Abel Drake's Wife. A novel

Front matter

ABEL DRAKE'S WIFE. ABEL DBAKE'S WIFE. A NOVEL. BY JOHN SAUNDERS, AUTHOB Of "THE SHADOW IM THE HOUSE," " LOVE'S MARTYRDOM," ETC THIED EDITION. LONDON : LOCKWOOD & CO., STATIONERS' HALL COURT. MDCCCLX-II. LONDON : BRADEURV AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS. TO DR. MACLEOD, OF BEN RHYDDING, YORKSHIRE, Œfjc foIInSning pages ate inscribe!, IN GRATEFUL ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF MANY KIND ATTENTIONS, BOTH PROFESSIONAL AND PERSONAL, SHOWN TO THE AUTHOR WHILE IN QUEST OF HEALTH IN ONE OF THE MOST BEAUTIFUL OF ENGLISH VALLEYS. March S, 1862.

Preface

TO THE THIRD EDITION. I cannot allow another issue of this volume to take place without one word of acknowledgment of the favour with which it has been received, and of the generous criticism that has so largely con tributed to its success. " Abel Drake's Wife " has already been reprinted in America, and is now in course of reprinting in Germany. I hope yet to show that I do not misconceive this friendly wel come. That is all I can or dare to say in connec tion with the work on which I am engaged, and which I hope to produce by the Autumn. JOHN SAUNDERS. East Sheen, Feb. 25, 1863. CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE Introduction 1 I. — Barbara 5 II. — The Dim Future 28 III. — Out in the World 44 IV. — Coppeshall 51 V. — Timon's Teeth clear up a Fact in Physiology 73 73 VI.— The Surgeon's Fee 81 VII. — A Garret Romance 92 VIII.— Rival Pilots 118 IX. — Liberty 131 X.— Job disturbed in the Poetry op Idleness . . 149 XL — An Inventor's Dreams 164 XII. — The Higgling of the Market . . . . 176 XIII. — Behind the Settle 190 XIV. — Straws in the "Wind 201 XV. — Job's New Start 215 XVI.— Job finds an Object 222 XVIL— The Man with the Machine ....

CONTENTS. 2 chapter page XVIII. — The one Friend left 257 XIX.— Going to Glory 264 XX.— New Paths 277 XXI.— Ailsie's Grave 288 XXII. — Under-Currents 305 XXIIL— A Last Lesson 317 XXIV.— Church Music 328 XXV. — Mb. Wolcombe's Letter

Introduction

. We are so used to think of a mill or factory as necessarily forming part of a great ugly conglomerate of similar buildings, — as situated iu towns where the sooty atmosphere above is only iu too complete a harmony with the muddy streets below,- — as washed by foul " becks," (or streams,) and surrounded by a stricken vegetation, that it is not easy to make the reader, who may happen to have no personal know ledge of the district in question, understand how numerous are the exceptions to so depressing a view of our manufacturing industry. Yet one might undertake to show, within a very few miles of Manchester itself, scenes of picturesque, romantic, and almost sublime beauty, the qualities of which seem to have been first appreciated by that very mill-owner whose doings so often give us the impression that, through some strange calamity, beauty is with him but a lost sense.

Between Manchester and Sheffield, and again between Man chester and Leeds, including the future classic land of Ebenezer Elliott, — who lived to see a tunnel, some three miles long, driven through his beloved " Stanuedge, tipped with fire," — many are the factories scattered about in individual dignity of isolation ; and each occupying a site that, at first glance, would seem to have been chosen with a most poetic disregard of any other consideration than its extreme loveliness. But as they appear before you

INTRODUCTION.

. in rapid succession (supposing you to be a traveller by the rail), you cannot fail to note one common characteristic which explains all, — the little streams in front, which formed originally and in many cases, we believe, still form, the moving power of the machinery, and which everywhere supply the indis pensable element of purification. Hence the reser voirs, with their grassy, lawn-like margins, so carefully preserved round the base of the factory ; hence the selection of those solitary and picturesque valley bottoms. Hence, too, occasionally occurs a felicitous ming ling on the same spot of the two oldest and most necessary of industrial arts, — those relating to the growth of our food and to the preparation of our clothing. The single factory will not spoil the air for cultivation, but it will quicken the cultivator's industry by its demands, and infuse new life into the rustic mind by its own vital energy.

