and had done some things treading very closely on the limits of the criminal law ; but he invariably took up his bills, paid ready money— and, in one word— others of his order — a mixture of annoyance and irritation. The first intoxication of pleasure at tendant on the union of a man and woman who have not learnt to dislike each other, once past — the first fever of youthful Dassion once over, they sank into mutual cold indifference.

Indeed, Haspen never loved his wife. She was a servant at his employer's, and he married her because he wanted a wife, and she had saved a little money. He looked on his house merely as a resting-place— at his wife merely as a seracted like an " honourable man." He had just successfully completed several extensive specu lations, and was enjoying a pause in business, after unusal application. Content with his enormous recent gains, he was sitting quietly in his office, by the side of his partner, reading the ' Times? " It's horrible !" he cried suddenly. " If go vernment does not act with vigour, business will be ruined." lowered rate. Refused by every firm, Haspen still persisted to struggle single-handed against that terrible coalition. He was told that thc law was on his side, and would punish the combination of employers as well as that of the employed — a good many told him this, but not one could tell him how he could get at the law, or how he could pay for the law ; and, if the truth must he told, he had no great confidence in the laws made by the rich for the protection of the poor.

The law, to him, was a policeman and a tax-collector — and, embittered by fighting the unequal struggle, he suffered in silent patience. But his resources diminished with everyday: he had sold all his furnitnre — the all but necessary clothing of his wife, his child, and himself went next — the pres sure increased, the last means of prolonging the combat was gone — he had reached thc confines of famine and death — nothing remained but submission ! " What is it ?" asked his partner. " Nothing but combinations of working-men. Everywhere a demand for arise of wage." " There's the law against combination." " Certainly ; but where's the use of the law, if it is not enforced ?" The partner mended a pen, and said nothing. Barrowson resumed : " By the bye, have you seen the other masters ?" Pale with rage, shame and hunger, he went so the premises of Barrowson, and asked for work on the same conditions as the others.

Thc employer received him with a jovial air told him the somewhat superior place he had formerly filled was occupied by one Latchman, but that he might go and work among the crowd, The return of Haspen was quite an event in the yard. Those among his companions who had been the first to submit, and before whom he had boasted that he would sooner die than yield, seized with avidity this opportunity for his humiliation. He was overwhelmed with a deluge of gross jests and mockeries, which he could answer only by the strength of his arm. But when his fist had sent back the sarcasm down the throats of a few of his hearers, the open mockery ceased. Nevertheless a half-smothered hostility continued to growl around him. His companions could not forgive him for having shewn more spirit than themselves.

In the midst of this general aversion, one man only made up to Haspen — it was Latchman, who had supplanted him. Latchman had the character of a common -place rather indifferent workman. His appearance was repulsive, and his worn and blunted features reminded you of one of those pieces of money from which long use has nearly effaced the ori ginal stamp — the noble effigy of manhood. Perhaps it had been lost beneath the wearing hand of vice — perhaps nature had but negligently struck the die ; the bad money of humanity that circulates along the ranks of life ! Perhaps, too, a profound hypocrisy had thrown that mask of unmeaningness upon his sallow face. Latchman was, among all the workmen, the one who at tracted the least notice. He was known only for his passive obedience and obsequious servi lity — to which qualities he owed his new employ ment.

His having superseded Haspen in his place did not much ingratiate him with the latter, who repelled his advances ; but nothing could offend Latchman : insult glided from his bent and servile brow without leaving a single trace of anger — besides, he adopted an infallible means of conciliating Haspen — he treated him to drink — and they were quickly friends. Meanwhile, the embarrassments of Haspen continued unabated. His wages, never large, and now less, did not permit him to recover " Yes ; the reduction of wages for bricklayers, plasterers, and masons, is agreed to." " Very good. If they object, we'll turn them adrift. We have no press of work just now, and they must soon return or die of hunger." " Exactly so. Of course, they're at perfect liberty to choose," the partner quietly observed, wetting the nib of his pen, and resumed his cal culations, while Barrowson continued his perusal of the ' Times?