On the other hand, the artisan walks to his work through sweet, wild, or majestic scenery ; and he labours in a place where he can never feel entirely shut out from that communion with nature for which man everywhere so instinctively yearns, — as for his first love, — and which, with men of his class, is often the passion of a lifetime. Let but a door open, or the wind penetrate through some crevice, and in an instant his thoughts may be borne away to the wild flowers, or the new-mown hay, or the bean field which are wooing him so seductively by their scents. In such a scene as this, though enjoying a more profound seclusion than the neighbourhood of a railway permits, occurred, a few years ago, the incidents now about to be narrated.

Chapter I. Barbara

TT was early; an hour before the factory bell would ring for breakfast, and but few of the chimneys in the village had begun to smoke. A white mist clung about the steeple of the church, and floated over the distant Lancashire hills, making them look like great moving clouds on the horizon. It lay, too, across the bottom of the valley, and converted the black stalk of the factory into a dim palace-like spire or airy column. The village on the hill side, — not at all a modern one, — looked so quiet and still that everything in it seemed in a dream. The birds kept sinking their voices to whispers, and the very cocks crowed weakly, as if they were dubious about the time. Toys left by children lying about the cottage gardens ; implements of labour dropped by aching hands only a few hours before, looked as they lay low in the wet grass, or sank into the moist soil, to be taking an eternal rest.

It was hard to believe that in a few minutes those toys would be found and rejoiced over, and another day's labour be demanded of the tools. The sun had risen, and was projecting long bars of light through Barden Wood, which crowned the opposite hill. The tinkling of farm -horse bells was heard faintly in the distance. A low, busy hum now broke out in Barden Brow (for so was the village designated), as the first pails were brought to be filled at the draw-well on the green. The long lanky body of the bearer swayed lazily to and fro under a shoulder yoke, which supported the empty pails. Empty as they were, he seemed to find the business of carrying them an oppressive one, for he stopped when within a few yards of the well, slowly lifted his arms and his broad shoulders, forgetting even the weights pendent from them, and gave way to a portentous yawn.

Much relieved, he then went on to the well, unhooked the pails, and placed the shoulder yoke, with the clattering irons, athwart the edge of the low masonry. He did not seem to be in any hurry, for he stood now supporting himself on one leg, while languidly resting the other; and though after due pause and deliberation he moved as if to set to work, it was only to make the legs exchange positions and duties, and so give their owner a fresh spell of the luxury of rest. You could see what a favourite posture this was with him, if you looked at the knees of his trousers, which swelled out and hung like two bags. The cuff of his coat sleeves did not nearly reach to his great hands, which dropped down as if not properly fastened on to the wrists. As he walked, his feet ' BARBARA.' 7 shuffled about in huge unlaced boots, showing a raw looking, naked ankle at every step.

When, at last, he did fill the pails, they were carried with a good deal of swaying, and balancing, and grumbling, and grunting, towards a little court, between two rows of dirty, tumble-down-looking cottages (built long ago for the mill hands), which appeared to be only kept from actual falling by the thick wooden beams that crossed the court from wall to wall. As the man approached the houses, he began to do an evidently unusual thing with him, — quicken his step, for he saw something that interested him. Outside one of the most wretched-looking of the cottages, a knot of gossips had collected in spite of the early hour and their own several home occupa tions. They must have run out in haste while pre paring breakfast, or dressing their children, for one held a tea-pot, another a loaf with a knife half buried in it, and a third a baby's frock.