That very evening, in paying his men, Bar rowson told them his contracts were all finished, and he had no further need of their services. This was a thunderbolt to his hearers. Barrowson had expected the effect of his words, but he remained deaf to their prayers to keep them on. " Go and try elsewhere," was his answer. They ran to every other employer, but they were all in the conspiracy, and all told them that they were not in want of hands. The men were forced to return to Barrowson. He repeated his old answer — " He had no work for them." At last, as though moved by pity, he said, that " out of kindness to them, and at a heavy inconvenience to himself, he would take a few of them on again, but at. lowered wages." They had not expected this, and they went away. Barrowson shrugged his shoulders, and said, looking after them : " They are proud now, because their bellies are full.

Wait a few days longer !" He counted on hunger as an auxiliary, and she failed him not. The struggle cannot be long between the rich, who cau afford to wait, and the poor, who must eat to-morrow. And sure enough, the men came back, begging Mr. Barrowson to take them on at the diminished wages. The wages once lowered in the one firm, the others followed the example, and a general reduction took place throughout the district. The conspiracy, of which the men were made the utterly unconscious tools, had been crowned with complete success. Instead of wages being lowered from the employer'spoverty, they are lowered when he is so rich that he knows he can afford to bear a strike. The master makes his arrangements before he begins thc reduction — the man, not till after it is made. The first is sure to conquer.

One workman alone refused to work at the himself from his difficulties — his debts or his losses. Vainly he struggled against the over whelming fatality which was dragging him down into an abyss. Vainly he struggled against the poverty, which clung to him like an ulcer. He strove hard — he strove manfully — but he strove uselessly. As soon as he saw that he gained no ground in the strife, he gave up all effort, and sunk into apathy and despair. Then the real misery came — that clinging watchful misery that counts the mouthfuls and calculates the strength. It came — and with it came the evil thoughts ! Perfidious voices seemed whispering in his ear — he felt tempted, and he trembled ! " Where is father ?" asked the child, pressing against her mother, and folding her dress around. " I don't know, Catherine I" " Will he bring us something to eat ."

" Are you hungry also, child ?" asked the young mother in a mournful voice. The little girl noticed something plaintive in the tone, as of a breaking heart, and said in a low accent — " Not very, mother !■ — If I could but sleep, I should not think about it." Margaret took a handkerchief from her neck and tied it round that of her daughter, then — seeking the most sheltered nook, placed her there, gently exhorting her to sleep. The little nurse babe, Mary, had alsojust dropped to sleep, and once more all was wrapped in deep, fu nereal silence. He resisted — but Ihe very struggle weakened him : he tried to drown his thoughts in drink, and, that means once tried, he sought none other. From his home, where the picture of their misery harrowed him, he rushed to the beer-shop to forget it. The very sight of his mute, but plaintive family, threw him into the rage of helpless despair — rendered stdl more blind by drunkenness.

About this time, cries of pain and anger began to be heard by the neighbours, and the report ran in the court that Haspen was in the habit of beating his wife. To crown their misery, Margaret was delivered of another child, whom they named Mary. At this moment, a heavy, vacillating step rung on the pavement of the street without. The door flew rudely open — and Haspen en tered, drunk, and pipe in mouth. He advanced, stumbling, to the middle of thc sombre room, his sight yet unaccustomed to the transition from the gassy glare without, and sought with outstretched arms the fire-place that showed no signs of warmth. " Margaret !" he cried in a voice evidently in dicative of irritation. He called her thrice without receiving an answer.