Men — agricultural labourers — stood at the neighbouring doors, smoking their pipes, and somewhat impatient for the "bite and sup " that had been getting ready, and was now interrupted, but still looking on with a kind of apathetic interest. Job (for so was the water carrier called) pushed a way right through the gossips, his wet and slopping pails securing him a respectful distance, and went to the door, where, having disencumbered himself of his burden, he knocked. There was no answer, so he called out, in the deep, lazy tone natural to him — " Here's th' wayter, widow. Is there nowt else as aw can do for yo ? " There was still no answer from the darkened room ; but as they all listened, there issued a succession of thin, sharp, agonising screams, that sent a spasm across the faces of some of the women ; for it was a child's cry, and the more heart-rending because of its weakness.

" God help the poor young mother ! She'll na ha' lung to watch now," whispered a woman with an infant in her arms, and with a bigger child clinging to her dress. " If it hadna been for her pride, she might ha' saved it ! " muttered an older woman, who stood a little apart with folded arms, listening apparently unmoved to the cries. "Aw'm thinkin' it wasna reet pride," rejoined the first speaker, " to shut theirsels up, an wait till they're well nigh clemmed, afore they'd ax a neighbour to help 'em. But aw wish aw'd knawed ! " The wish was echoed all round, the older woman alone taking exception to it, as she said contemp tuously — " An where's th' good if you had knawed ? Both she an her mothered liever starve i' their pride than tak' a scrap fro' ony on us. O' course every body knaws, they're a deal better than us : leastways they think so !

I thowt this mony a day summat were wrung; an when my lad telled me yesterday whatten he'd seen, I couldna rest ony longer, and I went to th1 widow, to ax if they wanted a bit o' tea, or a loaf o' bread, or a shovel o' coal, or that'n, but I'd scarce getten th' first words out o' my mouth, when up goes a hond to the window curtain, an pulls it to, as ' BARBARA.' 9 fierce as fierce, and as much as to say to me, ' Get along wi' yo ! I want noan on yo, nor your help ! ' " "Well, well, mother, it's na good talkiii' that way. When folks are i' trouble they donna care whatten they says or does. Lord save us ! Hear that now V It was indeed a cry ; so sharp and peculiar in its piercing and ringing sound, that the elder woman started and shut her eyes. Job changed legs, and shuffled his great feet uneasily, while the younger mothers in the crowd pressed their babies to their breasts, or huddled closer to their sides the hands of the little ones who gazed wonderingly on from the folds of the parental gowns.

" Mrs. Wolcombe owt to be telled," now observed another speaker, in a low voice ; " sho's been the savin' o' my little un. Aw've a good mind to send one o' th' lads. There'd be no harm i' that, surely.0 " Well, I'll just speak to the widow first." The woman placed her baby in her mother's arms, went to the door, and tapped softly. She waited a moment in silence, then tapped agaiu, but still very softly. Then the door opened and a woman stood within the threshold. She had grey, almost white hair ; a strangely patient-looking face, and a kind of cold wintry light in her eye. Notwithstanding the extreme poverty and disorder of her dress, there was a something about her appearance which betokened a kind of simple, humble dignity, which the neighbours might, on im perfect acquaintance, easily ascribe to pride.

" O, please, Mrs. Giffard, the neighbours ha' been thinkin' it might be as weel to send to th' mistress at the big house, who might think o' summat to ease the suffering o' th' poor bairn." "What do they say, mother?" exclaimed a voice from within, in a high excited key. " They want to send for Mrs. Wolcombe," an swered the widow, looking behind the rude screen that hid the interior from observation during the opening of the door. There was no answer for a long time ; and the gossips began to wonder whether it was intended to send them away without another word of explanation or acknowledgment, when they heard the same voice, not sharp now, but broken and mournful, say — " Yes ; ask her to come." The woman who had offered to send one of her lads, immediately summoned him from a game of marbles lower down the court.

" Here, Jack, run up to th' big house to Mrs. Wolcombe." " Na, aw think aw'll go mysel." The woman turned and looked at the speaker. It was the man who had brought the water, and who, since the question of sending for the mill-owner's wife had been raised, had been giving his head a succession of languid jerks, in order to free his eyes from the over-hanging matted hair, and in the hope, apparently, that his brain might thus become clearer for thought. Having at last arrived at the conclusion he had so suddenly and unexpectedly made known, he began to draw himself up, and apparently tell ' BARBARA.' 11 over his limbs, to see if they were all right before departure. "Thee go, Job !" exclaimed the woman, with a smile of derision ; " I wonder which ud be the first back, thee or Christmas ? Run, Jack, run, and I'll gie thee a ha'penny."

But, for once, Job was in earnest. He had already left the court, and disappeared from the view of the women ; and by the time that Jack could again catch sight of him, Job's ankles were bobbing up and down half way across the green, so the boy gave up the pursuit, and returned to his marbles, to the great annoyance of his parent. Meantime, Job, not daring to pause and reflect on the possible consequence to his limbs of this sudden activity, had left the green, and turned into the plantation at the back of the manufacturer's house. It certainly was a long plantation, but Job thought it endless, as his breath grew shorter and shorter, and his pantings more and more noisy. Very glad he was when he escaped from the heavy chill air of the plantation, and began to shuffle along the drier path of the orchard, strewn with blossoms from the apple trees that met overhead.

Still he trotted on, until he knew by the cackling of the hens that he had passed the poultry yard, and that the next break in the palings would bring him to the servants' quarters. Dim visions of rest, with coffee and hot rolls, began to interfere with, and a little confuse, the vivid philanthropy that had brought him so far : but on he went, till — yes, there was a kitchen door standing invitingly open, and a rousing fire blazing away inside. Job wouldn't spoil all by stopping now, now that he was so near. Once more he urged on his reluctant feet, which were growing heavier and clumsier every minute, and by getting continually in each other's way, had more than once nearly thrown him down, but then, 'twas clear, they hadn't been used to this kind of treatment. The goal was reached at last.

He saw a chair just within the kitchen, it was no time for ceremony — exhausted nature could no more — what harm if the servants did see how fast he had come? Job flung himself over the threshold, and towards the chair, but overlooked a slight rise of the framework, and so went headlong across the floor, and thus presented himself to the genteel looking man-servant, and the two housemaids who were there at breakfast, and who burst into a general roar of laughter, as they saw who it was. " Bless me, why it's Lazy Job ! " cried one of the housemaids, when the first paroxysm of mirth was over ; " whatever can make him in such a hurry ?" " Why, havin' a heart wi' feelins in't, which is moor than some folk hae," grumbled Job, as he rose, and tenderly began rubbing the knee, while gazing in dismay on the other, which appeared blushingly through a terrible rent in his trousers.

" Go up, one on you, an tell your missus as how Abel Drake's wife's babby's a dyin' : will yo ? " " Abel Drake's wife ! What, that poor young thing as became a wife while she were hersel but a child ? " exclaimed the other housemaid. " Now, are ye a goin', or mun aw tak' th' message mvsel ? ' ' BARBARA.' 13 " I'll go, I'll go, Job, though I dunna think Mrs. Wolcombe can be spared just yet," said the woman who had first spoken, as she jumped up, and hastily left the kitchen. " Abel Drake's wife . " inquired the man-servant, in an off-hand, easy manner, as though the whole affair were one that in a business point of view con cerned only the women, and, therefore, that he might placidly go on with his breakfast. " Abel Drake's wife ? H'm ! h'm ! h'm ! Warn't that the young fellow that headed the strike, that cost master such lots of money ?

" " Yes," grunted Job. " H'm ! So I thought. And what's become of him now ? " " 'Listed, long ago." " Poor Barbara !" here chimed in the housemaid, " I guess she's had but a hard time on it, sin then. Here, Job, tak' a cup of coffee, and some bread and butter." Job took what was offered, and ate and drank faster than one might have expected, judging from his general habits, and from the abstracted air with which he handed his breakfast cup to and fro, and received fresh plates full of bread and butter, evidently he was deeply engrossed with something. At last, as he put down the coffee cup, once more empty, he sighed, and said — " Well, sho had'n her choice atween a bad match and a good un," — but there Job stopped, looking at the man-servant, and the man-servant looking at him, with an odd twinkle in his eye, that Job didn't understand, and that he did not like.