Chapter III

At last a voice was heard as harsh as his "Well?" A night scene. About eight months had elapsed since the birth of Margaret's second child. It was one of those nights of early spring, re plete with fog and frost, so prevalent in London ; while the dull sound of a half awakened tempest moaned along the sky. The Abbey clock had just struck eleven. Margaret sat cowering over the grate, where the faint embers of a fire glimmered. The young woman had retained no traces of her pris tine beauty. Her face was sallow and wrinkled — her haggard eyes shone wildly through swollen lids that tears had furrowed. Little Mary rested on her knees, but the child's hoarse, uneasy res piration, was interrupted by a deep convulsive cough. In the midst of the silent gloom of the apartment, the weak struggles of the child sounded like the rattle of the dying.

At last the fire went out entirely, and the room remained in darkness. " Why, you child of the devil ! is there neither fire nor light ?" " Because I have none !" " And why have you none V " Because John Haspen drinks and sings at the public-house, while his children die of cold and hunger." " That'll do, Margaret '." — cried the labourer, dashing his foot upon the floor — •" that'll do, unless you wish me stave in your skull like an empty barrel." " John Haspen, the children are starving !" " Then give them your tongue to eat, viper ! and be silent ! So there is no wood here to light a fire. Where's the hatchet ?" He took a hatchet from the floor, and at a blow smashed one of the two only chairs remaining in the house — threw the fragments on the grate, and a few sparks communicating with the dry wood, soon kindled it into flame, and cast their lurid light on the melancholy scene.

Margaret had never left her place, and sat motionless, with fixed eyes, her child pressed in her arms, and but feebly concealing beneath an assumed indifference the indignation that boiled in her veins, stretched her nostrils, and flashed from her eyes. Haspen, standing before thc grate, held his feet alternately over the flame, that lit up the evil aspect of his harsh and hardened features. Then Margaret heard in the corner farthest from the fire-place, a chattering of teeth, mingled with plaintive moans. "Catherine! Catherine!" cried the mother in alarm — " What is the matter ? — What makes you cry 1" An almost inarticulate voice was heard to answer in the darkness : " Mother ! I die of cold!" " Come to me, Catherine ! Press yourself against me. Give me your hand, my child — your hand — I don't feel it."

" It is in your's, mother !" " Then I, too, must be very cold." "Oh yes I your hands freeze me!" " Oh God ! If I had but the fever I had yes terday, I could warm her !" — cried Margaret. " I am very wretched !" All the rest of the room was lost in darkness. For a time, the actors in this strange scene were silent— then Haspen, taking his pipe out of his mouth, said, turningto his wife : "To-morrow they'll come and sell all we have to pay the rent. That scoundrel Stonage won't let us remain here any longer." " And pray, where shall we go to ," A sudden cry was heard, and little Catherine darted up from the chimney corner towards her mother— her clothes had caught fire. The terrified Margaret raised her in her arms : "John! John! water! for the love of Heaven! water; the poor child is burning!"

But the angry man never moved. His foot upon a brand — his head erect — with the delirious excitement of rage — he looked rigidly and terribly silent upon the child writh ing in its mother's arms — and the mother trying to extinguish the flames. During three minutes the struggle lasted — it was a fearful sight to see those two weak crea tures wrestling for life amid a circle of fire — and the impassive stillness of the strong man who stood gazing on them. At last, Margaret surrounded the child with an embrace so close and complete, lhat the smothered flames expired. " G ! my G ! she is burnt ! burnt to the bone !" — and then turning to Haspen, whose angry quiet goaded her to madness : " Look here, villain ! look — this is your work !" She raised her wretched daughter, yelling with pain, in her arms, and held it close before the face of its father.

" To the street. That will be good enough for your ape and you. Besides, we must quit Lon don. I have no more work. I left Barrowson's three days ago, and could not get a job anywhere else." " Serve you right, Haspen. What's the use of a man who's not fit for anything— whose hand trembles with gin, and who can't see where he lays his trowel ?" " Silence, woman !" cried the labourer, in un governable fury, and crushing his pipe between his fingers; "silence! or I'll teach you that my hand is strong enough for you still." The woman tossed her head in scornful de fiance. " That's not what you promised me, John, when you came of evenings to speak with me at master's gate. If I drew back from your hand, then, it was to avoid a caress, and not a blow. I thought I married one who had the arms of a workman, and the heart of a man.