" Yes, Job, go on ; I know of the bad match, but what about the good one ? " The man-servant had to guess for himself as to the nature of the reply Job might have made, for the housemaid now returned, saying — " Job, Mrs. Wolcombe is already gone. She put ou her bonnet directly I gave her your message, and went out. You won't overtake her, so may as well rest a bit." " Na, na, thankye," answered Job, with an im portant air, and rising for once to a full sense of the dignity of occupation. " Happen th' widow '11 want me." And so he hurried off, after again exchanging glances with the man-servant, who smiled an in sufferably knowing smile, with eyes fixed on Job's face, while Job, sullen and savage, lifted and let fall his gaze, as though half inclined to ask what was meant; but, on the whole, coming to the con clusion that to do so would be absurdly trouble some.

As he recrossed the green he heard the factory bell calling the hands from breakfast, and he stopped a moment to look at the people flocking in through the great mill gates, across the ravine, where he used to go, and to ask himself whether he had done wisely to give up regular labour, and trust to precarious occupation. But, when Job asked himself a question, he seldom took the further trouble of exacting an answer ; so now he hurried on towards the court, which he reached just in time to see the manufac turer's lady gliding through it in her quick unaffected way, not holding her delicately tinted silk dress, of ' BARBARA.' 15 silver grey, a hair's breadth nearer to her, or behav ing in any way differently among those poor people, and dirty houses, than he had seen her when walking to her carriage, or with guests on her lawn.

The door was opened by the widow in answer to Mrs. Wolcombe's knock. They spoke together a few words in whispers, as the visitor took off her bonnet and gloves, before going behind the screen. As she advanced into the close room, the smell of medicine made her feel faint after her rapid ■walk. But she waited while the widow went on stirring something in a saucepan over the fire, and gradually accustomed herself to the atmosphere. Then she began to look round. The screen before the door was merely a clothes-horse covered by an old patchwork quilt. In a corner stood an infirm tent-bedstead, which appeared to have given in its time so much rest to others that it began to feel the want of it for itself. These two articles, with a rocking-chair, an old settle, a deal table, and a few of the very commonest and most indispensable household utensils, completed the miserable furniture.

There was not a single seat, except the rocking chair, even to offer to the visitor ; who understood at a glance the sort of life that must have been going on here, for many a week — what desperate struggles with poverty and want this chamber must have wit nessed — and that even now it was not physical distress alone that had made them succumb so far as to request her aid. A figure, unconscious as yet of her presence, knelt at the bed-side ; and Mrs. Wol combe stood for some little time looking silently down upon it, for the words of comfort she had in tended to speak seemed all too weak and useless for the occasion. When it is said that Barbara Drake, the mill girl, with a dirty coloured skirt over her night dress, untidy hair, aud pinched haggard face, was still beautiful, the word must be understood to mean, not a beauty made up of roundness, and joyous eyes, and varying tints of white and red, fading and deepening under every emotion, as this China rose at the window loses aud gains colour with every frown and smile of the sun ; no, Barbara had no beauty of that kind ; here was the cold colourless beauty of a statue, which you could not but see and be startled by when it presented itself under such an unlovely garb, and so injured in what might be called its own secret law — perfection of form — by the ravages of hunger, and of some still more terrible affliction of the soul.

As she knelt there, holding a little passive hand, and gazing straight before her, with eyes that seemed almost unnaturally large and brilliant, and which made her face look even more pallid than it was, — as you noted the features, so bold in outline, and the expression so full of character and will, with the black hair, neither waved nor glossy, so impatiently thrown back from the broad white brow, you felt growing upon you every instant the idea of the in tensity of the conflict that must have been raging here, and of which the signs were only too obvious in the thin and pinched cheek, the sinking of the bed of the eye, and the inexpressible rigidity of the mouth, naturally so sweet, but now long, straight, ' BARBARA.' 17 and harsh, with the tension of prolonged resistance to suffering.