Why did you not tell me then, that you could not work well enough to keep two little children ? You want us to leave London ! And, pray, what for ? Do you suppose I'll go, with two girls around my neck, begging from door to door for you ? You want to make a trade of the misery of your wife aud children, do you ? You're out in your reckoning, sweetheart ! Follow you I will — but it shall be to cry to the passers-by : ' Do you see this man ? He is strong — he is well — but he will not work to give us food.' " " Have you done ?" " Presently, Haspen ! I must tell you all. I've held my tongue too long — but mark you ! I suffered too much hunger in the hunger of these poor little innocents. Go and swill in the beer-house if you like, but I'll not quit its door. While you drink, you shall hear us cry for bread — when you come out drunk, you shall have to stagger over the bodies of your children that I'll cast in the mud before the threshold.

It's time you shared a little of our misery. They're not my children only. Do you think my arms are strong enough to carry them always, without you taking your turn ? I've had my share of suffering — the rest shall be for you." Haspen had listened to this long tirade, at first with a scornful indifference, then with fast rising wrath. His features became inflamed, his chest heaved, his breath hissed in his throat that tried to compress its fury. He advanced one step towards Margaret with clenched hands — then drew back — containing himself still. " Back, woman- — back !" " Finish your murder, then !" " Margaret ! won't you be silent ?" " Kill her then! — assassin! Look — see! — don't her blood make you thirst ?" The hideous wounds of the victim nearly touched the face of the man — he could no longer master his passion.

" Back I I tell you, Satan '." and, quicker than the word, a blow was given. It was aimed at the mother, but it hit the forehead of the child, who fell on the floor with a fearful moan. That moan was followed by a hoarse and savage cry, as the mother's eyes wandered round in search of something ; she stretched her hands — stooped — and suddenly rising — the husband felt the sharp, cold blow of a hatchet strike his cheek, and glide off upon his shoulder. Pain made him utter an oath— he was about to dart on Margaret, but with the agility of a tigress, she had already darted into the darkest corner of the room, her child in one arm, the hatchet in her hand. The gleam of her hatchet and of her angry eyes was alone visible in the darkness — the hoarse sound of her quick breath was alone audible in the silence.

The man paused suddenly before that fury of the tigress defending its young — he felt fear. For a time there was silence such as might make one's blood creep ! It was interrupted by the noise of some one pushing open the badly closed door. Latchman entered. " I, too — I've had my share to put up with — and with you," he said, at last, in a low, dull, stifled voice. " Silence ! unless you wish to see blood flow to-night. I hate you, woman ! for since I took m you, my miseries crowded on me. Before — I never wanted — I worked all the week, and I played all the Sunday — but you — you have come across me like my evil genius — you, and your children? Do you understand me now? You are a nest of vipers that I'll crush under my feet !" " What's all this ?" he said. " I passed be fore your door, Haspen ; I though I heard cries, and feared some misfortune had happened."

" Yes — two great misfortunes ! The one, to have been bom — the other, not to have drowned myself twelve years ago ! Go away ; this is a matter between me and that viper there !" " What are you going to do ?" cried Latch man, who had just perceived Margaret amid the darkness, and understood all at a glance. " Has pen, leave your wife alone." In speaking those last words with the rise of thunder in kis voice, he stamped his heavy foot upon the remnants of the burning chair that laid before the giaie wlin such terrible force that the blazing splinters showered about the room- " I'll crush her head between my fists!" he roared. " She has struck me— she has raised her hand against me !' " I defended my child," said a dull voice. " I'll jthrow you on your knees to ask my pardon." " Try it," said the same voice— and the eyes and the hatchet glistened in their dark corner.

Latchman saw it was time to interfere, or the scene would turn to blood : he seized Haspen, struggling with rage and drink, with his wiry arm— and, soothing him all he while, dragged him to the door, and then over the threshold for your master. There, away with you — away with you : you have no business in the pleasure light of life. " Move on ! move on !" but the liveried slave might keep his post, and the young debauchee might stand upon the watch for falling innocence in some fair child of toil. " Move on! move on!" Yes, we will move, and onward ! As Haspen and his friend advanced, the scene became more lively. One by one, and two by two, Peers and Commoners hurried from St. Stephens, leaving the nation's business undone, to dance at the Duchess's and waltz the more. In Downing-street work had ceased eight hours ago — or, rather, the mockery of work had ceased since then — the care of government seemed lost, its brute force lived alone in bayonet and blud geon, guarding its bright outrage against God and man. despite his struggles.

Margaret hastened to bolt the door inside. For some time the struggles of Latchman and Haspen, who wanted to re-enter, were heard out side ; but at length the latter appeared to yield to the representations of his companion, and their voices were lost in the distant street, in the direction of Whitehall. " The fashion's out to-night." said Latchman. Haspen answered not, but moved on. " Stop," continued Latchman, " let's look at it. What a beautiful sight! It must be very splendid inside there — I should like to see it." " Come on ! What's it to us ?"

Chapter IV

temptation. " Well, nothing ; only there's no harm seeing how others enjoy themselves." " Isn't there ? Well, I don't want to see it. " " I wonder what your wife and child are doing now ?" " Poverty is the Mother of Crime. Whitehall was ablaze of racing meteors, when Haspen and Latchman entered from the dark gulley-like street that opened out into it from the slimy depths of Westminster. There was a party at the Duchess of Buccleugh's, and some hundred equipages, with their shining lamps, were drawn up in glittering rows, or flitting about with rival speed along the broad pave ments of Whitehall and Palace-yard. The waiting lines around the Lords and Commons in creased the gaudy bustle, and groups of spec tators stood here and there upon the causeway. From the Duchess's windows came streams of light; wide, variegated awnings stretched over the porticoes and across the street; the shining liveries of tinselled, powdered lacqueys shone on every side ; the bayonets of the sentinels bristled over the throng ; the harness sparkled on the stately steeds, whose fiery pawing and indignant tossings scattered the white, snow-like foam of their hot months as though in scorn upon the passers-by.

The windows of Downing-street were silent and lightless, but from the opposite side, from the Duchess's mansion, floated strains of low, voluptuous music, now and then mad dening up into the thrilling whirl of the electric waltz. A rich faint odour came from the princely portico and the light draperied windows, while a subdued murmur of gentle, animated converse, or the light musical ring of a sdvery laugh, stole amid the pauses of the minstrelsy. What a pomp of riches, might, and pleasure ! But, like the skeleton at a Roman feast, the poor stood here and there shivering in rags, and hunger, and cold upon the pavements. Squalor, wretchedness, misery, were writing their silent protest on the pageant. The skeleton was at the rich man's feast ! " Move on ! move on !" cried the policeman, for rags must slink into their hiding-place when riches walk abroad.

They are offensive— pho ! away with them !— how dare they parade then misery ! Go, vanish into corners, till the bone and sinew you cover is wanted to do some work " Devil! will you hold your tongue? What's that to you ?" " Why, I was thinking if some of these people would give you something for them " "Ah!" " Why don't you ask them ?" " What— beg t" " And why not? They're so very rich — they're wasting so much — they'd never miss it. You musn't be proud, John ; it won't do for one like you ; it's not your place." " And why not ? Proud ! — I'm not proud ; but by I'm as good a man as any of these in 1 flunkies, or their masters either. Beg! — I'll see them first." " But, John, if you could get a shilling, — you know you're starving — they're starving at home — nobody'll know anything about it.