The gentle touch of Mrs. Wolcombe's soft hand moving the hair from her brow, made Barbara look up. She dropped her eyes quickly when they met the lady's kind gaze; the blood rushed to her pale face, and then left it paler than before. After a pause she spoke, and there was a slight tinge of bitterness in the words. "I ditliia think to ha' come to this, to ask thee for help after what happened atween Mr. Wolcombe and my " Some strong emotion stopped her utter ance, and Mrs. Wolcombe prevented her from finish ing the sentence. " Whatever, Barbara, I may have thought of your husband's conduct in the strike, I should have been but too glad to have helped you, if I had known jtou needed help. But you have so shut yourself up, so kept your troubles to yourself, that I knew nothing until these last few minutes.

But, tell me, how is baby now ?" The young mother tried to speak, but her lips moved ineffectually, and she gave up the attempt. She laid her hand on Mrs. Wolcombe's wrist, drew her close to the bed, aud fixed on her face eyes that strained with wild eagerness to read the impression made by the first sight of the child. Mrs. Wolcombe tried to bear the gaze unmoved, but it was hard to have to look upon that convulsed baby-face with those great searching mother's eyes watching the while, harder even than she would have liked to have owned to herself; for, independent of her sympathy c with Barbara's position, there were certain past be reavements of her own which she did not wish to have too vividly brought again to mind. The hand that the mill girl held trembled, and then the dark eyes grew wilder, and the grasp round the wrist became so tight that the veins in those delicate fingers began to swell.

Averting her face as far as she could from Barbara's observation, Mrs. Wol combe bent down over the pillow. She saw a thin weird little face, that looked as if it had never yet worn a smile; and the bright golden hair that lay around it in shining rings on the pillow, seemed too full of life and brightness to belong to it. She looked into the blue eyes, and saw that they were dull and fixed; she looked at the tiny clenched hands, and she listened to the wailing cry, till her heart began to fail her, and she dared not look back an answer to the mother's questioning. But she perceived that she was but too well understood. Her wrist was let go, the straining eyes closed, and the quivering form sank down upon the sheet. Then, suddenly, the hands rose and clasped each other over the head, and great smothered sobs, more like a man's than a woman's, made the old tattered bed hangings shake.

" Barbara !" and Mrs. Wolcombe tried gently to unclench the fingers, where they were buried in the hair. "Barbara, you must be quiet, you must in deed, or we can do nothing." " Quiet !" The face was uplifted, the eyes blazing, the voice hoarse aud broken. " Quiet ! Au whatten does that mean? Gie it up, like thee an th1 doctor, ' BARBARA.' 19 an sit by an see it goin' an goin', an be quiet ! 0, ye dunna knaw what it is to me, or ye wouldna talk so. But ye will help me, will ye not ? O, dunna let it go ! Dunna let it be ta'en fro me. If it wur your own yo'd save it, I knaw ye would." " Hush, Barbara ! Did I save my own three years ago ? " " O, but ye couldna want it as I do this. Ye hae gotten other childer ; I hae noan but this. Ye hae gotten a husband ; O, would to God I could say, I hadna one too."

" Hush, hush, my child," interposed the widow. " How can you speak so, at a time like this ? " " Mother, I canna help it," was the fierce reply. " I feel I mun hate him if my little baby's took fro me, as I began to hate him afore it coom, when he'd left me wi'out a penny, or a bed to lay me down in, wi' nowt but his bad name to help me thro th' warld. Ay, then I began to hate him, an all th' warld, an most of all mysel; an every neet I shut my eyes wishin' I might niver be able to open 'em again ; an every mornin I woke sick o' th' light an sunshine, an wanting nobbut to die. Au then my little baby cum to stop me, an comfort me, an mak' me better. As I lay awake o' neets, an felt it lying warm an soft an still in my arms, nestling to me, closer and closer, I couldna think o' hating ony longer."